The Good Goodbye Read Online Free

statements. I’ve never seen numbers that large on anything.
    “That’s how much your father owes the brokerage company,” my mother tells me. “He borrowed a million dollars to buy this sure-thing tech stock, and this morning it’s worth nothing. Nothing!” She puts down her glass without taking a sip. “They don’t care. They still want their money.”
    “Why can’t we just declare bankruptcy?” Other kids’ families do it all the time. It’s like a joke at Bishop.
    “We can’t,” my father says tersely.
    “We’ll lose everything that has your father’s name on it. The restaurant, our house, my business. We’ll have nothing left.”
    “We’re going to have to liquidate what we can,” my dad says. “We’ll persuade the brokerage firm to let us keep the restaurant so we can make payments. And I’m sorry, Rory.” He sucks in a breath, releases it. “But this means using your college fund.”
    I stare at him. He won’t look at me. “Seriously?” I say, and hear my voice quiver.
    “I’ve called Harvard,” my mother says. “They’ve agreed to keep a place open for you for next year.”
    Next year ? “But I’m not the one who owes a million dollars!”
    “Je sais, ma cherie,” my mother says, and I know this is real. My eyes burn and my palms are sweating.
    “Call them again,” I insist.

    My mother’s pacing, her heels clicking sharply against the wood. “It’s no use. The scholarship money has been disbursed.”
    “Are you kidding me?” Years. I’ve spent years, my whole fucking life, trying to get into Harvard. Maybe my grades weren’t perfect, but I had rocked the personal interview; I had scored the best teacher recommendations. All those AP classes, that horrible volunteer job at the nursing center, the lame cupcake business I started just because it would look good on my résumé, everything.
    “It’s just temporary,” my dad says. “It’s just one year. We’ll set up a payment schedule; we’ll get on our feet—”
    “So that’s it?” I refuse to cry. “I’m not going to Harvard?”
    The look on my dad’s face tells me it’s true. I can’t stand it. All my friends will leap ahead of me. I can see them pulling away. I’ll never, ever catch up. What will I do for a whole year? My cell phone buzzes, a text coming in, and something occurs to me. “Wait. What about Arden?” Her mom and my dad co-own the restaurant.
    “Yes, what about her?” my mother spits, which tells me Arden isn’t going to art school in California, either. She stops pacing and spins to face my father. “How can you live with yourself?”
    “You’re happy enough when I make money, Gabrielle! I don’t hear any complaints then. You think I planned this? You think I wasn’t careful? I was careful. This is just one of those things. One of those goddamn things!”
    I back out of the room and they don’t even notice me go. Upstairs, I close my bedroom door and their voices grow dull. I sit in the window seat, my knees drawn to my chest. On the other side of the Potomac, Arden’s probably crying in her room. She’s been texting, but I can’t answer. My cell thrums in my pocket, another incoming text. Or maybe somebody’s Facebook update: MIT or Stanford?
    I hug my knees tight, so hard I can’t breathe. A door slams below me, Mom retreating or Dad going out. On the other side of the window the garden is dark and ghostly, filled with grass and trees and bushes, the flowers my mother plants every spring. I feel it starting to sink in. A million dollars. I’m not going to Harvard. I hold my breath until specks dance before my eyes. I picture my dad’s face, narrow with anger, shame, too. My breath explodes out of me.

    I’m not going to Harvard.
    A single feeling detaches itself from all the others churning inside me. It starts to grow, clear and sharp and strange.
    Joy.

Natalie
    WE HAVE TO get to the hospital. We have to get to Arden, but I can’t move. People push past on the