Cries from the Lost Island - Kathleen O'Neal Gear Page 0,3
of ‘The Ghost of Cleopatra,’ where the ghost follows you through the whole video game, and I’ve only played it once so far. I’m going to be late!”
“Sit.” He stabbed a finger at the chair beside him, and his blond eyebrows plunged down over his slightly hooked nose.
I walked back and slumped into the chair. “What is it?”
Leaning toward me, he held out a hand as though to calm me down. “Hal, do you realize that Cleo’s mental illness is one of the reasons you are ostracized at school? Isn’t it bad enough that you’re the smart kid? No wonder nobody wants to be your friend—”
“I have friends.”
“Who?”
“Roberto—”
“Roberto the Biker Witch is completely pathetic and probably just as mentally unstable as Cleo. Do you really want to fit into that group?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Dad ground his teeth for a couple of seconds. “Okay, look, your mother says that Cleo feeds your unnatural obsession with ancient cultures. You eat, sleep, and breathe ancient Rome and Egypt. That’s all you talk about. You don’t even go to movies, or try out for sports, or—”
“I thought you detested sports when you were in high school?”
“I did.” Dad’s mouth pressed into a tight white line. “But at least I tried out for football and basket—”
“Does my ‘unnatural’ obsession embarrass you? Is that the problem?”
Dad propped his elbows on the table and massaged his temples. “No, son. I love you, and I’m proud of you for being a scholar of the ancient world. But you need some time away from Cleo. You don’t realize the depths of her illness. Just—”
“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Dad.”
He took a breath as though girding himself for my response. “I know you believe that, Hal. Your mother and I have been talking about this for weeks. For your own good, we’ve decided to ban Cleo from visiting here for one week. Just to give you time to—”
I lurched to my feet. “You can’t do that! I love her.”
“Listen, Hal, you do not really know Cleo.” He was speaking in slow precise words, as though explaining to a ten-year-old. “She has real problems. Under the right circumstances, your mother thinks she could even be dangerous. I mean it.”
“I don’t care. I love her, and she’s the best historian I know.”
Dad sagged back against his chair and gave me a pained look. “I don’t get it. Why can’t you find any good friends? I think you refuse to associate with quality people because you like being an outcast—”
“Nobody likes being an outcast, Dad. It’s awful.”
Dad squeezed his eyes closed for a long moment, and when he opened them, he said, “Hal, I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to have to go through what I went through. Believe me, I know what it’s like to be the smartest kid in school. When I was your age—”
“No, you don’t! You have no idea how it feels to be chased down the hallways with people throwing things at you, and all the girls cheering for the bad guys to kill you.”
“Stop exaggerating. That’s never happened. You’re just trying to—”
“Yeah, right. I’m a liar.”
“Now, son, I never said . . .”
He continued, but I blocked his voice and thought about Cleo. A tiny part of me reluctantly suspected Dad was right. Cleo was not mentally stable. My mom, a psychiatrist, had treated Cleo right after she came to America. And while Mom was adamant about doctor-patient confidentiality, I remember her saying once that Cleo’s “memories” of ancient Egypt were really longings for a better Egypt; a homeland she still missed. And the demons that filled Cleo’s waking nightmares were actually fanciful representations of the men in crisp uniforms, wearing gas masks, who had destroyed her world six years ago.
While I was gritting my teeth, my phone chimed in my pocket. I pulled it out and read Cleo’s text: R U okay? Please, come soon. She always signed off with the Greek word Ginest-hoi, which meant “Let it be done.”
Much to my father’s dismay, I texted back: There in 5.
His mouth puckered like he’d just bitten into a sour lemon. “Was that her? Was that Cleo?”
“No, it was Roberto. I’m late. He wants to know if I’m still coming.”
“Give me your phone. I want to see the number.” He stuck out his hand.
“No way. It’s none of your business.”
“As long as you’re under the age of eighteen, you’re still a child, and it is my business. Now, please, give me