I don’t even know where to begin, mostly because I’m scared she’ll agree with Sammie’s assessment. Maybe everyone in my life thinks I’m harboring a secret crush. Although if I’m being scarily honest with myself, are they really that far off?
“It’s whatever,” I say, dropping the moment. Mom visibly deflates. I feel bad about it, but I doubt I’ll be able to get into everything Sammie said without getting into everything I refused to say. “I have homework to finish.” I head down the hall toward the stairs, foot nearly on the bottom step, when Mom calls me back.
Cautiously, I tiptoe back into the room. She’s placed her book and glasses on the coffee table and motions for me to sit. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“Is this an intervention? Because I swear I was only gardening that long because I missed Sunday’s routine,” I say, still standing, then realize I walked right into her next, inevitable question.
“Dad mentioned he didn’t see you out there on Sunday. Have you been avoiding me since the party?” she says, and part of me, the part that isn’t scared about where this conversation is going, finds it hilarious that out of context, this might as well be a conversation between teenage girls rather than a daughter and mother.
“I wouldn’t call it avoiding, per se,” I reply, finally sitting down across from her, folding my legs beneath me and adjusting my skirt before she can ask me to sit more ladylike.
“Stop using word-specificity arguments on me. It’s a flimsy trick and a waste of linguistic studies.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Ophelia, I’m not mad at you,” she says directly. I’m the one deflating this time, realizing there’s no getting out of this. “I’m just disappointed that you embarrassed me in front of so many of my students and colleagues. I could’ve gotten in serious trouble if Jeremiah had complained to the dean about your little moment.”
“My moment?”
“Honey, you threw a cup of punch on my student.”
“At least I didn’t actually throw a punch.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” she scolds. “I am willing to be understanding about the situation if you explain yourself and agree to apologize to Jeremiah via email.”
“But I’m not sorry,” I say without thinking. It’s only once the words leave my mouth that I realize I wouldn’t have done anything different if I were given a do-over.
Mom sighs and runs a hand over her face, pressing into the slightly wrinkled skin around her eyes. “I hoped you’d be less stubborn about this.”
Of course. It doesn’t even cross her mind that I might have had a good reason for doing what I did. Because maybe I’m well-behaved, get the grades my parents want, don’t stay out too late or drink at the few parties I attend. But at the end of the day, I’m still me. Still boy-crazy Ophelia. And that negates everything else about me. That’s my reigning personality trait, I suppose. So of course, whatever happened with that boy, it was me and my crazy heart’s fault. Not his.
I know I’m being petty when I say it, but I can’t help myself, not now. “What about how you embarrassed me when you decided my personal crushes and hobbies were fair game to talk about with all your students?”
She looks shocked, her face turning a bright pink. “Is that what this is about? Did Jeremiah say something about your crushes? You’ve never been embarrassed to talk about those things before.”
“Yeah, with my parents! Or my friends! Not with your complete-stranger students! Do you know how uncomfortable that made me feel to know that anyone that has ever stepped foot in one of your lectures knows all my personal business?”
“Honey, there isn’t a single teenage girl out there who hasn’t had dozens of crushes on boys growing up. I didn’t tell them anything they couldn’t have already known about you,” she insists, sitting up straighter and taking on the look of Professor Rojas more than Mother Rojas. I try to imagine her with this posture, publicly laughing about her foolish, predictable daughter.
I can’t do this, can’t break down how wrong her statement is and on how many levels. How do I explain to her that knowing she genuinely believes what she just said is fundamentally the problem with my life right now?
I leave the room, the second time in the past fifteen minutes that I’ve walked away from someone I love as they call after me, half-heartedly apologizing for their ignorant assumptions. But Dad is standing at the base of the stairs, arms crossed.
“Go back and talk to her,” he whispers. “Tell her what you told me that boy called you and she will understand.”
I pause. “He didn’t call me those words; he used them against someone else.” I watch Dad’s face twist in confusion.
“?Qué?”
“Jeremiah used slurs, but not at me,” I repeat.
“But—I thought that was why you were so upset.” He frowns. “He wrongly accused you of being gay using hateful words, no?”
I’m frozen in shock, in anger. Accused? Wrongly?
A frustrated laugh escapes me. I really don’t know my parents, and they really don’t know me. “I can’t do this right now.” I move past him, and he lets me go without another comment. Upstairs, I shut my door more gently than I’d like to, and close my curtains, despite seeing Sammie in his room look up from his desk and try to wave at me.
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, waiting for my anger to burn off.
Eventually, the ceiling stops feeling therapeutic. I pull my phone out from my back pocket.
Why does everyone suck? I type, falling into the role of the cliché teenage girl everyone apparently expects of me.
Talia replies almost immediately. You don’t suck
I smile at the message despite this afternoon and ignore the urge to go continue my gardening. Can I call you? I send before I lose the nerve.
A few seconds pass, and then Talia’s name is lighting up my screen. I answer the FaceTime immediately. Then realize my phone is at a horribly awkward angle and scramble to sit up.
“What’s up?” she says, propping her phone against her desk. Her laptop is in front of her, casting her brown skin in bluish light as she types.
I consider telling her the truth, that everything is going to shit and I just need someone to talk to. But that would open a can of worms I’m not ready to deal with. “Just bored. What are you up to?”
“Working on homework for English,” she says, face focused on the screen. “We’re supposed to write a letter to ourselves at the start of high school.”
“What do you have to say to preteen Talia?” I ask. Despite pushing my own feelings aside, I half hope she’ll bring up Tori again.
“I’m sure she’s very surprised to know that she’s sitting at the cool kids’ table now,” she laughs.
“There’s no way you’re talking about me, Sammie, Agatha, and Lindsay.”