Talia laughs. But her smile drops when she tears her eyes away from her wall and sees how serious my face is. “What?”
I don’t know where the words come from. They pour out of me before I can shut my mouth. “I don’t mean like a date-date. Like, I’ll make you a corsage—I mean, I was already going to make you a corsage, but Zaq doesn’t have to pay for it now. We can save a slow dance for each other and take goofy, cliché prom-pose photos for our parents.” I think of her family, how her posing with another girl wouldn’t help their already messy situation. “I’d ask Sammie,” I start, hoping to veer the conversation away from her drama and toward mine, “but he and I aren’t getting along too well and he might still be Lindsay’s date and anyway my parents would probably take us going together way too seriously but this way it’ll just be fun and casual.” I finally manage to stop, catching my breath. I’m breathing faster than is reasonable while Talia stares at me, mouth slightly pursed.
“I promise to be a shit date. I mean, it’s not even like a real real date, obviously,” I add, which finally breaks her passive expression as her lips quirk up. “You don’t have to get your hopes up over a fake, silly date.” I swear I will evaporate if she doesn’t say something soon. “And it’s not like either of us has any other options.”
She laughs nervously. Good nervous? Bad nervous? “That sounds like fun,” she says before turning back to her laptop. I wonder if I imagine the way she straightens her posture and refuses to look me in the eye the rest of the evening. But she flashes me a smile when she drops me off later, and it calms my racing thoughts.
Back home, I tiptoe through the front doorway and up to my room. I shut the door loud enough that my parents will know I’m home without my having to actually go talk to them. Though with the lights off and their room quiet, I wonder if they’re even awake waiting up for me.
I stumble into my bathroom and stare at my reflection for a few moments, thinking back to this afternoon, when I kinda, sorta, half asked out Talia. My cheeks are still glowing and warm. My bangs are pressed to my forehead with sweat, and my eyes have never looked brighter, the rich brown hue sparkling in the fluorescent lighting.
I press a finger to my lips as they curl into a secret smile.
FOURTEEN
I wake up early the next morning, so I have enough time to apply more makeup than usual. But my stomach is growling before I can even finish combing out my eyebrows, so I head downstairs to grab a granola bar. Halfway down the stairs, I freeze when I hear muffled shouting from Mom and Dad’s room.
“This is absolutely ridiculous, and you know it.” Mom’s voice is dulled by the closed door, but her anger is loud and clear.
Carefully, I tiptoe my way closer and lean against the wall so they won’t see my shadow beneath their door. Mom and Dad yell every once in a while, but I haven’t heard them get this riled up since one of Mom’s old childhood friends made a “casual” inquiry about Dad’s citizenship status last year. And even then, their shouting was in mutual anger at someone else, not at each other.
“Stella, I made a promise. I can’t just break her trust like that,” Dad replies, voice much quieter.
“Well, what am I supposed to tell the other faculty members? All my colleagues that were there? My past and future students? She poured a drink on one of my students, Miguel.” My stomach bottoms out. “Do you know how humiliated and confused I felt? No, of course you don’t, because you and Ophelia fled the scene before I could even process it.”
I’m suddenly all too aware of my body—my slight tremor with each intake of breath, the way my joints rub together as I teeter slightly on the balls of my feet. My hands moisten with sweat.
“I apologized for that,” Dad says. “Ophelia was distraught and crying. I had to put her first.”
Mom scoffs, and it’s just as biting from outside the room as I imagine it is inside. “Oh, so now you’re the good cop and I’m the bad cop? Worrying about the consequences this could have for my career is putting Ophelia first. Lord knows her flower degree isn’t going to pay for itself.”
I flinch and clench my jaw to hold back the tears.
“In case you forgot, I have a job too,” Dad says after a beat of silence. His voice is calmer than I’d expect, and I almost hate him for it. Part of me wants him to take a dig at me too, snap back at Mom, tell her what I told him, anything. At least then I could be angry instead of guilty. I could feel betrayed instead of unworthy. “Mira, Ophelia asked me to keep her reasons for acting out between the two of us. I don’t like this either, but I have to keep my word.”
“But why won’t she talk to me?” Mom’s voice breaks. I press a fist to my mouth to keep whatever is threatening to burst out of me buried deep inside.
“Stella—”
“It’s fine,” she says, but I hear a sniffle. “I should get going before I’m late for my appointment.”
I hear movement and can’t tell if they’re moving toward each other or away, but I need to go before they see me here, eavesdropping. I move as quickly and quietly as I can back to my room and shut my door before I hear theirs open.
Sitting back down in front of my mirror, I stare at my reflection. This is who you are now, I think. This is what happens when things change. Graduation, college, getting older? I’m blameless there, just as wrapped up in the inevitability. But this? This was me.
* * *
Sammie is standing at the bottom of my stairs by the time I leave my room, despite the forty minutes it took me to apply three coats of mascara, blush, highlighter, and iridescent lip gloss to complement the sequin flowers on my white sundress.
“Hi,” I say, pausing halfway down the steps. I expected my lateness to lead to another ride from Dad, even after what I overheard, but his keys, as well as Mom’s, are missing from the foyer. They both left without saying goodbye.
“Hey. You ready to go?” Sammie asks, obviously taking in my outfit. His nostrils flare, and I feel insecure about the amount of perfume I’m wearing.
I expect our ride to go by in silence, but Sammie seems determined to mend fences, because before he even starts the car, he turns to me and says, “I don’t want to fight with you. About anything, least of all Wesley.”
“Me either,” I admit, and he relaxes.
“I’m sorry for making assumptions,” he says gently, like he’s worried he’ll set me off again.
“It’s a natural human flaw,” I reply as he turns the ignition and pulls away from our houses. His comments still hurt, but it’s Sammie. I can’t stay mad at him, not with everything else going on. I need him by my side.
“I know, but you’re so used to my perfection that it was obviously startling to see me in such humbling light,” he says, lips tugging upward.