Sammie drops me off after school on Friday, an uneventful day compared to the past two weeks of utter chaos. Lucas avoided me in chemistry while Wesley and Lindsay avoided each other everywhere, leaving Sammie in an obnoxiously chipper mood. He pulls away the second I leave the car so he can go meet Linds for another movie date.
Mom is standing in the foyer when I open the front door, arms crossed and hip slightly popped. I feigned a stomachache last night to get out of dinner again and shot out of the house this morning before I could run into her or Dad.
“I picked up your prom dress from the tailor’s this afternoon,” she says.
“Thanks,” I reply evenly. I move past her into the kitchen to grab a snack.
Dad is putting a tray of empanadas in the oven with his back turned to me. I consider going upstairs to scavenge for food in my room so I can avoid this unplanned confrontation, but Mom stops me.
“How was your day?” she asks. Despite the innocent words, I can tell she’s pissed.
“Fine.” I grab a granola bar from the pantry and a glass of water from the fridge. “Yours?”
“Fine.”
Dad huffs a sigh and pulls off his oven mitts, slapping them onto the counter. “There is too much passive aggressiveness in this kitchen,” he says, running a hand over his face as if to smooth out the wrinkles we’re causing. “Either yell or don’t speak, anything but esto.”
“Ophelia,” Mom starts, dropping her arms. “I would still like you to email Jeremiah apologizing for what you did.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
“Pardon?” Mom says, arms flying back onto her hips. “I don’t know what has gotten into you lately.”
“Because I cursed? I’d hate for you to see me at school.”
“That’s it,” she says. “Go up to your room.”
“For what? Because I won’t apologize to your creepy asshole of a student?” Any residual guilt from overhearing her and Dad yesterday has dissipated. “Write it yourself if you’re such a great English professor. You’d know what bullshit looks like; you complain about your students’ work enough to be plenty familiar.”
“Ophelia,” Dad warns, but I can’t stop.
“But sure, send me up to my room! God knows what good that’ll do me.”
“You threw a drink on my student!”
“Who was being an assss-hole!” I reply loudly, drawing out the last word.
“Watch your language.” She clenches her hands and exhales. “If you just tell me what happened, I’m sure we can find an appropriate resolution to all of this.”
“I don’t need a resolution, Mom,” I say. “Talk to Jeremiah if you need answers. You’re already used to talking to your students about me.”
“Both of you need to cool off.” Dad steps between us, cupping Mom’s face lightly with his hand. He looks at me over his shoulder. “Go upstairs.”
“Gladly,” I snap, grabbing my snacks and storming to my bedroom. I slam my door shut so hard, my glass of water wobbles where I set it atop my dresser. I wait for more shouting but am met with silence.
I kick off my shoes and slip into bed, feeling exhausted.
Just tell her what he said, a small voice in me begs. She’ll understand.
No, she won’t, a louder voice inside replies. She’ll think you took what he said personally. I mean, just look at what Dad assumed. You’re boy-crazy Ophelia, not some gay rights vigilante. Telling her means telling her everything. You really want to disappoint her and her dreams for you like that?
I lean over the side of my bed, dropping my empty glass and wrapper on the floor. Huddling in my rose sheets, I drift off into a restless nap. Flashes of Mom’s disappointed face, Dad half lit by streetlamps, Talia laughing on her floor, and Lucas’s astonished expression float through my mind. Until, nothing.
* * *
I wake up to a buzzing, at first confusing it for a headache. I fumble around in my comforter, sticky with nap-induced sweat, before digging my phone out from beneath my pillow.
“Talia?” I ask, having seen her name flash on the screen.
“Hey.” She pauses. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no you’re fine,” I say, quickly clearing my throat and voice of its grogginess as I check the time. It’s just after seven. “What’s up?”
“I need your help,” she says quickly, jolting me even more awake. “Sorry, that sounds super serious. I mean, this is serious but—”
“What do you need?”
“It’s going to be a little dangerous,” she says. I imagine Linds saying those same words, smirk on her lips and playfulness in her voice. But Talia sounds scared, a little sad even.
“But you need help?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, and there’s a pause before she adds, “yours.”
“I’m in,” I say.
“But you don’t even—”
“I’m in.”
“Can I pick you up in fifteen minutes?” she asks warily. I’m almost insulted after how definitively I asserted my willingness.
“See you then.”
I hop out of bed and rush to my bathroom, wiping under my eyes and running a wet brush through my hair so it won’t puff up as I work out the knots. I squirt some of the gardenia perfume I got for my birthday last fall on my wrists and neck. My entire body is hot and jittery.
Talia needs help and she came to me. Not Wesley, not Zaq. Not Dani or Tori or anyone else. Me.
I’m nearly out the door when I remember the reason for my early slumber and sour mood.
“?A dónde vas?” Dad calls from the kitchen. I backtrack, stopping in the doorway. At least Mom isn’t in here. Dad’s heating up popcorn on the stove, and I hear Pride and Prejudice playing in the living room.
“Talia asked me to run to the mall with her to find lipstick to match her prom outfit,” I lie quickly, hoping the details will hide my wavering tone. Sammie once told me that specificity is the key to a good lie. “She bought a burgundy shade last week, but her shoes are crimson and it’s throwing the whole look off.” Okay, too much specificity. I press my lips shut.
Dad leans against the counter on his elbows. His face says he sees right through my lie, a disappointed dip in his lips and slight squint to his eyes.
I shift from one foot to the other.
“Do you need to buy lipstick too?” he asks slowly, nodding to his wallet on the counter beside him. This feels suspiciously like a test.
“I’m good.”
“You should talk to your mom. Without all the cursing, porfa.”
“I will,” I say. “Just not tonight.”
He nods to himself, and I wonder if, for the first time, my behavior will keep me from being allowed out. I’ve never fought with my mom like this before, and I don’t think either of them know how to deal with it. That makes three of us.
Finally, “?Por qué me lo dijiste pero no a ella?” Why did you tell me but won’t tell her?