19.
“Into My Own”
—1915
“So . . . which way are we going?” I say over my shoulder as I back out of Kat’s driveway. Despite all my Facebook research, I don’t actually know where Trevor lives.
His eyes catch mine when I turn back to the steering wheel. “I don’t know,” he says with a smile. “Which way are we going, Frost?”
His tone and the question send a shot of nervousness straight to my stomach, but with everything that just happened, I’m feeling bold. I put the car in park, turn to face him, and shrug, trying to keep from smiling back. “That really depends on where you want to go, Trevor Collins.”
His smile broadens at this, and he unbuckles his seat belt and turns so he’s facing me. And we sit, with my car idling, and the music playing, just looking at each other, and there’s so much there, wanting to be said. And done. All I would have to do at this moment is lean across the electric space between us, and—
And in one smooth motion, Trevor does. I freeze, and then I’m leaning too, eyes closing, to meet him halfway for this thing we’ve been dancing around forever. But I don’t feel his lips on mine. Instead, I feel his mouth next to my ear, and his breath warm on my neck, not one part of us actually touching. “You’re the one driving,” he says, “so really it’s up to you.”
Wounded pride burns in my cheeks. I don’t want it to be all up to me. Why does it have to be? I don’t move, and neither does he, at first. Fine. I can play this game too.
“In that case,” I say, and I shock myself by letting my lips brush his neck when I do, “then I guess I should take you home, since you don’t seem to have anywhere else to go.”
I don’t know who’s more surprised at this, me or him. But when he leans back shaking his head, confident smile in place, and I see the flush in his cheeks too, it makes me feel better. I put the car back in drive and grab the wheel with both hands so he won’t see that they’re still shaky. And then I’m the one who smiles. “So why don’t you tell me how to get there.”
I take the long, long way home after I drop him off, partly because I want to hold on to the nervous, exhilarated feeling that’s still there, and partly because I need to focus on our plan, which hinges on me writing my speech over the weekend, and somehow finding the guts to completely disobey my mom if I need to. That’s the part that makes me the most nervous.
By the time I walk through the front door, I’ve almost got myself convinced that if I find Julianna, it’ll all be worth it. And then I hear it in her voice.
“Parker? I need to talk to you.”
It’s that tone I hate. The one that’s stern and trying to remain calm but is clearly having trouble doing it because she’s pissed about something. I run through the possibilities of what it could be. I haven’t done anything. Yet. I slide my bag off my shoulder and walk over to her as casually as I can.
She’s sitting at the dining room table, fingers clacking away on her laptop.
“What’s up?” I ask, a touch too high-pitched. “How’s the shop going? That order come in on time? I can help process it next week if you want.” Maybe if I just keep talking I can get her off topic and off my back about whatever it is.
“Did you run a red light today?” she asks without looking up.
Would you be asking me if I didn’t? God, I can’t do anything in this town without someone telling on me to her. “Yes,” I admit, because it’s no use lying. I’m probably on camera. Or she has multiple witnesses. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention and—”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She closes her computer with a neat snap and looks at me very carefully, eyes intent on something. “Is everything all right with you, Parker? You’ve seemed very distracted lately, like you’re all of a sudden losing focus.” She pauses. “Now is not the time to lose focus.” She’s quiet again, and I know she’s winding up to ask the big question I don’t want to have to answer. I try desperately to think of a way to change the subject before she can do it, but I’m not quick enough.
“I’d like to see your speech. Is it finished?”
“It’s—almost. But I’m not ready for you to look at it yet. I need the weekend to go over it.”
She eyes me, weighing my words. I’ve never given her any reason not to trust me, but I can see she’s not convinced, and I realize why. I probably sound like my dad to her right now.
“I just want to fix a few things before I show you,” I say. “I’m going to work on it all weekend, and I promise you can see it when I’m done.”
A few seconds that feel like an eternity pass before she answers. “Okay. But you’re not going anywhere until I have your speech. Finished. Got it?” Her eyes go big while she waits for an answer.
“Got it,” I say, because that’s what she expects me to do. I swallow hard. Nervousness at what I have planned flutters in my stomach, but today something is different. Today I have a reason that’s worth enough to step out from under her thumb and take a chance. I just need to write that speech.
I wait a moment to see if there’s anything else, but she seems satisfied. I take a step back. “Okay, then. I’m gonna head up and get to work.”
“Good,” she says. “Good girl.” And then she opens up her laptop again as if it’s all settled, and I’m glad, because I’m sure that if she actually looked at my face she’d see everything I am about to do.
I don’t actually breathe again until I’m up in my room with my door closed. It’s a funny thing, my almost morbid fear of my mom. She’s never intentionally mean, and she doesn’t yell. And she’s always been supportive of whatever I’ve done. But I’ve always done what she wanted. I haven’t ever disappointed her. That’s what it is. That’s what I’m afraid of doing. Because that’s what my dad did over and over, and I saw what happened then.
When he tried and failed, again and again, to write his second book, she saw things in black and white—he needed to suck it up and move on. Support his family. Be a grownup. Stop chasing something that eluded him, no matter how much it meant. She wanted a life of stability and practicality, one she could depend on. He wanted a life of creativity and inspiration, one he could find his voice in. And neither one could understand how what they wanted wasn’t enough for the other.
So he left, and I became careful about what I said I wanted. Grades and awards and teacher recommendations became my way to ensure my mom’s approval. AP classes, extra credit, and concrete accomplishments. They’re the things she values, as opposed to the things she associates with my dreamer of a father. I’ve worked at it and worked at it, and now I’m at the end of high school and I have all of those things, including her approval. But right now, what I really want is something that means something to me. Something that I believe in, and that I do because I want to, not because I think it’ll prove something to my mom.
I don’t know how to begin to write my speech, or if I even want to if it’s just another attempt to prove myself to her. But I do know that, come Monday, I’ll be on the road, somewhere between who I’ve always been and who I want to be.