“This is Mac?” my mom said, enunciating his name like you might the word herpes or molestation. “Ames tells us he’s your boyfriend.”
I felt my face flush, angry now. “Ames doesn’t know anything about me.”
“Clearly. He came over expecting to watch a movie with you and found a party instead.”
“It wasn’t a party!”
“Sydney! There was a drunk boy here!”
“That’s Layla’s boyfriend, and I didn’t invite him. I hardly know him!”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” my mom said.
“That’s not . . .” I stopped, forcing myself to take a breath. “Mac and Layla are my friends. Mac’s band had a chance to enter a showcase and needed a demo. We have a studio.”
“A studio,” my mom added, “that we said they could not use.”
“But at first, you did!” I pointed out. “That night we ordered the pizza. You were open to it. And then Peyton called, and he got angry with you, and just like that, everything changed.”
“This is not about your brother,” my dad said to me.
“For once!” I said. They both looked surprised: my voice was higher, louder than I’d realized. “Everything is about Peyton, all the time. And that’s okay, I get it. But this was one thing, for me, that I wanted.”
“You wanted to have your friends over, drinking, unsupervised, in our home,” my mom said. “Well, that’s great. Just wonderful.”
“No,” I said, again loudly enough to get shot a look from my dad. I lowered my voice. “I wanted to do something to thank my friends for being so good to me. To repay a bit of the debt I owe them for taking me in. That’s all. That’s it.”
My mom sighed, taking a sip of her coffee as my father leaned forward. “You can understand, I’m sure,” he said, “that it’s surprising for us that you’re close enough with people we barely know to break our rules and trust this way.”
“I wanted you to know them,” I said. “I still do. I invited Mac in that night, when we first talked about the studio. You met him, Dad. I wasn’t keeping him a secret.”
“Oh, well, good,” my mom said. “Because I was beginning to think you lied about everything.”
“Why are you being like this?” I asked her. “I’m not a bad kid, and you know it. This was one night, one thing. One mistake. And I’m sorry. But you can’t—”
“Your brother started with one mistake as well,” she replied. “Which led to another. And another.”
“I’m not Peyton,” I said. It seemed crazy I’d have to say this, as all my life they’d made it clear it was the one thing they knew for sure.
“You’re damn right you’re not. And you won’t be, as long as I have anything to say about it.” She pushed back her chair, getting to her feet. “First thing Monday, we go meet with Perkins Day about transferring you. In the meantime, you go to school and nowhere else. I want you home by three thirty every day until we get this sorted out.”
“Sorted out?” My voice and panic were both rising. “You can’t make me switch schools.”
Suddenly, she was pouncing, lunging across the table at me, slapping her hands on the surface. “I,” she said, right into my face as I drew back, startled, “can do whatever I want. I am your mother, and I make the rules. From now on you follow them. We’re done here.”
She pulled back, straightening up, but I stayed where I was. I was still gripping the chair arms when she left the room.
For a moment, my dad sat there, not saying anything. We both knew he’d follow her, the way he always did. But it was the pause before that I’d recall later. Like if my parents were finally going to shift from their respective, decided responsibilities, this was when it could happen. Maybe he might have listened, if I tried to explain. It couldn’t have made things worse. I’d never know, though, because then he was getting to his feet, wearily, and pushing the chair in behind him. Court adjourned.
*
I had Peyton to thank for everything that happened that night. After our conversation, he had indeed reached my mom on her cell, just as my parents were checking in to the hotel. I could picture the moment of her answering, her face brightening as it always did at his voice. And then her smile wavering, followed by confusion as he told her, now adamant, that he did not want her there. I imagined her resisting, explaining, tears audible in her voice before filling her eyes. Then silence as Peyton told her he wouldn’t be attending the ceremony, even if she was, and hanging up on her.
All of this was so easy to imagine, as was the drive back home and the moment she came in and Ames told her what was happening downstairs. The weird thing was that even though what followed I had seen, with my own eyes, it was the part that still felt like a dream.