xXx
That evening I planned to talk to my parents about the concert. I already knew that there was no way they would let me dye my hair, so there was absolutely no point in asking about that. That was something I’d deal with later. But I knew as we sat down to dinner that they were still irked about the party, and I hoped that all my patience and tolerance for listening to their crap that night would pay off.
Mom, Dad, and Melissa were talking about something mundane, and when they paused in their conversation, I decided to speak up.
“A few friends of mine are going to St. Charles next weekend,” I said.
“You have friends who drive?” my dad asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s actually the older brother of one of my friends,” I said, thinking I had lied quite smoothly.
“What friend?” Mom asked.
“That girl Fern you met,” I said.
Mom put down her fork. “I don’t know, Rachel. What about Josephine? I thought she was your best friend. Why don’t you spend time with her anymore?”
“Fern’s a pretty name,” Melissa said.
“I do,” I insisted. “Josephine’s going too.”
“Oh,” Mom said, and hesitated. “So, why do you have to drive all the way to St. Charles? Do you want to go shopping?”
“No, it’s actually for a concert,” I said, as casually as possible.
“What concert?” Dad asked.
“They’re called Surgical Carnage.”
No one said anything. Melissa looked back and forth at them, and I stared at my pork chop.
“Is Rachel rebelling?” Melissa asked. “’Cause the book we’re reading in class talks about how the older sister in the family is a teenager, and she gets in a fight with the mother because she wants to go to some dance at her school, and the mother says she’s rebelling.”
My parents chuckled. Dad said, “Do you think you’re rebelling, Rachel?”
“I don’t think there’s anything rebellious about wanting to go to a concert with my friends,” I said. “I’m fifteen years old. You guys have always wanted me to make friends and do things.”
“It’s just that St. Charles is so far away,” my mother said. “And, I mean, that music . . .”
“You can hate that music all you want, but I don’t see why you think it’s a bad influence,” I asserted. “Have my grades fallen? No. Am I on drugs? No.”
“But your friend was smoking . . .”
“Do you think people who listen to my music are the only people who smoke? No. A lot of people my age do. It has nothing to do with what bands they listen to.”
Mom nodded slowly.
I sighed. “Why don’t you guys wait until I mess up my life before you get all worried about what a bad influence it is? I have friends and I’m fine.”
Dad shook his head. “Our job is to try to stop that from happening. Nip it in the bud. You’re young. You don’t know the warning signs.”
“Being around someone who smoked a cigarette is not a warning sign,” I shot back. “It wasn’t me smoking. I know smoking is stupid. You guys raised me to know that.” I allowed myself to smile smugly. “I think it’s too bad that you guys doubt yourself so much about how well you raised me. It seems to me like you doubt yourselves more than you doubt me.”