I plopped the shrimp carton down. “Just because I didn’t know about Maggie doesn’t mean I was raised in a bubble, Sophie. I’ve had a totally normal childhood, just like every other kid out there.”
Sophie cocked her head. “I’m not saying your childhood wasn’t normal. I’m just saying it was the one Mom and Dad planned out for you.”
“Of course they planned it out for me! All parents plan their kids’ lives.” But even as I said it, I could feel something sinking inside.
“Up to a point,” Sophie finished. “You’re eighteen now, Julia. Or you will be, at the end of the summer. And you’re still going along, step by step, exactly by the rule book Mom and Dad made up for you the day you were born. The one that said we couldn’t talk about Maggie. The one that said I was too messed up to fix. The one that said you—under no uncertain terms—had to be perfect.”
I stared at her, realizing suddenly that I was crying, which made me more furious. I brushed my tears away impatiently. “They never said that. They never once used the word ‘perfect’ when it came to me, Sophie. Never.”
Sophie looked at me. Shadows from the candles flickered across her face, illuminating her right eye. It was a light green color, made even paler by the light. “Jules,” she said softly. “After everything that happened with Maggie, and then how screwed up I got…” She shook her head. “I’m not saying it was their fault. But you were all they had left. And they wanted to make damn sure that after the mess with the first two kids, their last kid came out great. Perfect, even.”
“Why do you keep talking about yourself like you’re some kind of freak?” I was pleading with her now, begging her to take it back. Didn’t she know what it did to me that she saw herself as just a screwup? We came from the same parents, had the same blood. If she was a screwup, then what did that make me? “You’re not screwed up. You’re not too messed up to fix.”
Sophie shrugged. “I know what I am,” she said. “And I’m working on it. You, though, you need to figure out who you are. For yourself.”
I shook my head to block out the sound of her voice. This was way too much for me. Figure out who I am? What did that even mean? Was that just some statement to make me feel better? To sidestep the real issues—whatever they were? I couldn’t be sure anymore. I wiped my hands on a napkin and stood up. “You know what? I can’t do this any more. I’m going to bed.”
Sophie stood up too. “Jules, come on. Don’t.”
“You need time for your stuff.” I gritted my teeth. “And I need time for mine. So back off, okay?”
She dropped her eyes.
I left her there, the candles still burning in the empty room, and went upstairs.
I lay in bed for a long time, listening to Sophie move around downstairs, trying not to revisit the things she had said to me. But they were there, rolling around inside my head, hitting and clicking off each other like so many marbles in a game. It was like I could actually feel my life, a large, perfectly stitched leather bag, splitting apart at the seams. Rip. Rip. Rip. Any minute now, everything inside was going to come spilling out until it all lay in a pile at my feet. Then what would I do?
chapter
28
Once, when I was ten, I’d come home from fifth grade with all A’s. The only blip on the screen was a B in gym, which I’d gotten because I couldn’t climb the long, dangling rope hanging from the ceiling. Mom’s face lit up when she saw my report card and then dimmed again as she spied the B. “What happened in gym?” she asked. I told her about the rope. Two days later, Dad installed a thick length of rope from the garage ceiling. Every night after dinner he took me out to the garage and helped me work on my climbing skills. He even started me on a push-up and pull-up routine to improve my upper-body strength.
I rolled over impatiently in bed. Lots of parents did stuff like that, didn’t they?
There was another incident—this one outside of school. I was in eighth grade and had been invited to the movies by a girl named Rachel Terwilliger. She was shy and quiet like me and I was thrilled that she had asked me to go. Mom insisted on picking up Rachel so that she could meet her mother, and then drove us to the movies. We had explicit instructions to call her as soon as the credits started rolling so she could come back for us.
But when the movie was over, Rachel wanted to walk home. I hesitated. I wasn’t allowed to walk anywhere alone after eight p.m. I wouldn’t be alone, Rachel argued. And it was only seven thirty. I gave in quickly, afraid that if I didn’t she would never ask me to hang out again. We laughed and talked all the way back. Rachel’s house came first and I waved good-bye and set off for home. Mom cut me off at the end of our street, swerving the car into the curb so sharply I thought she was going to hit it.