We never went on another “adventure” after that.
Faneuil Hall is packed. The weather’s finally starting to warm up, and everyone is walking around as if they’ve been a prisoner of winter and can taste freedom in the air. The spaces between the market buildings are lined with kiosks and carts, a mix of crafts and clothes, snacks and souvenirs for sale. A living statue bends at the waist and offers a fake flower to Mom, trying to draw her closer. We start at the North Market building, and Mom buys me a pair of blue cat-eye sunglasses as I try to convince her to buy a pair of heart-shaped ones made of red plastic. She spends far too long trying on shoes and pushing me to join her, but even though my friend Jenny calls me a freak for it, I just don’t really care about what’s on my feet.
“So,” Mom says as we head toward a small boutique selling sundresses. Her voice drops an octave as she imitates Dad. “How ’bout them Patriots?”
I can’t help but laugh. Most people use the weather as small talk. Dad uses football. It doesn’t matter that the Super Bowl happened almost two months ago; there’s always next year’s season to talk about.
Mom bumps my shoulder. “Come on, baby girl, tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing’s ‘up,’” I laugh, taking a dress off the rack and holding it against my shoulders even though I know I’d never wear it.
“School going well?”
I put the dress back. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, AP’s harder this year.”
“You’re doing great, you know that?” Mom’s voice is softer now, more serious. “I don’t say that enough, but you are.”
I shrug. “I need a scholarship.”
Mom doesn’t bother trying to deny it. Without a scholarship, my options are going into debt by taking out a student loan or spending a few years at a community college before transferring to a university, but neither is an appealing choice. I want to escape. I want to get as far away as possible. I don’t even know where. I just want to be in a place where no one really knows me. Everyone from home already has an idea of who I am. I want to define myself on my own terms.
“I really want to go out of state,” I say.
Mom frowns. “We’ll see.”
I sigh and turn away from the store. Shopping doesn’t sound that great anymore. What’s a new dress compared to a new life?
Mom jogs to catch up with me when she notices I’ve walked away. “So what are you thinking of majoring in?” she asks. “Any plans?”
No! I want to scream. No. I’m doing everything I know how to do—piling up AP courses and studying for the SATs while selecting extracurriculars that will look good on applications. But I have no idea what to do after all this work pays off. I don’t have a major picked out, much less a college. I only hope that everything I’m doing means I get to get out of here. I don’t care where. I just want to go.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Mom bites her lip, her face falling like she has to tell me my puppy died or something. “But sweetie, you’re going to have to decide soon.”
“I don’t know,” I say, much harsher than I intended. “I have time.”
“Well, if you need to talk it out, or help with applications or anything, you know you can ask me or your father.”
“Okay,” I say noncommittally.
Mom strokes my hair. “I really am so proud of you,” she says. “You’re so self-reliant. I never have to worry about you.” There’s a slight emphasis on the last word.
When we enter Quincy Market, Mom comes up with the perfect idea for lunch: We each have to eat at least three different things from three different places. I kick it off with a pizza bagel, and she grabs Starbucks, which I say is lame since we both know she was going to get Starbucks anyway. I get a scone from a bakeshop, and she picks up some fudge at the coffee place next to it. For the main course, I call dibs on the mac-and-cheese stand, ordering a large bowl of gooey goodness.
“Oh, come on,” she says as I dig my spoon into the bowl. “I’m going to order some too.”
“You said three different things,” I say, “from three different places.” I lick my spoon.
Mom sticks her tongue out, but she’s grinning as she leads me over to a pushcart and orders some roasted nuts.
“Not as good as mac and cheese,” I say mockingly.
Mom scowls at me, but she laughs as she pulls me toward the ice cream shop.
“No more, I’m stuffed!” I say in false protest.
“You need to learn how to play the game,” Mom says. “Order light so there’s room for dessert.”
I try not to get anything, but Mom orders me a cookies-and-cream cone anyway. I really am full, but it’s kind of nice to know she remembers my favorite flavor.
“That’s gross, by the way,” I tell her as she licks a blueberry-flavored scoop of ice cream.
“I will never understand how a child of mine could not like berries.”
“I like strawberries.”