It’s not about the money either.
The school in New York is even more expensive than Berkshire Academy. I added it up. Three months of Bo’s current tuition would fully pay for me to go on the class trip to Europe this summer. Four thousand dollars. That’s the recommended allowance for the trip and spending money. Four thousand—though I could probably swing just three, if I didn’t buy anything and was careful with food. That’s nothing compared to what Bo costs, between tuition and medication and travel and that last hospital visit and . . .
I threw away the pamphlet about Europe.
Rosemarie isn’t going on the trip either. She has no problem telling anyone who asks that her family can’t afford that much money, not for something like a trip, not with college expenses just around the corner.
Jenny is going.
The thing is, I deserve that trip. I study, hard, all the time. I bust my butt in every college-level course James Jefferson High School offers, even science, which I hate. I’m in the top 2 percent of my grade. I’ve joined every club, I stay after school for orchestra practice, I even tried out for the tennis team just so colleges would consider me more “well-rounded.” Not because I want to do any of that.
Because I know I need a scholarship to escape. Bo may get tens of thousands handed to him to go to a school with bars on the windows, but my parents aren’t going to have that kind of money when it’s my turn.
I deserve a trip to Europe. I deserve, just once, just once in my whole life, to be selfish. That’s all I want. It’s not even about Europe; it’s about getting the chance to be selfish. Bo asked me what I want in the future, and it’s this. I want to be stupid and selfish, and I want to do things without overthinking them first. I want the chance to just . . . be normal. My whole life has been a giant compromise around Bo—what Bo needs to be healthy, what bills have to be paid for Bo, what allowances in time have to be carved out, which holidays have to be shortened, which weekends sacrificed, which things I want that have to wait until later so Bo can get what he needs first.
It’s not fair, a little voice inside me says.
And it’s not. Not for me. Not for him. Not for any of us.
Rosemarie describes my house as “richy-rich.” She always says it in a joking way, but I often wonder if she just laughs to hide her bitterness. Our families are the same size; our houses are not.
But I see the credit card bills that stack up at the end of our table. I see the late hours Dad works. I saw the bill for Berkshire’s tuition. I added it up.
I dig the brochure for Europe out of the trash and allow myself to look at it one last time. Then I fold it in half and very slowly, deliberately rip it apart. I relish the way the paper comes apart, and then I stack the pieces up and drop them back into the trash can.
I know I’m being childish and stupid and trite. I know Bo’s health is more important than any trip.
But none of that erases the bitter jealousy in my heart.
I can’t help what I want. I can’t help wishing things were different, wishing he were different. So that I could be too.
Across the hallway, I see the sheet hanging in Bo’s doorway. I stride into his room before I can tell myself it’s wrong. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Just . . . a peek behind the literal curtain.
It feels like going into a stranger’s room, or maybe like going into the room of someone who’s died, riffling through their belongings in an attempt to find closure or meaning. It’s wrong. But I don’t let that stop me.
The room smells slightly musty, like the body spray Bo sometimes uses, but old. Mom has already stripped the bed and replaced the sheets and duvet cover for the next time Bo comes home. He probably never notices that she does this, that every single weekend, he has fresh sheets.
I trail my hand along his dresser, leaving a faint trace of my fingerprints in the very thin layer of dust. The top is cluttered with things he’s probably not used or even noticed in years: a little carving of a turtle he bought from a Native American in Four Corners during that family trip out West; a Mickey Mouse snow globe from an “adventure” to Disney World; a box that holds a mint coin collection, something Mom gives us both every year at Christmas, because what kid doesn’t want money he can’t spend.
These are the things our parents would say were important. But Bo wouldn’t. That’s why he left them behind.