“No. But you hate it here. You’re going to be miserable.”
“Can’t be miserable when you’re around. It’s just one more year, Grace. When you graduate … we can go wherever we want.” You grin. “The world is our fucking oyster.”
*
LAST NIGHT MY mom grounded me from eating eggs for a month because I forgot to wash the pan I’d cooked them in. A few days before that, she threatened to pull me out of the school dance concert if I left the laundry in the dryer again. The ridiculousness of all this has quickly slid to the number one spot in Reasons My Mother Is Crazy.
Now, it’s almost eight in the morning and my SAT test is at eight-thirty. The test center is twenty minutes away and I’ll need a few minutes once I get there to prep. Mom is taking me because I don’t want to make you wake up on a Saturday at an hour you consider to be, and I quote, the ass-crack of dawn. But Mom said we couldn’t leave until I’d folded the laundry (The Giant’s tightie-whities and undershirts) and now I’m about to start crying and am so stressed because I need to go take my fucking SATs, you bitch, I hate you.
“Mom, the laundry is done, can we go?”
She looks over the pile of clothing, refolds the top items, then nods.
I run outside and jump into the van and just after Mom turns the key in the ignition, this begins: “I don’t think I locked the front door,” Mom says. “Go check it.”
“I saw you lock—”
“Grace. Go check the door.”
I fucking saw her lock it because I knew this would happen, I knew it. I make a big show of trying to open the very locked door. I get back in and Mom ignores me as she pulls out. Talk radio is on way too loud and my head is spinning and I am totally going to fail this test. Next week is the last week of school. I don’t want to have this hanging over my head all summer.
We’re halfway down the street when Mom stops the car.
“Crap,” she says. “The back gate. I doubt Roy locked it when he took the trash cans out.”
Mom starts to do a three-point turn. The clock on the dash says 8:05. I point to it.
“Mom, please. I’m gonna be late.”
“The Hendersons had their yard broken into last week,” she says.
“They have a totally jumpable gate!” I say. “And it’s eight in the morning, Mom. I’m sure all the thieves are sleeping.…”
She ignores me. We’re back in the driveway. I jump out before she tells me to, run, and—sure enough—the gate’s locked. I sprint back to the car.
“Okay, okay, we’re good. Let’s go,” I snap.
“Do not take that tone with me, young lady. I’ll just sit here and wait until you can be respectful,” she says.
Tears well up in my eyes and I bite my lip. If I start crying I’ll get a headache; I’ll say something I’ll regret.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.” My words this time are louder, the defiance stuffed way down deep where she can’t see it. I am Totally Remorseful Daughter.
Suddenly she pushes open her door, pulls the keys out of the ignition.
“Mom! I said I’m sorry!”
“My curling iron,” she calls over her shoulder, hurrying to the door. “I left it on, I’m sure I did.”
No you didn’t!!!!!!!!!
8:10
8:15
I’m crying now, tears blurring my index cards, each one neatly printed with an obscure piece of vocabulary, but the only words running through my mind are: Obsessive
Compulsive
Disorder
I am tired of invisible dust.
Doors that unlock themselves.
Creases in smooth sheets.
Cold irons burning.
Since I’m grounded from my cell (long story involving a forgotten broom on the front porch), I compose an imaginary text to Natalie: Can’t make it. Good luck. I fucking hate my life.
I hear the door slam and now the dance really begins. Mom locks the door, goes down the porch steps, turns, checks it. Still locked. She walks down the path, pauses. Starts to turn. Her eyes meet mine. I am silent. Tears running down my face. I can see the battle she fights inside herself—check it again, her little demons tell her, one more time. My eyes beg her to get in the car. Her eyes beg me to understand. But I can’t. I won’t.
She holds up a finger. One more time. Better safe than sorry.
8:45
We arrive at the testing center. They tell me I’m late. They tell me I can’t take it. I turn to my mom.
“I hate you,” I say, quiet.
She knows I mean it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. Her voice is a shrug, but I can see the misery in her eyes. She won’t admit it’s her fault, though. She won’t admit she needs help.
We don’t talk the whole way home.
SEVENTEEN
The entire sloping lawn in front of the school’s outdoor auditorium is packed. Hot sunlight burns down, turning anyone with pale skin pink. I sit squished between Natalie and Alyssa, waiting for the end-of-the-year talent show to start. Waiting for you to knock everyone’s socks off.
It’s the last day of school and finals are over. It wouldn’t be Roosevelt High without this annual tradition. Even though it’s just a school event, there’s a carnival feel to it all: summer is here and you can feel the rapture of the school year coming to an end. We’re animals in a cage who are so so close to being free. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. Freedom is an illusion, Lys says. The Man invented summer vacation to make us forget that he’s keeping us down the rest of the year.
“It’s so stupid they still call it Air Guitar,” she says, taking a bite from the In-N-Out burger she’s gotten at one of the food trucks parked around campus for today. “Like, hello? Everyone is actually playing guitar.”
You and I have had this conversation before, about how the yearly talent show has gone from lip-synching to the real deal ever since your freshman year, when you and your band decided to turn the mics on and plug the amps in.
“I would just like to point out that my boyfriend has revolutionized the entire RHS talent show system,” I say. “Can you imagine how much this would have sucked if it was all lip-synching?”
Nat rolls her eyes. “Well, it should be pretty fun watching Peter, Kyle, and Ryan try to be One Direction.”
“Gav tried to talk them out of it—it’s on them,” I say.
Poor Ryan, getting roped into their scheme. Now, instead of just being the cool bass player of Evergreen, he’ll be remembered as boy band wannabe number three.
You laughed your ass off when they told you they would be lip-synching and doing a choreographed dance to “What Makes You Beautiful.” The only person willing to be their fourth boy band member was a freshman.
“I can’t wait,” I say. “Mostly because I’m going to take a million pictures and use them as blackmail for the rest of their lives.”
Nat laughs. “I told Kyle he’s lucky I’m not dumping him.”
She and Kyle have pretty much been together since Peter’s party.
Lys nods. “For real.”
My phone buzzes and I check my text—it’s from you.
Peek-a-boo
Where are you?
In a super secret rock star location. I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.
Can you see me?