“I still want to make something of myself,” I retort. “Just because I flew to New York for one weekend doesn’t mean I’m giving up anything. It’s my life,” I remind her, steeling myself. “And I love him.”
It’s too much for her. Her eyes widen, her face freezes in place—immobilized in shock. And then she shakes her head, grasping for words. “Don’t be stupid, Charlotte. A boy like that only wants one thing from you. I thought you knew that. I thought you were smarter than this. What happens when he moves on to the next poor, na?ve young girl? Your broken heart will be smeared all over every gossip page in the country, right there for everyone to see. Every college professor. Every prospective employer. Can you stand there and tell me that’s really what you want?”
“He’s not like that,” I say in a burst of fury. “And this isn’t even about me. This is about you. You’re so afraid that I’ll end up like Mia or Mom, because the truth is, they both ended up just like you. You ruined your life because you got pregnant too young. Well, I’m not going to ruin mine—I’m not like you. And Tate’s not like Grandpa or my dad or Leo’s.”
“You do not get to speak to me that way,” she snaps back. “And don’t you ever lie to me again, not while you’re living under my roof.” She turns in the doorway and I bite down on all the words crawling up to the surface. I hate her rules, her hypocritical demand for perfection.
I listen for the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut down the hall, then I yell, “And I got into Stanford, if anyone cares.”
Leo breaks into a cry behind Mia’s doorway but is quickly soothed—Mia must be standing on the other side of her door, listening to everything. Then the house falls still again.
I flop onto my bed, pulling the blankets up over my head. When I was little I used to think I’d disappear if I closed my eyes tight enough. I’d imagine myself someplace new, someplace I’d only ever read about.
Now, just when the world is finally opening up to me, I feel more trapped than ever.
TWENTY-ONE
FIVE DAYS LATER, THINGS HAVE barely changed at home. I haven’t made up with Grandma, but then, I haven’t seen Tate either—it’s not like I could, with him in New York. So we’re at a standoff.
I walk quickly through the night air and into the lab at UCLA. Rebecca is already standing at one of the stations, tagging samples. “Hey,” she says. “Um, so...”
“Thanks for getting started without me.” I smile. “That was really nice of you—I know I’ve been late a lot lately.”
“No problem. I didn’t realize you were...” She pauses, looking for the right word. “Famous.”
“Ha!” I can’t help but say. “Hardly.” I smile at her. “Tate’s the famous one. I just got caught in the cross fire.”
She nods, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t ask any more questions. She’s known longer than anyone that I’m back with Tate Collins—she was there the night he showed up at the lab. So in an odd way, she’s the only person I haven’t lied to. And I barely even know her, beyond our small talk during lab hours. She’s not the chatty type, and right now I’m glad for that.
At school on Monday, Carlos had wanted to know everything about New York, about Tate, and then what had happened when I got home and had to face Grandma. But as much as I had appreciated his genuine concern, I hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it. Ever since returning from New York, every part of my life has felt constrictive.
I pull on my lab coat, read the notes from the last two undergrads whose shift ended right before ours, then settle onto a stool to help Rebecca tag and label samples. In an hour we will need to transfer two dozen samples into the refrigerated unit. Right now, an hour feels very far away.
As we work, I think about Tate. I think about the night we first met and how afraid I was to let myself feel anything for him—how resistant I was at the thought of a single date. My whole life I’ve been afraid. I’ve hardly allowed myself to experience anything. What if I’d grown up in a normal family, I wonder—what then? Would I be here, now, at UCLA, making stupid labels for stupid petri dishes for some stupid project I’m only doing for an application? I stare down at the petri dish in my hand, my fingers trembling slightly. I’ve never really stopped to think if this is what I want. Any of this. I worked so hard to get into Stanford—all the extracurriculars, the straight As, the perfect essays. Now I’m in, and I thought I’d feel elated, thought the euphoria from my acceptance letter would last. I have everything I ever wanted.
But what if I want something else?