Still, I set about writing the briefest script possible. Lipton pairs up images of past and present. We’re so wrapped up in it, neither of us notices how long we’ve been working until I hear my mother’s voice. In the living room. Crooning over the Gregorys’ house.
“Oooh. What a beauuuuutiful fireplace! And those beams. I’ve always wanted a house with exposed beams,” she says, which is news to me.
I gather my things.
“Same time tomorrow?” Lipton asks as we’re joining our mothers by the door.
“Sure,” I say.
“You’re welcome to work at our house, too,” my mother chimes in. “Any time. Vicky practically has an entire Apple store in her room.”
Lipton darts a curious glance at me. I told him she wouldn’t allow it.
“We’re all set up on Lipton’s computer now,” I say quickly. “They have a special room for homework and stuff.”
“Whatever works best,” she says, her smile forced.
We say our thank-yous and good-byes and, as expected, she’s all over me in the car.
“How much homework do you have, exactly, that you need to meet every night?”
“It’s a project.”
“Oh.” She adjusts her rearview mirror. “What project?”
“World history.” I don’t even consider lying to cover my previous lie.
“Another world history project?”
“No, it’s the same one I’ve been working on. Siege of Jerusalem.”
“With Hallie Bryce?”
“No.” I swallow. “She’s not in my class.”
“But I thought you said—”
“I made that up.”
She sucks in a breath. “You . . . Why would you lie to me, Vicky?”
I shrug.
“What on earth would compel you to lie about something like that?” Her voice has moved into its higher octaves.
I could lie some more to cover the lie, but I’m tired. It’s getting so hard to always put a false face forward to hide the real one. I feel like Marissa did the other day—I just can’t sustain it. I’m holding as much as I can carry and it’s all going to fall apart if I don’t find a way to lighten my load.
So, I sigh, and I spill. “I lied because it made you happy to think I was working on a project with someone like Hallie Bryce, who is beautiful and talented, rather than working alone, which is what I was doing until Lipton offered to help me. I lied to give you a rare opportunity to not be disappointed in me.”
“Vicky, how can you say that?”
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ve been a disappointment. It’s understandable that you would be disappointed.”
She glances at me, eyes watery. “I don’t think you’re a disappointment, sweetheart. Is that how you feel?”
“It’s not a matter of feeling. It’s a point of fact,” I say. “I haven’t lived up to any expectation you’ve ever had of me. I don’t dress the way you like, or wear my hair the way you like, or have friends or activities or achievements you can brag about. By definition, I’m pretty sure that makes me a disappointment.”
We pull into our driveway, and my mother kills the engine. She doesn’t move, though. She just sits there, hands on the steering wheel at ten and two.
It’s making me nervous. “Look, never mind. I was thinking about Hallie Bryce that day and I don’t know why I said we were working on the project together. Wishful thinking or something. And it made that look on your face go away.”
I fiddle with my backpack so I don’t have to meet her gaze.
“What look on my face?” she asks.
I didn’t mean to get this honest, but now it won’t stop coming out. “That look of disappointment.” I lift my eyes and see that she’s got the expression on her face right now. She’s disappointed in me even now. I point to her face. “That look.”
She flips the rearview mirror down to see her face, then turns to me.
“Vicky, this isn’t disappointment. This is concern. This is love. This is a mother wanting everything for her daughter, wanting her to be happy, and trying desperately to figure out what will make her so. If there is disappointment on my face, it is disappointment in myself, for not knowing how to fix . . .” Her voice catches. “I can’t stand to see you unhappy, sweetie. And I know you have been. But I don’t know how to fix it.”
“I don’t need to be fixed,” I say. “I just need you to accept me the way I am. I need you to understand.”
She nods, wrapping her arms around her middle. “I can do that,” she whispers. “I can try.”
We sit there quietly for a minute and she keeps inhaling like she’s about to speak, then stopping herself. Finally, she says, “I didn’t mean to suggest that you need to be fixed, that I don’t love you just the way you are. Because I do. It’s just, if something’s wrong or making you feel bad and you need help, someone to talk to . . .”
I scuff my feet back and forth on the floor mat. “Then why are you always telling me it’s just in my head? That all I need to do is face my fears, and everything will be fine?”
My mother’s face screws up, and I realize she’s starting to cry. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I thought—” She reaches a hand to my knee. “I messed up. I see that now.”
I blink at her, at the tears coming down her cheeks. I nod, and she reaches for me, pulls me to her, hugs me. I can’t remember the last time she held me like this, and it doesn’t make everything better, but it helps.
“I’ve been thinking I might talk to the school psychologist,” I say.
“Okay.” Mom leans away from me and looks in my eyes. “Is that what you want? Or I could find someone—”
“I like her. I think maybe she can help.”
“Okay.” Mom wipes her own tears, then strokes my cheek. “You just let me know whatever you need. Anything.”
She hugs me again as Dad is pulling into the driveway. He gets out of his car and starts walking toward ours, sees us embracing, and gets the most adorably confused look on his face.
Mom lowers the window.
“Everything okay?” he says.
My mother turns back to me and smooths her hand over my hair.
“Not exactly,” she says. “But it will be.”
After Dad leaves us to head into the house, Mom makes me promise I’ll visit Mrs. Greene. I’m nervous to open up what I’ve been trying to keep sealed for so long, but I know I have to.
“After my history presentation. I promise.” I don’t think I can handle both in the same week, because talking to Mrs. Greene is going to mean unveiling Vicurious to her, and I’m not quite ready to expose myself like that.
30
MOM TAKES ME TO LIPTON’S house after school the next day and the next, and Mrs. Gregory invites her in and they chat over coffee while we’re working on the presentation. And it’s okay.
I’m not saying she’s a completely different person or anything, but I can tell she’s trying. And I am, too. I put on a little bit of the makeup from Neiman Marcus. I reconsider some of the clothes she bought me and find a couple of sweaters that aren’t too terrible.
Lipton says I look nice.
He says it in front of my mom, and she almost breaks her face smiling.
She even gives me my phone back. We’re eating dinner Friday evening and she slides it across the table. She doesn’t ask for my password.