“Yeah, I remember. Thanks.”
When he disappears, Mom rests her head in her hands and stares at me. “He turned out super handsome, didn’t he? He’s got nice teeth, nice eyes, good skin. And he’s very tall.” I hate her checklists. She does it with every person I’ve ever brought to the house. I feel like she’s letting me know if they pass her approval test because of the way they look and not because of the person they are.
I don’t realize I’m shaking my head until she scoffs.
“What? I’m trying to be nice,” she says defensively. When I don’t say anything, she folds her arms flat against the table. “Are you mad that I’m talking to your friend?”
“What? No.” I’m frowning. She’s already in control of where this conversation is going, but I don’t know how to take it back.
“I know you don’t want me to be a part of your life.”
“I never said that.”
“I know you’ll laugh if I say this, but I’m really an amazing person.”
I do laugh. And I press my fingers against my eyes because I don’t know what is going on right now. “Good for you, Mom. I have no opinion on this.”
“Yes you do,” she snaps. “That’s why you want to get out of the house so badly. Because you hate me. It’s almost like you’re jealous of me.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“I want to leave because you make me feel small and ugly and unlovable, and because you’re letting Uncle Max—Uncle Max, the reason Dad left us—live across the hall from me, and you won’t even let me put a lock on my door to keep him out!”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“I am not jealous of you!”
Her eyes float around the room. “So what do you and Jamie talk about? How horrible you think I am?”
“Oh my God, Mom. Why are you doing this?” I ask stiffly. “I came over here to talk to you about how I’m moving out. Why are you making this all about you?”
“I never make anything all about me,” she snaps. “I’m sitting here, trying to have a nice time. I bought you guys all this food, I’m trying to get to know your friend, and you’re acting like I’ve committed some kind of crime. I’m not some evil dictator.”
This conversation is spiraling out of control. I don’t even know what edge to grab ahold of to steady myself. My mind feels like it’s been caught up in a violent twister.
“I’m not suddenly going to be in a good mood because you bought pasta. And for the record, I never asked you to buy dinner. And I’ll pay you for it, because I don’t want you feeling put out.” My knuckles crack under my thumbs.
“I don’t want your money.” Her face is like stone.
“I’m in a bad mood because Uncle Max came into my room last night, drunk, and I don’t feel safe. If you don’t kick him out, I can’t live here anymore.” My chest is throbbing. My breathing is quick. My throat is tightening.
“You’re not an adult. You have to live here,” she says simply.
My hands shake. “Then I’ll call child protective services, or something. I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll get a restraining order.”
Mom laughs. “You’re such a drama queen.”
Tears burn my eyes. “This isn’t funny. I’m serious.”
Her face freezes over. “I can’t believe you’d even threaten that. Do you know what that would do to our family? This is a private family issue. You’re being unbelievably selfish right now.”
“Selfish?” My skull is pounding.
“Your words could ruin someone’s life. Did you ever think about that?”
I stand up, my whole body convulsing with anger. “You care more about Uncle Max than me. The only reason you don’t want me to leave is because people might ask questions and then you’ll look like a bad mom.”
She leans back. Our eyes radiate into each other’s. I can’t believe I actually told her what I was thinking. I got all the words out without tripping. It feels powerful.
And terrifying.
Because I told her how I feel. I told her what I’m really thinking, without worrying about how I should say it, without distorting my actual feelings to avoid making her angry. I feel like I’ve thrown my armor away, and I’m standing in front of her completely exposed. I’m vulnerable and unarmed, but I’ve told her the truth, and somehow that gives me a sense of strength I’ve never felt before. Maybe I don’t need weapons or armor if I have the truth.
I brace myself for Mom’s reaction.
“Do what you have to do. Put yourself above your family.” It’s not permission. It’s a taunt loaded with malice.
“I’m not telling anyone,” I choke. “But I am moving out.”
She closes her eyes and opens them again like she’s looking at the world for the first time—so innocent and pure. “You obviously need time to cool down. So go ahead—go and feel like a grown-up, if that’s what you need. I’ll forgive you when you come home, because I’m your mom and I love you.”
Inside my head, I’m screaming. I step away from the table and my eerily still mother. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Jamie is sitting there with his hands clasped together.
I smear my tears away with the edge of my sleeve. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head and swallows. “I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t know where to go.”
“I’m going to pack a bag,” I say with a weak voice. And then I try to smile, but it just feels sad. “I guess you’ll get to see some of my paintings, if you want.”
He nods, and I lead him upstairs.
Jamie looks through my canvases and my old sketchbooks. He studies the pictures I’ve hung on the walls and the unfinished pieces wedged under books. All the while he doesn’t say a word. He just investigates on his own like he’s in an art gallery.
I pack a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries. I pack Emery’s note. I pack two of my sketchbooks, and I even pack my unfinished portfolio full of photographs of all my paintings. I look around. I’ll never be able to fit everything in one bag. There are too many canvases and art supplies and books.
I’m aware I haven’t thought this through. I know Mom’s probably right—I’ll come back home eventually. Because all my stuff is here. Because I don’t have a long-term plan.
But I need to get out of the house before Uncle Max gets home. I don’t care if he was drunk or if he doesn’t remember it—if I stay, I’m saying “I’m okay with this” when I’m absolutely not.
I pack my best pencils and feel a horrible ache in my heart when I leave all my acrylics and brushes in the corner.
“These paintings are incredible.” His voice is so clear. It’s the light in all the darkness.
I look at the canvas in front of him. It’s a girl floating on top of the water, surrounded by fireflies and water lilies.
I meet Jamie’s eyes. “I didn’t get the lighting right on that one.”
“Kiko, I’m serious. You are unbelievably talented.”
I scratch at my arm because I don’t know how to respond.
“Thanks,” I say to my duffel bag. I yank the zip and seal away the compacted version of my life I’m going to be living with.