“I’m already slammed,” I explained. “I’ve got peer counseling, the Social Service Board, the Italian club, and Student Alliance.” I spun through my mental checklist. There was so much, I felt woozy even thinking about it all. But I was missing something... What else? “Oh, yeah, there’s my a cappella singing group, and next fall I’m captain of the field hockey team. There’s literally no more room on my plate.”
Whenever I list everything I have going on like that, I feel spent, like I can’t be on my feet another second, so I sank into one of the big wrought-iron chairs bordering the breakfast bar. No slouching, though. We don’t do that in the Goodman house.
What I couldn’t understand is why she’d be so invested in whether I took on one more extracurricular. Like she could be bothered to attend my games or performances. She didn’t need to be there to be able to brag about my wins on the field.
Anyway, I was suspicious of her concern and had a good idea where this conversation was headed. She perpetually has ulterior motives; I just wish she were more adept at disguising them.
My mother got up and dug into her bottle-green suede Chloé purse on the counter, pulling out a set of keys before returning to the bench. “Give up peer counseling. That’s the one activity that won’t get you anywhere.”
Right. Peer counseling’s the one activity I like.
I decided to appeal to her sense of reason. “I feel like I do nothing but walk back and forth to school fifteen times a day.”
“You can use the exercise.”
So reason was out. And only in my mother’s world was a size two fat.
“All the walking is cutting into my study time.” That’d get her attention, tapping into her FUDs—Fear, Uncertainty, and Dread. If my grades were to slip so that I didn’t get into Princeton on early decision, she could never show her face at The Daily Om again.
“Easily fixed. Here, take Holden’s Land Rover.” She bought this vehicle as a bribe to induce him into coming home. As her plan had yet to work, she’d sometimes drive it herself when her purchases wouldn’t fit in the Jag’s trunk.
She slid the LR4’s key fob across the table to me the way TV bartenders send shots of whiskey to regular patrons. I didn’t stop the keys as they flew past me. We both watched as the set dropped to the floor with a metallic clang. Any other kid would be overjoyed at the prospect of a free luxury vehicle, but the whole conversation made me mad. “I don’t want my own car, I want more than four hours of sleep a night,” I argued.
She sat back on the padded bench and folded her arms across her surgically enhanced chest. A full C, never a D, Mallory, unless you’re looking to work the pole, AKA the sum total of wisdom she’s ever imparted.
“Car’s yours, that’s nonnegotiable. But you will need to lead the newcomer’s club. Can’t take much time—I mean, how often does anyone your age move here?”
Actually...she was probably right; I wouldn’t have to do much. If anyone relocates to North Shore with children, they’re in elementary school, or early junior high. By the time high school rolls around, newcomers are a rarity. Generally, if someone winds up at NSHS, they grew up here and have enrolled only after being kicked out of boarding school. (That happens quite a bit.)
“The activity would look great on my college applications,” I conceded, too tired to continue the debate, ready to cut my losses. Here’s the thing—I always argue and I never win; you’d think I’d be smart enough to not start.
She sipped her wine and nodded, victorious.
Like that wasn’t a given.
Then, almost as an afterthought she said, “Did you know that Kimberlee’s daughter Elise tried to join Novus Orsa and she wasn’t accepted? Guess she’s not what the school wants to offer by way of first impression.”
Ah, there it is, I thought, mentally snapping my fingers. Like she’d ever suggest something that was truly in my best interests. You see, Kimberlee is my mother’s frenemy. They’ve been pitting Elise and me against each other since we were in diapers, in a never-ending competition of who could walk and talk and use the potty like a big girl first.
In my mother’s head, Elise is my sworn rival. IRL, we’re totally cool. We text all the time. We hate being used as pawns in our mothers’ twisted quests for social media dominance. Elise is braver than me, though. She dyed her hair black, pierced her nose, and gained thirty pounds. I thought her acts of defiance would make life easier on me, but that’s not the case. Now my mother’s even more vigilant about what I eat, hoping to keep up the disparity in our waistlines.
Which, again, exhausting.
Before I could say anything else, my brother Theo clattered in with Braden, two bulls in the proverbial china shop. Although the kitchen’s something like five hundred square feet and opens into the solarium and massive great room, the whole space feels cramped when the boys enter. They’re both built like brick shithouses. While Theo’s pretty big, Braden dwarfs him. He’s a younger version of The Rock, with all his muscles and toothy, white smile, but minus the shaved head.
“Hey, Ma, these your keys on the floor?” Theo scoops up the Tiffany key ring and tries to hand it to her.
“Nope, those are your sister’s now. I gave her the LR4.”
“Badass!” Theo exclaimed, holding up his hand for a high-five I did not return. “Will you start driving to school in the fall? Can you give me rides? I’m over this bike business. It’s bullshit that only seniors can park on campus.”
Were I to swear in front of our mother, she’d go apoplectic. But Theo cursing? Doesn’t register. For that matter, Holden could sacrifice a virgin on the wooden butcher block part of the kitchen island and she wouldn’t even blink.
“You know what?” she said. “It’s unfair that Mallory gets a car and you don’t, Theo. Let’s fix that. We can go to the dealership this afternoon and you pick out whatever you’d like.”
Hopefully Theo drives, I thought, eyeing the empty bottle of wine.
“Fuckin’ A! Can I get a convertible Beetle?” he asked.
“Sure, if that’s what you want,” she replied, glancing at me with an indulgent smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Bro, you can’t get a little VW, you’ll look like bear driving one of those Shriner’s cars,” Braden said. “Think truck or jeep or something more manly. Can’t be cruising around in a Barbie car.”
I noticed my mother rolling her eyes. She’s not a huge fan of Braden, thinks he’s a useless, good-time party guy, even though he does well in his classes and has been nothing but amazing to Theo. She’s always telling me how much better Liam is compared to Braden, more focused, more disciplined, more destined for success, like she somehow needs to sell me on my boyfriend’s finer points. She acts like she’s worried I’m trying to choose between them, which is so untrue.
Theo nodded. “That does make sense, now that you mention it. Hey, Ma, let’s go into Dad’s office and look at vehicle pics on the big iMac,” he suggested.
They exited, leaving Braden and me alone in the kitchen. He turned to me and said, “Now make sure you clean all the ashes out of that fireplace, Cinderella.”