“Are you sure?”
I sigh because I hate this for two reasons: One, I don’t want to go back to being a beanpole. Fuller hips look gorgeous on me, though I’m still hoping my chest fills out more. Two, I know what she is implying. “Well, Mom, it’s summer in California, so I’m probably sweating more or something.”
“Viv.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, like a tiny prayer for strength. “Please don’t make me ask.”
“I won’t make you do anything.” I glower at her. “How about you just don’t ask?”
I hate to be reminded, and I hate that she still thinks about it. I don’t think about it—at least, barely, because I don’t see the point in reliving the bad parts of your life. Earlier this year, I got too low. And then too high. They put me on medicine that pulled me out of my rabbit hole, and one of the side effects was weight gain. That’s why my mom is being suspicious and suggestive and unfair.
I try to do this thing when I get upset, when I start to float upward in a rage: I push all my anger down my arms. And then I snap my fingers, with both hands, trying to crush those feelings. The sound, the feel of that snap. Sometimes it brings me back to earth.
My mom follows me as I go up to my room. I look over my shoulder, snapping my fingers once on each hand. Nope, still furious. “I’m almost seventeen. It’s very hurtful and insulting that you don’t trust me.”
We stop outside my door, and she looks sad—so sad, like she’s helpless to silence what she’s about to say. “Viv, tell me that you’re taking your pills. Just say it, and I’ll believe you.”
I step into my room, then spin around to face her, my hand already steadied on the door to slam it. “Yes, okay? Yes, I am taking the stupid, fucking pills.”
The door hits, heavy against its frame, and it echoes into the hallway. I burrow into my bed, angry enough to cry—which isn’t a shock, considering I’m angry enough to yell the f-word in my mom’s face. I don’t even care, because I’ve asked her eighty thousand times to just not bring it up, and honestly, how hard is that? Avoiding one single topic in the entire, ever-loving world?
I let myself cry for a while, pitiful and sprawled out on my comforter, and I bury my head into Tannest’s plush fur. Tannest has been my best stuffed-animal friend since I was little. My mom suggested that I name him Tanner because he is a tan-colored dog. But, since he is completely tan and I couldn’t imagine him being tanner, I named him Tannest. He lives at the head of my bed with a pink pony named Rosabelle and a stuffed turtle named Norman.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been sniffling when my phone beeps.
Hey. It’s Jonah. From this morning.
From this morning, like he had to remind me. Like I met another, more memorable Jonah in the past few hours. A smile sneaks across my face. How darling that he thinks I’d forget him inside of six hours. I roll over onto my stomach, holding my phone in both hands as I type.
Hi Jonah from this morning. Are you still making me dinner?
Pizza’s on around 6 if you’re interested.
Hmm. Detached, totally nonflirty. Jonah, Jonah, Jonah—you are only encouraging me. It’s like being at an animal shelter, where I want to be the one the most skittish dog takes a liking to.
Oh, I’m interested.
Cool. 404 Seaside Street. Leah’s excited.
Oh, Jonah. Silly boy. I will make you flirt back with me.
Just Leah? Not you?
I spin the phone in my hand, waiting and smiling to myself. This is exactly what I needed for the summer—the sunshine, the ocean, some seriously blatant flirtation. And a little bit of a challenge.
Finally, my phone beeps again. Of course me too.
Ha—got him! That’s all it takes to perk me up, and suddenly I can’t bear to stay in my room and not make up with my mom. I shuffle downstairs, nibbling on my lip as I go.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island when I turn the corner from the stairs. I cross my arms and lean against the door frame, sighing without really meaning to. I don’t want to be the first one to talk; I don’t know what to say, exactly. My mom senses my presence, and she gets up from the table to face me. Her eyes are a little red because she’s a very sensitive person, like I am.
“You know I don’t like bossing you around.” It’s true—she hates telling me what to do. My mom believes in the inherent worth of instincts, like self-reliance as a way of transcending. She encourages my creativity, my impulses, my me-ness. To a point, I guess. “I’m proud of the person you are, and I do trust you. But I have to watch over you because you are my baby, and I will always need to protect you, even when it makes you mad at me.”
“I know that.” My voice is quiet—the murmur of a child who apologizes to get out of the time-out chair. I tug my left sleeve instinctively, covering the long scar. “I’m sorry I yelled. I just hate to be reminded of it.”