Ringlets of sweat-soaked baby hairs stick to the back of my neck as I stand on an old wooden chair, forcing a plastic spring-tension curtain rod between the center support beam and the attic wall. If I’m going to be forced to stay here, I need some semblance of privacy should someone need to come to the attic.
Once I have rods hanging on either side of the support beam, I climb down from the chair and stand back to look at my new bedroom walls—gauzy white curtains that I made from some vintage tablecloths in the stack of clothing-donation boxes. The lacy edges felt like the right kind of shabby-chic vibe, and, as much as I would never admit this to my mom, using my sewing machine helped quell some of my anxiety about being stuck here.
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Mom says, startling me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Those fans are loud.”
I pull open a curtain, exposing three fans, all oscillating on their highest settings. “Loud but necessary.”
“No kidding. It’s like a sauna up here.” She steps past thecurtain and surveys my tiny living quarters. “I really am sorry about the attic.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Better than sleeping in Sloane’s room.”
Mom turns and sits on the bed, getting a better look at the curtains. “So you made those, huh?”
“Don’t get too excited,” I tell her. “I was sewing out of necessity, not desire.”
“Well, either way, they look great.”
“Thanks.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause before she continues. “I appreciate you making the best of this. You’re a good kid.” I nod and cross my arms over my chest as I stare at the floor.
Mom bites her lip and places her hands on her knees as the fans combat the awkward silence between us.
“Look,” she finally says, “I know you’re mad at me, but maybe try to think of this as an opportunity for you to be a normal teenager for a bit.” My eyes dart to her. “Things don’t have to be so grueling right now. You have the rest of your life to work.”
“I don’twantto be a ‘normal teenager.’ I want to get into Columbia.”
“And you will. I’m just saying, try to have some fun while you’re here. Hang out with Sloane, enjoy the town’s charm, work on your fashion stuff….” She pauses, hesitating; then: “Maybe do the things you like instead of worrying about making your dad happy.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You say that like everything I do is for Dad’s sake.” She says nothing. “You’re wrong. Iamdoing the things I like.”
I haven’t been working on my clothing designs lately becauseI haven’t had time to go thrifting, let alone spend hours constructing new pieces.
It has nothing to do with my dad.
She nods once. “Okay.”
Her tone doesn’t sayokay, though. Her tone says she doesn’t believe me. It says she’s simply being agreeable. Like always.
“And I don’t want to enjoy the town’s charm,” I continue, searing irritation sweeping through me like wildfire. “I want to be in the city, attending my prestigious high school and finishing my internship, which other people would kill to have, so that I can carry out the plans I’ve been working toward for the last three years. We’re talking about mywhole future, Mom. Just becauseyoudon’t have a job doesn’t mean other people aren’t worried about getting one!”
Mom’s face crumples, her calm expression turning hurt, and my stomach knots. It’s not untrue—after all, Mom gave up her career at an art gallery in the city to stay home and raise me—but I didn’t mean to make it sound like being a stay-at-home mom is a walk in the park.
I swallow and look at the floor. “I’m just saying I want to do big things, okay? So what if what I want aligns with what Dad wants for me? He’s helping me reach my goals. Being here is a step backward, so stop trying to make this a good thing.”
Mom pushes off the floral comforter and stands. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but then she presses them together instead, pivots away from me, and walks across the attic and down the steps.
I groan and flop onto the bed.
My phone has sat silently on the worn dresser next to me all day. I grab it, glancing at the time—5:46 p.m. I find Dad in my contacts and press the green call icon.
Despite Mom being the one who was home with me all the time, I’ve always been closer with my dad. Mom helped me with homework, but Dad kept me motivated. He pushed me to get perfect grades, to get involved, to work hard, to try new things, to think about the future.
He’s brilliant and selfless andadoredat Street Media. Even when I was little, following him around his office carrying his stapler and the brass paperweight from his desk, I knew I wanted to be him.
He travels a lot for work, so I’ve gone weeks without seeing him. But the distance between us now feels different. I hate him for letting this happen, but I alsomisshim.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings. When his voice finally carries across the line, my eyes sting.You’ve reached Brad Mitchell. Leave a voicemail and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
