I wave to their backs as they leave, grateful they took the hint. When it’s only me and my brother left, he puts the call on speaker. “Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Is that my Bardot?” Her voice sounds so sweet. So loving. “How are you, baby?”
“Good, and you? How’s Aunt Lucille?”
“She’s good.” She hesitates. “And I’m about the same.”
I nod, though she can’t see me.
“Dot had friends over today,” Beau blurts.
“Yeah, I heard their voices. I’m real happy for you, baby.” A pause. “But you’re still studying real hard, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “I’m practically a model student for Harvard.” The familiar twinge of dread trickles down my spine the same way it always does when I talk about my future to Mom or Dad. The weight of the lie I’ve been living for years feels heavy enough to crush me.
“That’s good, sweetie.”
I close my eyes, reveling in the sound of her voice. I don’t think about the textbooks I’ve been dreading cracking open, or the list of assignments that never seems to end. I forget about the fact that if I disappoint my parents, all their hard work to help me succeed will be for nothing. Just for the moment, I forget the fact that I might be smart enough to go Ivy, but I don’t even want to.
If I could go back in time to when naive, ten-year-old Dot announced her ambitions, I’d shake her and tell her to shut up. I’d tell her that being jealous of Beau for learning his third language, and the attention he was rewarded from our parents as a result, isn’t worththis.All the studying, the feeling dead inside with no time for hobbies. The boredom.
Going to an Ivy League college will only make make things worse because the endless loop of academics will only get more intense.
I wish I could just hug my mom, cry into her shirt and tell her how much I hate reading textbooks, or stuffing precious corners of my spare time with researching the extracurriculars I should be participating in, but simply don’t have the drive to.
“Is it helping, Mom? You being there?” I have to know. It’s the question I’m always desperate to ask, but also afraid of the answer. Because if she can’t be here, it better at least be worth it.
She’s silent, pondering. Beau and I wait patiently, holding the phone between us.
“It’s hard to tell so soon,” she finally says. “But I think so. I hope so.”
“Can I tell you about my day?” Beau asks, taking the phone from me to clutch it in both hands.
“Sure, baby.”
“Bring the phone back to me when you’re done,” I tell him.” When he leaves my room, I fall back onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, swallowing back the knot in my throat. I try to think back to the moments I used to stare at my mother with admiration, noting the differences between us, admiring her ability to march into a burning building with the full expectation of reemerging. But it’s hard to remember what life used to be like when she was home and still working. When she was still a firefighter, out there saving lives every day.
Now she can hardly manage to save her own.
Chapter Two
The next morning at lunch, I walk through Fallbrook’s ancient, crowded stone halls to the newer cafeteria. Fallbrook used to be an orphanage before it was converted to a prep school in the early 1900s. I can’t help but sometimes feel like I’ve gone back in time when I walk through the narrow, creaky corridors, but I’m not complaining. It’s a total vibe.
I squint through the masses of upper and middle-class students, my stomach uneasy at the thought of not finding my friends and having to sit with strangers. Or worse, alone.
I release my breath when I find Carlton sitting at our table, his face down and resting in his folded arms. I relax as I approach the table, but frown when he doesn’t look up. Why is he sitting alone? Where are the rest of our friends? I place my tray on the table. The soft thud it makes doesn’t seem to catch Carlton’s attention, so I clear my throat.
He glances up. “Oh. Hey, Dot.”
“Hey.” I study him. There’s a glean of sweat dripping from the place where his short hair meets his forehead. His eyes have bags under them, and his mouth is set in a scowl I’m not used to seeing. “You good?”
“No,” he says, his scowl somehow deepening even more. “No, I’m not.”
My stomach grows uneasy when I note his biting tone. I’ve never heard him sound like this before. “Any particular reason why?”
Carlton sits up, balling one of his hands into a fist. He finally meets my searching gaze with his own, and I have to stop myself from looking away from the fierce expression on his face. He could be made of stone. “Zayne,” he spits. “Zayne Silverman.”
“Oh. Seriously?” I tilt my head. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it definitely wasn’t that.
