Elizabeth
Afunny thing about me—I had never made a walk of shame in my life.
In college, I always made the boys come to my place or made sure that if I spent the night, I had clothes I could change into. I had seen too many girls go out dressed in sexy outfits and then walk home at eight in the morning on a Sunday, and I swore never to be like them. I had too high standards for myself to do that.
But now, knowing what sort of tempest waited for me when I got back to the house, I felt what I had to imagine was a real walk of shame. At least I’d get to drive home for a good portion of it. It didn’t matter that it was now taking place in the late morning and early afternoon.
It was still going to suck.
As soon as I parked the car in my parents’ driveway, it felt like their eyes had fallen on me, even though they were inside. It felt like I was entering a place of judgment, a church after having been away for years on end. But this was not a church in which sinners were welcomed; this was a church in which the fallen were castigated and berated. Such was the nature of the Rogers family—we did not make mistakes, period. And if we did, we didn’t let others know about them.
I opened the front door, still holding on to the slim hope that somehow, I could make it upstairs to my room without incident. The sight of my father sitting on the stairs, as if he’d staged himself for such a moment, ended that naive hope.
“Care to explain where you were last night?” he said.
I took it back. I would have preferred to see a judgmental priest for confession. At least with the priest, I’d have to endure only a few minutes of hell before I went my own way.
“With Tara.”
“Oh, so you did go to seeher,” he said, as if Tara’s name was somehow a stain that we only spoke about abstractly, never in direct reference. “You really want to go down that route, Elizabeth? You really want to be like her? Given everything by me and your mother, a great education, a great job, only to fall prey to a terrible boyfriend and to then quit and move out?”
I gulped.
No, I didn’t want to be like her.
But that sure as hell didn’t mean that I needed to be like I was now.
I opened my mouth, snorted, and put my hands on my hips.
“I want to take some leaps of faith and push myself, Dad,” I said. “I…want to move out!”
The words came out before I could think about them. They had bubbled up as a quick thought, and the instant they went to the forefront of consciousness, it was like the filter separating voiced thoughts and held thoughts broke.
My father threw up his hands and then started laughing. Perhaps no other response could make me feel so shitty.
“And where will you go?” he said. His laughter wasn’t natural; it never had been. That it was now derisive instead of political just made it worse.
“To Tara’s, for now,” I said, even though we’d never had that conversation. She’d take me in, at least for a spell. “And then I’ll figure it out the rest.”
“What in the world,” he said, shaking his head.
I was speaking before I could ponder it. The silence gave me a chance to say that, no, I would not stay at Tara’s any longer than necessary. I couldn’t say I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps and then do that literal action every single day. But being a copycat of my sister beat being a submissive cat to my parents.
Learning to stand up to my parents, after all, didn’t happen in one conversation.
“It is quite clear to me that the two of you have chosen to become ungrateful, childish brats now that we have taken you into NME Services,” my father said. “Your mother and I will talk about this and we will remedy this. But until then, I suggest that you stay here, daughter. It would bode poorly for your long-term future at the company to leave.”
My father stood without a word more, went upstairs, and shut the door to his and my mother’s room. For about half an hour, yes, I would obey him.
But that was only long enough to get a few days’ worth of clothes, my computer, a couple other valuable possessions, and some toiletries. It helped that I had probably shocked my father too much into doing anything to leave the room once more; I was nervous I’d get caught in the act of half-moving out, but they never came out.
Half an hour later, I had enough packed to go on “staycation” for at least a week. I still hadn’t told Tara of my plans. I hadn’t told anyone of anything. I was doing my own thing!
I got in my car, turned it on, and called Tara. I felt free, excited, and nervous as hell. If this didn’t work out…I didn’t care what Tara said. I was not the better Rogers at work. At best, we were equals—and she hadn’t gotten herself a job yet.
“Elizabeth? How did it go at home—”
“Bad,” I said, but I did so with a smile. “I told Dad I was moving out. Don’t be mad, Tara, but I told him that I was staying with you for a bit.”
