“You broke into the wrestling-mat room. You destroyed personal property. And you disrupted a whole hallway of classrooms. All at my place of work.”
“It’s my place of school, too,” I remind her. “If anything, the lines here are a little fuzzy.”
She’s quiet, and that’s my cue to explain myself. I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow. I can’t cry again today. I can’t. “He broke up with me,” I say. “It’s like the last year and a half didn’t even happen. And there’s not even another girl. He just doesn’t want me anymore.”
She reaches across the table for my hand. “Oh, baby. Baby, baby, baby.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have done any of that. I know. But I just—I have no friends and no life.” My voice cracks a little on that last syllable.
“Which is your own doing,” she reminds me unapologetically. But then her whole body sinks toward me as she uses her foot to tug on the leg of my chair and pull me closer to her. “But you’re hurtin’, and when you hurt, I hurt.”
We sit there in the quiet stillness of the house whereI’ve spent nearly my entire life. Finally I say, “I like your lipstick. Looks nice and fresh.”
She blushes lightly. “Always gotta remind ’em what they’re missing.”
She’s right. I can’t wait for that moment—because I know it’s coming someday—when Bryce looks at me and he sees all that he missed out on. Or at least I hope it’s coming, because I’m clinging to that. But right now I just feel like a total slob who stuffed her face with soda, Oreos, and ice cream all day and made a huge scene at school. Tomorrow all anyone will be talking about is howcrazyCallie is and how Ioverreacted. Drama queen. “That girl has lost it,” they’ll say. “First the dance team. Now this.”
“Can I be excused?” I ask.
She nods. “Come down and help me with dinner at five thirty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stands and opens the cabinet above the refrigerator where she keeps her champagne flutes from her and Keith’s wedding. “Hold your hand out.”
She places my phone with its gold, sparkly case in my hand. “Is this a trick?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I figure today might have gone a little smoother if you’d had a phone. And I was thinking what if there was some kind of emergency or whatnot.”
I nod fervently.
“You’re still on house arrest,” she reminds me. “Still totally, completely one hundred percent grounded.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.” I hold the phone to my chest as I walk upstairs to my room with Shipley a few steps behind me. I feel like I’ve finally got some kind of lifeline back.
But then it hits me. A lifeline to who? To what? There’s no one out there waiting for me to rejoin the social world. I’m grounded forever, and it doesn’t even matter because I’ve got nothing left to be grounded from.
The thought is tragically freeing.
Millie
Seventeen
A bowl of mixed balled melon with a side of cottage cheese (my mom’s extremely sad idea of dessert), a homemade apple-cider-vinegar facemask I found online, my fluffy notebook of achy feelings, and my completely unwritten essay for my summer program application. I am the picture of Friday-night excitement.
Callie called in sick to work today, so I was left to close the gym up by myself. I guess it’s not that big of a deal. I could do that job in my sleep, but I know she wasn’t sick unless you can get physically ill from your own self-induced drama.
I feel judge-y. I’m trying so hard not to be judge-y. But what kind of person trashes someone else’s cell phone and causes a huge scene in the middle of school? I wasn’t there to witness it, but Amanda was, and she gave me every gory detail. Breaking up with someone is bad enough... I imagine, at least. Seeing as I’ve never had a boyfriend outside of the few random summer flings at Daisy Ranch. (Translation: two awkward summers of hand-holding with Scotty Pifflin and then James Ganns the following summerand one half kiss when Greg Kassab missed my lips in the dark and instead got the corner of my mouth.) But why would you want to make it worse with a public breakup? Why would you want to draw more attention to yourself?
But maybe girls like Callie don’t think about the expense of drawing more attention to themselves. It’s something I consider every day. It’s like a cost benefit analysis. Is this floral tunic too loud? Is me being happy wearing it worth the attention it will cost me? Is my backpack covered in patches and stitching just one more thing for people to make fun of? How much do I have to love it for that to be worth it?
I can feel my facemask hardening, letting me know it’s time to rinse. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I return to my computer, where my blank document awaits me. The essay is due in a matter of weeks and I’m not the type who can just wing it the night before and I still have to figure out my audition tape. I have my suit and my script mostly written, but I still need a cameraman, and the only person I know who’s familiar with AV equipment is Malik.
I scroll through my video library and land onLegally Blonde, starring Reese Witherspoon. A good rom-com for background noise is just as good as any playlist if you ask me, andLegally Blondefeels especially relevant.
I push the laptop back and reach for a fresh sheet of paper and my freshly sharpened GIRL BOSS pencil.
My mom stopped using her camcorder to record my childhood memories when I was ten years old and already shopping in thewomen’s plus-size section of Russle’s. I was the kind of fat that video couldn’t hide. Pictures were still safe, though. My mom was a master of all the various flattering angles.
