“Let me give you a ride,” Mr. Gensler says. “It’s on our way. You shouldn’t have to walk in this weather.” He gestures at the sky, which is—admittedly—pewter gray and looks like it’s thinking about dumping sleet all over us.
I can’t argue with him over this in front of my mom, so I plaster a Midwestern smile on my face and say, “Sure. Thank you, Mr. Gensler.” To my mom, I mumble, “Just a sec,” and trail after Marigold and her father down the street to a black BMW.
The car’s interior is lush white leather, the kind that’s always made me wonder how the hell people keep it clean—although I suppose when you have enough money, you can just reupholster your entire car if you spill a little coffee on the seats.
“Sorry,” I tell my mom once we’re driving, after my brief internal debate about whether to put on headphones (I decide no, because at least if the Genslers can hear my conversation, they know I’m not just being rude). “What were you saying?”
“It’s okay, honey. I was just checking in one last time about winter break. It’s not too late to get tickets, if you want to come home. I can cancel the cruise. It really isn’t a big deal.”
“No,” I say immediately. “No, you have to go. It’ll be good for you, Mom. You need a break from everything. Seriously, I’m fine here.”
She looks stricken all the same. There’s literally no outcome here in which my mom doesn’t look stricken. But she’s never going to choose the option that protects her own sanity unless I force her into it.
“I just hate the idea of you being all alone for Christmas,” she says in a wavering voice. “You should be with family. I keep thinking about you sitting there alone in your dorm….”
“I won’t be alone. I’m actually…I’m staying with a friend over break.” The excuse tumbles out of me half-formed but brilliant.
And it works. I watch some of that concern melt off my mother’s face, all her internal fantasies about me eating frozen Trader Joe’s meals next to a shaggy desktop Christmas tree fading, replaced by the notion of me surrounded by somebody’s rich New York City family, eating roast turkey and cranberries and listening to smooth jazz while aesthetically pleasing snow drifts outside the window.
“Oh! Oh, well…that’s great, honey. Who are you staying with?”
“You don’t know them,” I say, after casting around for a fake name and drawing a horrible blank. “But yeah, I’m excited. It’s gonna be great. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’m in the car with someone…I’ll call you back later. Okay?”
“All right,” she says with a heavy exhale. “Be good. I’ll talk to you soon.”
After I hang up, there’s a long silence in the Gensler car, one that stretches out just long enough that I start overthinking the conversation. I probably should have just ended the call and talkedto my mom later, after I got back to the dorms. Because now Marigold is sitting there feeling sorry for me, imagining the same pathetic little scene as my mom.
“You’re staying here over break?” she says at last.
“Yeah. With a friend.”
One of Marigold’s eyebrows lifts. “No, you’re not. Why did you lie to her?”
Trust Marigold Gensler to be a walking human polygraph. I bite my tongue over the snappish thing I want to say in response; her dad isright there,after all. “She’s supposed to go on a cruise with my aunt and uncle. She’s been going through a lot lately, and she really needs a break.” And we can’t afford the round-trip plane ticket to Iowa, anyway.
I try to say it as flatly, as matter-of-factly, as possible. The last thing I need is Marigold’s pity.
But of course I get it anyway.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice dropping by several pitches. “I didn’t know.”
I shrug, a gesture that feels jerky and abortive. God, I wish I’d just walked back to the dorms. Right now, I want to claw all my skin off.
“So you aren’t going home for winter break?” Mr. Gensler asks from the driver’s seat. “What are you going to do? Just stay in the dorm? Alone?”
I press my hands flat against my thighs, resisting the urge to curl them into fists. “That’s the plan.”
Mr. Gensler makes atsking sound through his teeth. “You can’t be alone for the holidays. Why don’t you come stay with us instead? We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Goldie?”
“Uh,” says Marigold.
“No,” I interject quickly. “No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine in the dorms. Seriously.”
Marigold sighs and tips back in her seat, closing her eyes. I don’t have long to try and deconstruct what the hell that means before her dad goes on:
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jamie. You’ll stay with us. Lord knows we have plenty of room. I’ll be gone on tour for most of winter break, anyway; it would be good for Goldie to have someone else around the house.”
The absolute gap between Marigold’s father being all likeYes, please come cohabitate with my unsupervised daughterversus my own mother, who probably would have demanded proof of marriage in three religions before letting us sleep on adjacent sofas, is stark.
