“Your grandparents are going to help us out.”
Oh, God. Just what I needed. “So that’s it. You’d rather go running to your parents than try to look for a job yourself.” I didn’t give one shit that the lawyer was witnessing all this.
My father turned to him. “Mr. Richards, I think it would be best we leave this for another day.”
The lawyer stood, gathered his things, and stuffed them into his briefcase. “Of course. We can speak tomorrow,” he said, unable to hide the annoyed look on his face.
I wasn’t going to stick around and talk with them. I turned, ready to go to my room and lock the door, but Mom stopped me. “Kamila, this is over,” she said. “I’m not going to put up with this spoiled attitude from you any longer.”
“Well, if you want me to live with you, you’d better get used to it,” I responded.
“Roger, do something!” she shouted to my father.
“Sorry, I’m not going to be a part of this stupid argument. Kamila, you’re too old for these hissy fits. You did say one thing that made sense, though—you really ought to look for a job, given the circumstances.”
My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious,” I said.
“What your mother said was true. I’m broke. I can’t pay for this houseandyour expenses, at least not for a while. We only have enough to keep up the mortgage through the end of the school year. But I can’t keep up with your allowance.”
“Roger, I told you my parents would help us. Kamila doesn’t need to go flip burgers. She’ll be taken care of,” Mom said with a defiant look in her eyes, as if wanting to assert that she would take care of us from now on.
“I think I will get a job,” I said, without skipping a beat. “Now that I’m not on the cheerleading squad, I can find something part-time that’ll still leave me time to study.”
“What?” my mother shouted, wide-eyed. “You quit the squad?”
“A couple of weeks ago.” I couldn’t believe she hadn’t figured that out.
“Why?”
“Because I felt like it!” I crossed my arms. “I’d rather use my time to study…or work,” I added, realizing that my freedom had lasted exactly fourteen days.
“My goodness, what will they say in town? You quit cheerleading, get a job… After all those years training, you were the captain, and you’re going to quit?”
“Yep,” I replied. “Cheerleading is dumb. It’s not like there’s anything you can do with it after high school. I mean, you were a cheerleader, and what have you ever done?”
Mom tensed up, and I knew I’d crossed a line.
“Kamila, go to your room,” Dad said, and I didn’t hesitate a second.
Upstairs, I shut the door, sat at my desk, and typedCarsville help wantedinto the search engine. I spent the rest of the afternoon sending out résumés.
***
Around six, I was tired, and my eyes were burning after two hours of staring at the screen, so I threw on some leggings, a sweatshirt, and my headphones and got ready for a run. The cold helped clear my head and made me feel less guilty for mouthing off to my mother. It wasn’t her fault she’d been raised to think the entire goal of life was to look perfect and vulnerable and have some man pay for everything. But that wouldn’t work for me.
I usually ran farther out of town, but this time I took the opposite route. I jogged into Carsville, with its perfectly paved streets, its trim pines, its redbrick buildings, and its mom-and-pop shops. It had gotten dark, and I could see the customers inside, taking shelter from the cold with a hot cup of coffee or looking at clothes and trinkets, buying produce, or just wandering the aisles killing time before it got too late.
I slowed down to a quick walk.
What was it about this town that made everyone want to be so perfect?
I went to Mill’s, the café on the square. I loved that place, loved going in and getting a giant mug of coffee and a fresh-baked brownie and sitting down to draw. It was the best place in town, and everybody went there to meet friends or take a break from their routines. On the weekends it was packed, but during the week you could usually get a seat. It was big, divided up into three spaces. In one, there were tables with plugs where you could work on your computer; that’s where the students usually hung out. Then there was the café, with three or four little round tables and the big picture window with views of the street and the square. Finally, there was the section by the pastry cooler, where you could always find Mr. and Mrs. Mill selling their cakes, croissants, rye bread, and cookies.
When I walked in, the bell rang, and the rich scent of chocolate and baking bread hit me. I could hear murmurs and, in the background, the Mill’s soundtrack: classic rock, no matter the time of day or year.
“Kami! I haven’t seen you in ages!” Mrs. Mill said, warm as always. She was a plump woman in her seventies with tender blue eyes and crow’s-feet from laughing all the time. She adored my little brother, and anytime I brought him in, she’d stuff him with sweets.
It wasn’t long before she asked after him: “Where’s your brother?”
