I thought otherwise. If I did say so myself, I’d done such a worthy job that a professional would need to be brought in to achieve a good-as-new level of cleanliness.
“Now, text us,” my dad told me a few minutes later, after spraying the foaming cleanser. My mom had run outside to catch James and give him my absence note. “Okay? If you need anything, don’t hesitate to text.”
Through my window, I saw James back out of the driveway and speed off toward school. He was pissed. “Okay.”
“Or call,” my mom added, coming back into my room. “If something’s really wrong.”
“I will.” I snuggled into my pillow. “But I wish one of you could stay….”
My parents exchanged a look. I knew they were considering it, but at the same time, I knew they weren’t. Again, they had those meetings, and I was seventeen, not seven. I could look after myself.
“So do we, kiddo.” My dad kissed the top of my head. “But I’ll be home at six sharp, don’t worry.”
“I’ll try my best to swing by at lunch,” my mom said. “If you’re feeling better, I’ll make you a nice broth.”
“Mmm, that sounds yummy.” My eyes drifted shut, and I murmured in my faraway voice, “I love you.”
“We love you, too,” they harmonized before backing out of the room and quietly closing the door.
Then I listened. I listened to them finish getting ready for work; I listened to their murmured conversation as they headed downstairs; I listened to them say goodbye to our dog; I listened to the familiarbingof the front door opening and shutting; and I listened to the hum of their cars.
And once they were gone, most likely en route to the drive-thru Starbucks (even though we had a perfectly capable Nespresso machine here at home!), I sat up in bed and threw back my covers.And, scene!as my drama teacher would’ve said.
I had plans for today, and none of them involved school.
After unlocking my phone and tapping its screen a few times, my favorite eighties music pulsed through our Sonos speakers. Most of the songs were cheesy, but I loved them. Beltingout lyrics, I danced out of my room and into James’s. Per usual, his bed was unmade and clothes covered the floor, but his extensive vinyl collection sat organized on his big bookshelf—Adele? Frankie Valli? Kendrick Lamar? TheLa La Landscore? He owned it—and his beloved keyboard waited under the window. “Who’s the master now?” I asked the empty room. “Tell me, tell me, tell me!”
Truthfully, it was still him. James had perfected the art of fake illnesses over the years, always shooting for something specific yet also vague. His faux congested voice deserved an Academy Award, and I’d never forget the time I caught him licking his palms. “For clammy hands,” he’d told me, minutes before our mom had diagnosed him with the sweats and sent him back to bed. “Always a standby.”
Not only had I licked my palms this morning, but I’d also patted my face with saliva. The skincare routine of supermodels, I’m sure.
When my alarm had beeped at five a.m., I’d tried not to laugh as I crept down to the kitchen to make a fresh sundae and let it melt while mixing together some of last night’s barbeque leftovers. No one would hear me; my parents were part of the CBD oil cult, and James slept with headphones.Combine in Cuisinart,I thought,then blend with liquefied dessert.I’d chewed up a handful of M&M’s and spit them in the bowl, along with a crumbled slice of cornbread. A bit of texture couldn’t hurt, could it?
Once I was back upstairs, I’d spattered half the concoction on my floor and dumped some more in the toilet before diggingout my makeup and watching a YouTube tutorial on how to create believable bags under my eyes. It was tedious, and part of me was shocked that my parents hadn’t seen through the scam. Maybe I had a future as a makeup artist in Hollywood?
Or, more likely, they were both preoccupied by their busy schedules today.
Now the gray, purple, and blue eyeshadow washed down the shower drain as I rubbed coconut shampoo in my hair. Today, instead of a five-minute shower, I could stay under the hot water as long as I wanted.
It had been a high-risk plan…but also high-reward.
I knew skipping school wasn’t the attitude a student body president should have. I was supposed to be ever present in the hallways, waving and high-fiving and hugging, a friend to all. I was supposed to set a good example for my peers, doing the morning announcements and studying during my free periods.
Which I did every day, to the best of my ability. I’d taken my position seriously all year and worked hard. My class workload had been astronomical, and college applications had been no picnic, but I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. There was only a month until graduation, and after that, everything would change. Teachers would soon be known as “professors,” my big bedroom would shrink into a broom closet–sized dorm room, and home-cooked meals? Nope, welcome to the dining hall, Grace! The friends I saw every day wouldn’t have known me since kindergarten, and ifmy parentshad it their way, I’d have to list a new permanent address on various forms.
Ugh, shout-out to my parents and their scheme to basicallysell the house and disappear into the night! Besides food no longer being allowed upstairs, James and I had politely been discouraged from hanging out in the formal living room, which had once been a warm sunset orange and covered with framed family photos. These days, it was painted something called “white blush” and the pictures had disappeared, wrapped in newspaper and stored in the basement. “Prospective buyers don’t want to seeyourhome,” I’d overheard the Realtor saying. “They want to see what the space could be forthemselves.”
I was so frustrated—angry, even—with my parents. Why? Why were they so determined to leave our wonderful, beautiful home the second James and I graduated? Did they hate it that much? It wasn’t like my brother and I were leaving for good; we would still come home for college breaks. And I wanted to come back tothishouse,myhouse, not some unfamiliar condo.
So why the hell shouldn’t I make some final memories?I rationalized, wrapping myself in a towel and winking at the steamed mirror. If this chapter of my life was about to come to a close, I needed to write a good ending. Why the hell shouldn’t I have some old-fashioned fun?
And, more importantly, why the hell shouldn’t someoneelse?
Isabel Cruz answered the phone after barely half a ring. “Hey,” she said, and I could tell from her voice that she was alreadyfocused on her upcoming history test. Third period with Mr. Lamb. Multiple choice, short answers, and a two-page essay.
Crap. This was going to make things more difficult.
“Isa!” I exclaimed.
