Chad’s caris parked out front when I get home. I shouldn't be surprised, he’s here all the time, but every day I hold my breath as I drive through our apartment complex and hope that I won’t see his red SUV in the parking lot. Though, I guess I should be grateful that he’s the Devil I know. I should be thankful that he doesn’t hit her or look at me in an inappropriate way like some of the others have. I should be grateful that his biggest problem is that he mooches off my already poor mom andcan’t wait for me to graduate so he can have her all to himself.
After walking up the stairs to the second story, I turn my key in the lock as quietly as possible and turn the knob slowly. When I push open the front door, I’m instantly met with the sound of opera music and the scent of garlic coming from the kitchen. It’s loud enough inside that they shouldn't hear me coming in, and I shut the front door with much less care than I opened it. Now, it’s just a quick walk to my bedroom. I’m almost there when I hear my mom’s voice.
“Ella, you’re home!”
My feet stop in their tracks. As I stand there, I get a better whiff of whatever my mom is making for dinner. It smells like my dad’s favorite pasta dish. It smells like our old life.
I know that it was all a lie, but sometimes I want to crawl into the past just for one day. I want to remember what it was like not to worry about money or food or what strange man was going to be at our house that day. The thought of all that I’ve lost makes me want to cry.
The music stops, and my mom smiles as she walks in with a wooden spoon covered in red sauce. “Do you remember when I used to make bolognese all the time?” She holds out the spoon to me, careful to cradle her free hand underneath to catch any drips. “Want to try it?”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” She lifts the spoon to her mouth and moans when she tastes it. “Chad, come try this.”
Chad materializes quickly from the living room, an easy task considering how small our place is and that he doesn’t do anything but sit on our couch. He comes up behind my mom and wraps his arms around her waist before putting his mouth to the spoon. “Mmm.” His eyes practically roll back in his head.
It makes me want to barf.
“I wonder why I stopped making this,” my mom ponders aloud.
Maybe because the man you used to make it for got locked up?
I resist the urge to say it. I still don’t trust myself not to cry.
“Hungry? It’s almost done,” she says.
“She probably has a lot of homework." Chad gives me a pointed look.
I do, and I need to get it done, but I doubt he cares. He just wants me locked away so he can have my mom all to himself. I nod.
Forcing a smile, I swivel on my feet and walk into my room. Once inside, I lock the door behind me and flop down on my bed. When I hear the music start back from the other room and a giddy laugh from my mom, I grab a pillow and scream into it as loud as I can. I scream, and then I cry. I hate it here. I hate it so much.
Sometimes I feel so alone. No one knows what it’s like to be in my shoes—at least, no one at Citrus Prep. To have a dad in prison and a mom who is more interested in her boyfriend than her daughter. To give up the house I grewup in for this lifeless apartment. To show up to school every day knowing that the only reason I can still afford to go to Citrus Prep is because my dad had secretly stashed some money in an education fund before he got caught. The courts aren’t able to touch it because it’s in my name. Neither is my mom. What was supposed to be my college fund has become my high school fund, and I bet it all on getting Citrus Scholar.
Something that might not happen.
That’s the most painful part about it all. I've worked so hard to get out of here, and I might be stuck when all is said and done. I cry for a few more moments, not holding anything back. When I’m sure there are no more tears, I sit up and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands. I sniff as I pull out my textbook. I need to keep working toward my goals. I need to keep my grades up even as I add extracurriculars.
Do I need more? Maybe.
Probably.
My conversation with David just made me realize how little I’m doing to be well-rounded. I can’t join cross country and think that’s enough to beat Connor. I need to join more clubs. Do more activities. Lily has already suggested every club under the sun, and I brushed off every single one of them. Why? Pride, probably. I feel like a court jester performing for all the teachers to get them to notice me. Cross country didn’t feel so bad because they actually needed another runner. Sarah is happy I’m there, and it feels less performative somehow.
School clubs? They don’t feel right. No oneneedsme to be in their club. They’re all for fun, and everyone will know that the only reason I’m doing it is because I need extracurriculars to look better on paper—because I want to win Citrus Scholar.
I pull my yearbook from the shelf and flip through the pages that have pictures of the various clubs. Nothing calls to me. I could join the Spanish club. Literally all I have to do is take Spanish for that one, and most people do it as an easy club to add to their resumes. But that doesn’t make me stand out.
I scan the different pictures, but my eyes keep going to creative writing. It’s a small group—only half a dozen members—and my favorite English teacher is the sponsor. It’s a win-win situation. I put a note in my phone to talk to Mrs. Grafton tomorrow and already feel a little bit better.
8
MOST GIVING
“Mind if I tag along?”David asks as I finish loading boxes in the back of my truck.
I shut the tailgate with a loud clang. “To the thrift store?”
