I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. This feels different from the English teacher’s encouragement at the center, maybe because Ms. Taylor doesn’t have to take any circumstances into consideration. She’s comparing me to her other students here, not to girls whose relative worth society has already decided is low.
“Wow, thank you, Ms. Taylor,” I say. “I was nervous for this project. I’m not used to sharing so much personal stuff with strangers.” It’s the truth, or part of it, at least.
“You might be the first teenager who didn’t feel likeeverythingthey did needed to be shared with strangers,” she says, chuckling. I laugh too. “I’m excited to help you find your voice. I have a hunch you have something to say.”
She hands me a late pass as a loud group of students walks in.
“Thanks a lot, Ms. Taylor,” I say, my ears still buzzing.
I have a hunch you have something to say.
In the hallway, I look again at the A on my paper before sliding it into my bag. I know I have more work to do, but it’s been a long time since I felt this strange feeling—pride—and I want to hold on to it for as long as I can.
I check my phone before running to my next class. I see a text from Deanna and feel my mood lift even higher.
We have to celebrate our A’s. Come over on Saturday?
I’ll be there.
“A little more to the left,” my mom commands from the kitchen door as we try to get the final decorations up in the sunroom.
Earlier, she’d sent a text reminding me it was Travis’s birthday and that Kayla and I needed to come straight home. Luckily, Kayla didn’t need reminding. She was in a good mood already, singing in the car—a break from her usual silence.
Kayla drops her hand in frustration and the HAPPY slips out of her grip.
“Careful, Kayla! That thing will rip,” Mom says.
“You sure you don’t want to do it?” Kayla asks.
“She might need to at this rate,” I chime in. I’ve been on a high since I got my grade back and Deanna asked me to hang out.
My mom laughs. She’s been shouting orders at us since we got home and started preparing for Travis’s arrival. We’re transforming dinnertime into a mini surprise party.
“It has to be perfect for my honey,” my mom trills.
Kayla and I groan in unison.
“Ewww, Ma, seriously,” Kayla says, laughing.
I look over at her, laughing too. This might be the first thing we’re aligned on.
“Too much?” my mom says.
“Yes,” I say.
She motions for us to get back to it. “You just wait, your time is coming, ladies.”
Kayla shakes her head furiously, and I smile.
My mom steps back and continues to direct us as we hang the banner. Once it’s finally perfectly straight, Kayla and I tape our ends to the wall. The long wooden table gets covered in a white tablecloth with silver trim and set with matching plates and napkins, the center decorated with white tulips and candles. It feels really fancy and also very unlike Travis.
He likes to refer to himself as “simple,” which translates to “boring” if you ask Kayla. Not if you ask me. I’ve noticed little things about him, like how he doesn’t complain much about anything except “his ladies’ spending habits,” though it seems like he’s just teasing about that—he’s the first person to encourage us to treat ourselves. He never seems to get visiblyupset, either. If something’s bothering him, he thinks about it a lot before speaking up.
The other day, he saw that Kayla’s car was super messy. Instead of making a big deal out of it, he offered to help her clean it out. He only ever yells when he’s watching soccer. And I’d never say it out loud—especially not in front of Kayla—but he’s kind of funny. I can tell why my mom likes him. They seem like a good match.
We all look at the table and the decorations, assessing our work.
My mom beams. “Everything looks beautiful, girls! He’s going to love it. Thank you,” she says, grabbing our shoulders for a big hug.
