If I'm Being Honest(23)

I feel my mouth go dry. I’m not often disgusted with my mother. Frustrated, yes. Pitying, on occasion. The moments when her behavior stoops low enough for me to wish we weren’t related come few and far between.

Right now is one of them. “You did not just say that.” I hear my voice darken.

I expect her to wither or cringe. To have enough dignity to recognize the indignity of her little scheme. Instead, she holds my gaze. “Don’t pretend I’m the villain here,” she says defiantly. “That man’s done nothing but the minimum when it comes to bringing up his daughter. If you think he’ll just let you and your mother starve, you know nothing about the circles he runs in. He’ll send money.” She nods like she’s convincing herself. “I know he will.”

“He pays our rent. He pays my tuition—”

Mom cuts me off. “He only pays for Beaumont because he wants to tell his friends his daughter goes to the fanciest private school in the state. You know he doesn’t do it for you.”

I flinch and hope she doesn’t notice. I know she’s right, but she said it to hurt me. I have no delusions about my father. I know he’s not a perfect dad. He’s probably not even a good dad. The fact remains, though, he’s done more for my future than my mother ever has. Paying for Beaumont isn’t nothing, regardless of his reasons. My mom’s only interest in my future is how it benefits her.

“You’d really rather sit on the couch all day and collect money from the man who knocked you up and didn’t even want to marry you?”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t lecture me about things you don’t understand. I’m going back out to our guest.” She emphasizes the final word as if to pretend I forced her in here. “If you want to call your father, fine.” The door half-open, she gives me a final spiteful glance. “Good luck getting him to pick up your call.”

I reach for my phone once she’s gone, trying to figure out how I’ll explain the loan to my dad. If I tell him, he’ll probably never send money again, which, aside from issues like rent and insurance, would make college next year impossible. There’s no way my mom will be able to contribute to my tuition. But if I don’t tell him . . . he’ll write a check and my mom won’t have to find a job for who knows how long. She’ll get everything she wants, even if it comes with him telling her she’s pathetic. And she’ll continue to see me as financial leverage instead of a daughter.

I shut off my phone screen. For once, I’m not going to involve him. For once, my mom is going to have to fend for herself. If she doesn’t want a job, let her be the one to go begging to her family. I’m done playing into it.

Fuming about my mother and hurting from Andrew’s departure, I plaster a smile onto my freshly glossed lips and follow Mom into the kitchen. I hate feeling helpless. I hate how she’s trapped me. Everything about my life depends on two people too wrapped up in their own lives to spare a thought for my place in the middle.

I sit next to Deb, who looks to be on her second or third glass of wine, and try to make conversation. But I’m hopelessly distracted by my mom’s slippers next to the couch, where I have no doubt they’ll remain.

When dinner’s over, I retreat to my pristine room without a word to Mom. I pull off my cream cable-knit sweater and fling it onto the bed. I hate leaving things out of order, not where they belong. I just don’t have the energy to fold it and put it in the drawer. Instead, I drop into my desk chair. What I really want to do is go for a run, feel the wind in my lungs, clear my head. But I’m risking injury if I run now after having already run today.

I pull out my Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market textbook and muddle through about five minutes of reading before “present-value calculations” and “consumer surplus” blur in front of my eyes. Frustrated, I flip open my laptop. If I can’t go running, web design is the next best thing, and I think Morgan might have been serious about designing a concept for Brad. I find the perfect font pretty quickly, a lightweight serif with a Futura feel.

I’m working on finding a complementary blue when I have an idea.

I open my email. Everyone’s addresses are programmed into the school email client. I type in one I never have before.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: You probably won’t open this but . . .

Brendan, I know you’re NOT INTERESTED in anything having to do with me, but I thought you might want to check out this website on color palettes. Video games are probably way more in-depth than a website, but the same principles might apply. I like number 27.

Cameron.





Twelve



I’M RUNNING ON NEXT TO ZERO SLEEP. It’s Wednesday, and I haven’t had more than three hours the past couple nights since the conversation with my mom in my room. The familiar worries keep me up—finances, my mom’s job. And yesterday, I found out I got a C on our first Econ exam. I’d worked hard, too. I’d pored over the diagrams in the textbook for days. Yet when I got to the exam, I felt like I’d read the wrong pages. The problems were completely foreign.

Which is not good. I need an A in Econ. This was only the first exam—there’ll be plenty more opportunities to improve my grade. I’ll ace the next exam, double-check every homework problem, take notes on every reading. If I don’t do well in Econ, I won’t get the internship. I’ll lose the chance to work with my dad. I definitely won’t be cut out for Wharton, for a life close to his.