If I'm Being Honest(32)

I feel tears searing my eyes. Footsteps sound behind me, and I distantly realize the rest of the team is catching up to me. I want nothing more than—nothing other than to run. But while my dad is on the phone, his voice holding me in place, I can’t.

A tear trembles on my eyelid. I blink it away.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hating the tremble in my voice. “I’ll do something.”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “You’d better. I ask for nothing in return for the comforts I give you.”

“I know,” I say weakly. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry,” I repeat.

I want him to hang up. I want to run, to go home—even my Economics report feels like shelter. I want to begin what I know will be the evening-long fight to forget the words he’s called me. Waste. Pathetic. But from underneath how beaten down he’s left me, I feel a flicker of hope. The flicker I feel every time I talk to him. If I could just say one right thing, he’d see who I really am. How I’m worth his time. How I’m nothing like my mother.

“By the way,” I keep my voice even, a fight in itself, “Mom probably didn’t tell you, but I’m in an upper-level Economics course this semester. We’re studying your company next week.” I fly through the sentences, figuring he’ll cut me off if I pause.

The moment I finish, exactly like I expected, he’s rushing to reply. “Cameron, were you even listening? I don’t have time to chat about your day.” The patronization in his tone is heavy. I feel my mouth go dry. “If you need a quote or something,” he goes on, “email Chelsea.”

He hangs up.

I stare at the phone a moment longer, until the sound of footsteps stops behind me. I feel my teammates waiting, watching me. “What happened, Cameron? We thought you’d beat us,” I hear Leila behind me, gently teasing.

I hurriedly wipe my eyes and take out my earphones. If there’s one thing that could make this moment worse.

“Were you on a phone call?” Leila chides. She comes up next to me. “You know Coach will make you do sprints for that.”

I hate how they’re catching me like this. With tears in my eyes, with a pallor I know hasn’t vanished from my cheeks. Still hurt and afraid. I round on Leila. “Don’t tell her, then.”

Her expression falters. “I’m the team captain,” she says, uncertain. “I have to tell her.”

I put my earphones back in. “Fine,” I say nonchalantly, looking Leila right in the eye, feeling all that smallness and hurt turning into armor. Turning into anger. “If getting me in trouble makes you feel big and important, go for it. I really don’t care. You probably need it, what with how your own boyfriend’s barely interested in you.”

Leila recoils like I’ve struck her. Her face turns pink, and her lower lip wobbles like she’s going to cry. It’s a reaction I’m not entirely proud to have caused.

But instead of apologizing, I turn and run, letting the wind dry my eyes.



* * *





I get home to find my mother on the couch, wrapped in her blanket. Sleeping. There’s a box of tissues and a glass containing what I’m guessing is a completely un-drunk cleanse on the coffee table. The grainy green drink is congealed and completely disgusting.

I drop my bag, knowing the three textbooks I brought home hitting the floor will wake her up.

Her eyes open groggily, finding me in the doorway. “Cameron, hi.” Propping herself up, she says, “I’ve been thinking of what to fix for dinner.”

Her voice is casual, even cheery, like this is normal. Like my mother sleeping on the couch in the middle of the day in her pajamas could possibly be normal. Like I haven’t been responsible for picking up the pieces of our life when she won’t.

I’ve had enough. “I don’t care if you get a job or if you find some other family member to write you a check. But I won’t let you extort my father while you sit on the couch all day.” The edge in my voice catches her off guard. I watch her eyes focus and a flush rise in her cheeks. “If I find out you’ve tried to trick him into giving you more money, I’ll move out.”

She hauls herself off the couch and plants her hands on her hips, a vain effort to look imposing undercut by her rumpled sweats and knotted hair. “Where will you go?” she challenges.

“I’ll live with Elle,” I reply, having thought this through on the final leg of the run. Her older sister goes to Princeton and moved out two years ago, leaving a bedroom empty. I watch Mom’s eyes flicker, panicked, and I go on. “You’ll be completely alone, and without me, Dad won’t pay your rent. I’ll have him send the checks to Elle’s parents—not that they need them. They don’t spend their days doing nothing on the couch.” I know I’m throwing her worst fear in her face: losing the financial security I provide.

Mom’s mouth works like she’s searching for words and finding none. “Cameron, I don’t—” she finally tries.

I cut her off. “I’m not interested, Mom. Do whatever you want. I just thought you should know my plans.” I collect my bag and head for my room.

The second I’m in my room, I drop the fa?ade of confidence and control. I sag against the door, my hands on my knees, my breath shallow. I feel sick, like I might throw up. I’m angry at everyone. At my mom, my dad, at Andrew for being stubborn and writing me off. At myself. I feel like I could scream until my throat is raw and it wouldn’t be enough.