If I'm Being Honest(33)

I hate how my father, who just called me pathetic, is the only impossible flicker of hope I have for a parent to care about me. To consider me a person, not just a checkbook. I hate having to dismiss whatever kindness I receive from my mother because I know it’s just her final performance for an audience of one.

I pull out my computer and quickly log into the Common App portal. Unhesitatingly, I upload my UPenn essay. I wracked my brain for days trying to incorporate Paige’s comments and got nowhere. There are two weeks remaining until the application’s due, but this essay is as good as it’s going to get.

I hit submit.

I force an even breath into my lungs. Neatly, I unpack my bag and organize my folders into their tray. Everything I’ve planned for, the entire future I’ve constructed in hopes of bringing myself closer to my father, is out of my hands now and on the desk of an admissions officer somewhere in Philadelphia. I can’t think about it.

In hopes of distraction, I try to do the Taming of the Shrew worksheet. I flip to a scene in the play where Petruchio torments his new bride, Katherine.

But it’s impossible to concentrate. Not just because of UPenn or my parents, either. I keep replaying what happened with Leila. I know what I said was cruel. It’s just unbearable sometimes. It’s like there’s this horrible thing eating me from the inside, and the only way to let it out is to fall apart—or to lash out. To leave someone else with hurt and doubt and insecurity just to know they know how it feels.

Because I couldn’t let myself fall apart, not in front of those girls. My chest may be hollow, but my eyes are dry. That’s what’s important.

But I owe Leila an apology. I add her name to my amends list.

Katherine deserves every bit of the mistreatment she gets.

I’m beginning to fill in the worksheet when an email notification pops up in the corner of my computer screen. It’s a confirmation of my Common App submission. Quickly, I move it to a college folder to keep its reminder from stressing me out and find Brendan’s email back at the top of my inbox.

I absentmindedly click open the images again. Drawn in for a closer look, I can’t help noticing the details in the characters. The boy stands strong in the face of the imposing sorceress, who’s scowling with her scepter raised.

Without thinking, I hit reply.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Less “third grade”?

1000x less. Question: does the evil sorceress have to be blonde?



I hit send, not expecting a response. None comes for half an hour, while I’m working on my response paper. I’m halfway done when I’m distracted by a ding from my computer.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Less “third grade”?

Um, yes.



Just, “um, yes”? He knows how to be cryptic, I’ll give him that.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Okay, Mr. Unhelpful

Why, though?



Now he replies immediately.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Better, Ms. Persistent?

Because blondes are infinitely scarier than everyone else. It’s a law of the universe.



I look closer at the sorceress, with her golden hair. For whatever reason, I remember the stunned hurt in Leila’s eyes. From the way the sorceress is menacing the young hero, I’d guess she comes to some gruesome defeat in the end of the game. Even though my legs are aching from the afternoon’s run, the pressure in my chest has me reaching for my running shoes. Until a second email from Brendan appears.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Better, Ms. Persistent?

Besides, it’s kind of a thing for video games to have hot girls in them.



I can’t help it. I grin. I drop my shoes and sit down to write a reply.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: What are you implying?

Because it sounds like you’re saying blondes are hot. If it’s a blonde you want, Brendan, I could probably make something happen. In the interest of making amends, of course.



I reread the email once I’ve sent it. What did I just write? Before I can think too hard about it, I write him again.

    From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: You do have a phone, right?

Text me. This conversation is quickly leaving behind the school-approved subjects of homework and homework.



I include my number and try to return to The Taming of the Shrew, telling myself there’s no reason to expect Brendan Rosenfeld would want to text me. It’s useless. I’m distracted, waiting for my phone to ping. Which it does. I unlock the screen before I read his message.

    SOME people MIGHT find blondes hot. I wasn’t speaking personally.



I lean back in my chair, my run forgotten.

    Good. I hate it when guys look at a blonde and write her off in the “hot” category.