If I'm Being Honest(38)

I don’t know how to deal with this new mood swing. I don’t know if she even remembers I gave her an ultimatum a couple days ago or if she’s conveniently “forgotten.” I do know things are definitely a little weird in the apartment. She’s gotten out of bed early, cooked real meals—not smoothies—and started going to yoga. Which would all be great if she hadn’t also begun talking a mile a minute and playing music until two A.M.

She waltzed out the door this morning, calling over her shoulder that she was going to gangsta rap yoga in Lafayette Park and she’d be gone until ten. I’m taking the opportunity to do a long-overdue cleaning of the apartment.

I guess her newfound focus doesn’t extend to picking up dirty socks off her bedroom floor. I gingerly place them in the hamper. Under the bed I discover a small pile of junk food wrappers. Ruffles, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, an empty bottle of Sprite. I know she tends to binge eat when she’s depressed. But with the yoga and the cooking, I’m hoping she’s giving it a rest for the time being.

I’m folding laundry next to the washer and dryer when I hear the door open and close. Mom walks in a moment later with a bottle of water, her face flushed. Without sparing a glance at the unfolded pile of shirts I’m working on, she closes the lid on the toilet and sits down.

“How was your workout?” I ask patiently.

Mom exhales a contented sigh. “It was amazing. My energy is completely refreshed.” I hold back a request that she channel that energy into folding some shirts. She goes on. “Know how I can tell?”

“No, Mom.” I pointedly pull the GRIFFITH PARK 5K shirt from under her elbow. She remains oblivious. “How?”

“I had—it must have been four men whistle at me from the parking lot. I haven’t had it that good since before I met your father.” She takes a satisfied drink from her water. I hide my gag face behind the shirt I’m folding. “Michael Bay,” she says confidently. “I’m telling you, one of these days Michael Bay’s going to walk in, and I’ll be there. Everything’s going to change for us, kid. Just wait.”

I focus on the precision of my folding to keep from pointing out that Michael Bay probably has assistants get him his coffee. His assistants probably have assistants to get them their coffees.

“And the next time your father’s in town . . .” She gives me a suggestive look I wish I could un-see. “You and I both know he has a soft spot for me, no matter how hard he resists.”

I can’t dispute her there. Unfortunately.

“Wait until he sees the new me.” She admires her reflection in the mirror.

I’ve had enough. “Why would you even want Dad back?” I ask, dropping the shirt I’m holding onto the washing machine. “He just upsets you, and he made it clear he doesn’t want to marry you. Even when you guys were together.”

Mom hops up from the toilet. She throws me a patronizing look, like I’m just a teenager who wouldn’t know the first thing about her unfathomably mature love life. “We have a really complicated relationship, Cameron.” She emphasizes the “complicated.” “Real love is never easy, you know.”

She bounces out of the room. I want to follow her. To convince her she shouldn’t waste her time pining for my dad.

Except it hits me how hypocritical I’d be. How can I tell someone to give up on the person they want? Don’t I spend every day hurting over Andrew, wishing he would take me back?

In a weird way, my mom is right. Real love is never easy.

It’s just worth the hard work.





Nineteen



IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT. THE COLLEGE FAIR.

I’m a collection of frayed nerves wound up in a white button-down and black pants. I have to impress the Wharton rep, who’s a real admissions officer for California and will be reading my application and determining my entire future. With my 1440 SAT score, which is on the low end of what Penn accepts, my current B in Econ, and the internship with my dad’s company not official yet, I have to distinguish myself somehow. Make an impression. Individualize my application. I hear the words of Beaumont’s painfully overqualified college counselors ringing in my ears, over and over.

I don’t usually get nervous about school stuff. Econ’s the exception. Otherwise, I’m imperturbable. But the college fair is different. It’s not a competition of how much I’ve studied, how hard I’ve worked. It’s a dog-and-pony show, where every dog’s wardrobe is more expensive than mine, every pony’s tutor more exclusive, everyone’s summer “service program” experiences more impressive.

Elle and Brad find me on the front steps. Elle once-overs my outfit admiringly, allaying my nerves a little. “Very preppy, Cam,” she says. “I love it.” I glance at my shoes and smooth my shirt, and I know Elle reads the self-consciousness in the gestures. She slips off her blazer and holds it out. “Here, add this.”

I spare her a grateful smile. “You don’t need it?”

She laughs. “Please. I’m only here because my parents forced me. I have my plan for the next four years, and it does not involve college.”

Elle’s been saying she’s not going to apply to college since sophomore year. I know her parents, though. I know they’re going to force her to, and I know without a hint of jealousy that she’s going to get in everywhere. I’ve watched her compile revenue spreadsheets for her endorsements, overheard her negotiate her partnerships over the phone. Her business is every bit a business.