If I'm Being Honest(81)
He walks to my side and opens the passenger door for me. I slide in and immediately observe that the usual clutter of textbooks, CDs, and junk-food wrappers have been cleared from the seats. The entire car is spotless and even smells like soap. It must have taken him hours to clean. The gesture is thoughtful and entirely charming and makes my heart plummet in my chest.
Brendan pulls out of the driveway and heads for the 10 Freeway. “So maybe I should have mentioned this before,” he says, flashing me a nervous smile, “but I’m an exceptionally good dancer. Don’t be intimidated when we get on the dance floor.”
I stare out the window, his bright-eyed enthusiasm too hard to face. “I won’t,” I mumble.
I can feel his worried gaze on me. “That was a joke,” he says carefully. “I’m a terrible dancer. You know that. Remember Rocky?”
I give him a quick grin, but my mind is a mess of my dad’s words. Disappointed. Failed. Immature. Even if I get into UPenn—which I probably won’t, but even if I did—my dad would still think those things about me. I’ll never have his respect, no matter what I do. My whole life I’ve tried to impress him, to earn his recognition. Now that I know I never will, I don’t even know what to do with my future. I feel worthless. Empty.
“Hey,” Brendan says tentatively, “are you okay?”
I look up at him, his concerned expression and gentle eyes. Guilt turns my stomach. Brendan only came to winter formal because I invited him, and I’m treating him like crap. He’s the best part of my life, the best person I know. I should be honest with him. But being honest would mean asking him to turn the car around, and I can’t do that. I can’t ruin the night he’s been envisioning. Not after everything he’s done for me.
And I don’t want to be the spoiled and immature daughter who falls apart at criticism.
“I’m fine. A little tired,” I answer, laying a hand on his arm.
“We don’t have to go,” he says quickly. I know he means it, too. He’d throw away all of his preparation and excitement if I asked.
“No, I want to.” Going to this dance is the only thing that could distract me from the email in my inbox. If I’m not dancing with my boyfriend, I’ll be alone and trapped with my dad’s words. I need this.
“Okay,” Brendan says after a moment. “But if something’s bothering you, you know you can tell me.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to hold it together if I start talking. Instead, I ask him how he got Paige to lend him her car. I listen as he recounts to me how he’ll be doing all the research for her upcoming paper on British-US relations in the twentieth century.
It’s forty-five minutes to Marina Del Rey. By the time we reach the harbor, I’ve hardly said two words. But I haven’t had a nervous breakdown, either.
Winter formal’s on Lisa Gramercy’s family yacht this year. We pull into the Marina Yacht Club’s driveway, the hedges trimmed with lights, and follow the line of our classmates’ cars to the parking lot. The moment we park, Brendan bounces out of the car and rushes to open my door, taking my hand and steadying my step. I don’t have to work quite as hard to force my smile then.
We walk through the gate to the dock, my arm in Brendan’s.
The yacht is beautiful. The strings of decorative lighting on the deck illuminate the night, sending shimmering reflections onto the black ocean. People I know or vaguely recognize file up the walkway. Jeff Mitchel, his hand tastelessly low on the back of Bethany Bishop’s gown. Leila Chapman and Patrick Todd. A group of sophomore girls, their voices loud and jittery with excitement and alcohol, each wearing a dress worth what my mom earns in half a year.
I find I’m clenching my jaw. Because it’s too much. The opulence of it, the sheer wealth—I’ve gotten used to it in general, because it’s unavoidable, but right now it feels like exactly what my dad said. Opportunities I squandered. Chances I wasted, or wasn’t good enough for, to be successful like him and the families of my classmates.
Brendan and I board the yacht. He says nothing, but I know it’s a thoughtful, generous nothing. We wander the deck, and I struggle not to dwell on how amazing everyone looks and how wonderful a time they’re having. Not long after we board, I feel the yacht drift out from the harbor.
Finally, Brendan asks, “You . . . want to grab some food?”
His voice is tentative. He’s trying, and I’m reminded he’s being nothing but perfect while I roam the deck like a zombie. I can do this. I feel the chances of forgetting this pain for the night growing narrower every minute, but I can probably force myself to behave like a regular human being, if only for Brendan.
“Um,” I say. I’m really not hungry. “Yeah. I’m starving.”
Heart in my throat, I prepare myself to stomach salad or an appetizer. We join the buffet line, and I search for faces I know, hoping not to have to talk to people. I can hardly handle conversation with Brendan. I recognize a few underclassmen from Brad’s mock trial competitions. Morgan and Elle are at the buffet, half-full plates in hand. I turn, avoiding eye contact with them.
“What are you feeling like?” I ask Brendan, checking out the dinner options in the silver platters. Crab cakes, prawns, gnocchi in truffle butter. The rich smells are distinctly unappetizing, and I look away.