Seven Ways We Lie(59)

“It won’t happen again,” I say as we pull up the driveway. I suppose I should be glad she delayed this conversation this long—no escaping it forever.

“Valentine,” Mom pleads as I rush out of the car. She strides after me with her arms full of groceries. “How do you know this girl? Are you friends? You weren’t drinking, were you? Because your father and I have never been anything but clear on the issue of drinking. Only in the home, around people you trust, and no driving.”

I unlock the front door, not turning around. “This girl is not my friend. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so you don’t have to be so—”

“Valentine.”

My mouth snaps closed as we walk inside.

“Who is this crowd you’re hanging around? Do we need to talk about—?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say. How does she not understand that a single incident is not representative of someone’s entire life? “No, I wasn’t drinking, so can you please calm down?”

My mother’s lips tremble. She sets down the groceries and throws the front door shut with a formidable bang. I quail, surprised the window in the wood doesn’t shatter. “I am trying,” she says, her voice quaking, “to understand what’s happening here. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see how I’m trying?” She holds out her hands, as if offering me a platter with all her failed attempts heaped atop it. “Do you have any idea how scared your father and I were last night? After having no idea what you do with your spare time, the first peek we get into your life is that? Phone dead, not a text all night—and you coming home at one in the morning, pale as a ghost, talking about a girl in the hospital with alcohol poisoning? How do you think that felt?”

I’m lost for words. My mother has never let me see anything like this glimpse of insecurity about her parenting. I always assumed she thought she was doing a marvelous job.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says with a brave, obvious attempt to bolster her voice. “If you don’t want to see Dr. Hawthorne again, that’s your choice, but—”

“No,” I blurt. I am never setting foot in that nut job’s office again. I’ve never felt more naked or humiliated than after my one session with him.

“Then what?” my mother says. “What is your plan here? Can you talk to me?”

I wish. But no: I can barely muster words. “Juniper’s back home. She’s fine. Everything’s fine.” I stride down the hall, leaving her silent behind me. My dad peeks out of his office, his bushy eyebrows sky-high.

I close my bedroom door and lean back against it, feeling suffocated. My gaze trails across my alphabetized shelves, across the disaster area of my desk, over the book lying open beside my laptop—a thick reference text about the limbic system. Everything feels too small, and the walls are too close, crushing me with a sudden sense of claustrophobia.

My bedroom has a door onto the side porch. I could walk outside and onto the road, walk until I lost myself in a tangle of streets. Walk off the edge of the world.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it as a text bubbles up on the screen: Hello there!

It’s from Lucas, who ate with me at lunch this week and badgered me into trading numbers on Friday. I give myself a second to think before replying: Hello.

How are you on this lovely evening??

Not wonderful.

Oh sorry to hear that! Is it what happened last night? Or is something wrong??

I stare at the gratuitous punctuation and hear his quick, excited voice ringing in my ears. Yes, I type, and press send. After a while with no response, I realize that may have been a bit opaque. I send a second text: My mother reacted strongly to last night’s events.

Oh gosh, his reply reads. Well I hope she doesn’t disembowel you . . .?

No, that’s not the problem. I’m more worried that, for years, I may have been misjudging how my parents think of me. But I can’t send a casual text saying that.

I toss my phone onto my desk and hunch over it.

Sometimes I wonder why it’s so hard for me to talk to them. It’s not for the same reasons that I avoid conversation with everyone at school. I don’t have the patience for Paloma High kids, plain and simple—but my parents seem trapped behind a foot-thick glass wall; I feel that attempting contact would be useless. The same is true, to an extent, for my sister, although she hardly ever visits, so speaking opportunities are limited. Diana is a senior at Dartmouth, boisterous and tactless but well liked. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with her that didn’t end in her laughing, saying “Aw, you little freak,” and ruffling my hair.

Of course I’m a freak. Especially compared with my normal, normal family.

My phone buzzes again. Look out your window, the text reads.

My heart gives a strange start. I twitch the canvas curtains open. A pickup truck sits in the road, a glow emanating from the driver’s seat.

You are not sane, I type. How did you know my address?

I passed your house on my way home and saw your car!!! Hope that’s not creepy. You want to go do something?? :D

Is anyone with you?

Don’t worry, recluse boy! Just me

I look back toward my door. Okay, I text him. On my way.

As I slip out my door, over the porch, and through my yard, I cast a glance back at my house. My mom and dad stand in the dining room, illuminated by the chandelier’s warm light. They stand too close, talking with arms folded and eyes downcast, like mourners. My dad’s hand trails back over his balding scalp. My mom shakes her head, and her gray curls bounce.