The Truth About Forever(88)

A few seconds later I heard my sister come down the stairs. "That," she said, "was pretty bad."

"I can't see my friends," I said. "I can't do anything."

"She'll ease up," she told me, glancing toward the door. She didn't sound entirely convinced, though. "Hopefully."

But she wouldn't. I knew that already. My mother and I had an understanding: we worked together to be as much in control of our shared world as possible. I was supposed to be her other half, carrying my share of the weight. In the last few weeks, I'd tried to shed it, and doing so sent everything off kilter. So of course she would pull me tighter, keeping me in my place, because doing so meant she would always be sure, somehow, of her own.

I went up to my room and sat down on my bed, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood: a lawn mower, someone's sprinkler whirring, kids riding their bikes in a nearby cul-de-sac. And then, later, the sound of footsteps coming down the sidewalk. I looked at my watch: it was 9:05. The footsteps approached, getting louder and louder, and then slowed as they passed my house. I peered under my shade, and sure enough, it was Wes. He was still moving, but slowly, as if maybe he was hoping I'd come out and join him, or at least wave hello. Maybe he might have even asked that question. But I didn't do anything. I couldn't. I just sat there, as the rest of my summer began to sink in, and a second later, he picked up the pace and moved on.





* * *





Chapter Seventeen





It was Tuesday night, six-fifteen on the nose. My mother and I were having dinner and making conversation. Now that we worked together, this was even easier, since we always had something safe to talk about.

"I think we're going to see a real upswing in the townhouse sales this week," she said to me as she helped herself to more bread. She offered me the bowl, but I shook my head. "The interest has been higher lately, don't you think?"

When my punishment had first started, I'd sulked openly, making sure my mother knew how much I disagreed with what she'd done to me. Pretty soon I'd figured out this didn't help my case, though, so I'd progressed to the cold but polite stage, which meant I answered when addressed, but offered no more than the most basic of responses.

"There have been a lot of walkins," I said.

"There really have." She picked up her fork. "We'll just have to see, I guess."

By the time we finished eating, I'd have about an hour and a half before curfew. If I didn't go out to yoga class or to the bookstore to browse and drink a mocha (basically the only two allowed options for my "free" time), I'd watch TV or get my clothes ready for work the next day, or just sit on my bed, the window open beside me, and study my SAT word book. It was weird how if I flipped back enough pages, I could see the way I'd carefully made notes, earlier in the summer, next to the harder words, or underlined their prefixes or suffixes neatly. I couldn't even remember doing that now: it was like it was another person, some other girl.

Once, this had been the life I'd wanted. Even chosen. Now, though, I couldn't believe that there had been a time when this kind of monotony and silence, this most narrow of existences, had been preferable. Then again, once, I'd never known anything else.

"Caroline should be coming into town again next week," my mother said, putting her fork down and wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Thursday, I think," I replied.

"We'll have to plan to have dinner, so we can all catch up."

I took a sip of my water. "Sure."

My mother had to know I was unhappy. But it didn't matter: all she cared about was that I was her Macy again, the one she'd come to depend on, always within earshot or reach. I came to work early, sat up straight at my desk and endured the monotony of answering phones and greeting potential homebuyers with a smile on my face. After dinner, I spent my hour and a half of free time alone, doing accepted activities. When I came home afterwards, my mother would be waiting for me, sticking her head out of her office to verify that, yes, I was just where I was supposed to be. And I was. I was also miserable.

"This salad," she said now, taking a sip from her wine glass, "is just wonderful."

"Thanks," I told her. "The chicken's good, too."

"It is, isn't it?"

Around us, the house was dark and quiet. Empty. "Yes," I said. "It really is."



I missed Kristy. I missed Delia. But most of all, I missed Wes.

He'd called the first night of my punishment, my cell phone buzzing as I sat on my bed, contemplating the rest of my summer, which now seemed to stretch out ahead of me, endless and flat. I'd been feeling sorry for myself all day, but it really kicked into overdrive the minute I punched the talk button and heard his voice.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

"Don't ask."

He did though, as I knew he would, just as I knew he would listen, making sympathetic noises, as I outlined my restrictive curfew and the very real possibility that I might not see him again, ever. I didn't go so far as to tell him that he and everyone else from Wish were off limits, although I had a feeling he probably knew that, too.

"You'll be okay," he said. "It could be worse."