sensitive. I will tell you his name. But…let me tell you his name. Don't just force it out of me. I want this to be…natural. Okay? Give me some time. I'll tell you when it's right. You guys are so used to hovering over me. I feel suffocated, you know?”
My heart's racing and I think my dinner's about to come up, but I manage to keep a pleading-sincere look intact.
Mom crumples. “Sure, honey, of course but we worry—”
I stop her again. This time I pick the practical-reasoning voice. “Mom. I'm going to go to work and come home. If all goes well, and with your permission, I might start hanging out with some new friends. But I haven't even made those friends yet. This isn't about me going to parties or anything like that. I swear. This is just about me being able to—”
“But—” Mom starts up again.
“Let her finish,” Dad says gently. I can tell from the soft-sad look in his brown eyes he's totally on my side. That makes me feel like the world's worst daughter.
Because there are no sides to take. There's only me, lying to everyone I love.
Lying.
Lying.
My eyes sting, but I have to finish my speech: “If this guy turns into something important, I'll tell you. Until then, I need to have something that is mine. All mine. And this summer, this internship, and even this guy's name seem so special right now.”
I twirl my fork in my fingers. Unable to look at them anymore, I squash the whipped cream flat into the strawberries as I continue, “Maybe because I got the job and made this friend on my own—you know? Minus the weekly advice from Dr. Brodie? It all feels…”
I pause for effect. Then, I paste on the very very happy smile before I look up and say the last lines: “I don't know…it all feels so normal .”
Add in a small shrug, and: “Am I making any sense?”
Look up, tilt head to the side, wrinkle the forehead, play the music and roll the credits. Oh. And remember to breathe.
“Honey, that's wonderful!” Mom is practically gushing. All feathers have been smoothed.
Kika smiles and wanders to the counter for seconds on whipped cream without a blink to signal that she's not onto the fact that I'm acting really weird.
Dad's smile widens as he and Mom share a glance.
“Yes. Yes, it makes sense, Jess. We'll give you all the space you need. And we're really happy for you,” Dad says.
I can't reply. I've reached the point where if I get too much air on the back of my throat the crying thing is going to happen. I scoop up a pile of strawberries and whipped cream and stuff it into my mouth. It tastes like rocks and sawdust, but I chew with gusto.
Because it's pushing away the urge to cry.
And because they're all still staring at me. “Mffmf. Good. Thanks.” I chew more.
“You let me know if you need me…or anything. We're here for you,” Dad adds.
I nod. Mom's expression is flooded with motherly delight, approval, and absolute hope for me. My heart clenches with remorse. I toss a look to the ceiling, waiting for God, or lightning, or something huge to strike me down.
Unable to take more of this, it's all I can do not to leap out of my chair. Instead I put down my fork and slowly stand. “Okay. Well…cool. And yeah. Last finals are tomorrow. I'm going to study, then I'm going to text my… friend …and go to sleep. I'm wiped.”
“Well, you go on. We'll handle the clean up,” Mom says, beaming as wide as Kika.
I have this odd sensation that if I asked them to give me a new car right now or twin pet monkeys—I think they'd do it. As I exit the kitchen, I search for some shred of comfort in the fact that two out of three of my last lines to my parents are true:
1. Finals are tomorrow, and after 24 hours of being awake, I'm so tired there's no way I'm going to be able to avoid sleep tonight, no matter how hard I fight against it. Eventually, my body will betray me, so 2. Yeah, unfortunately, I'm going to sleep.
As for number 3. Texting Gray Porter my new friend—or employee or whatever he might be
My heart's racing and I think my dinner's about to come up, but I manage to keep a pleading-sincere look intact.
Mom crumples. “Sure, honey, of course but we worry—”
I stop her again. This time I pick the practical-reasoning voice. “Mom. I'm going to go to work and come home. If all goes well, and with your permission, I might start hanging out with some new friends. But I haven't even made those friends yet. This isn't about me going to parties or anything like that. I swear. This is just about me being able to—”
“But—” Mom starts up again.
“Let her finish,” Dad says gently. I can tell from the soft-sad look in his brown eyes he's totally on my side. That makes me feel like the world's worst daughter.
Because there are no sides to take. There's only me, lying to everyone I love.
Lying.
Lying.
My eyes sting, but I have to finish my speech: “If this guy turns into something important, I'll tell you. Until then, I need to have something that is mine. All mine. And this summer, this internship, and even this guy's name seem so special right now.”
I twirl my fork in my fingers. Unable to look at them anymore, I squash the whipped cream flat into the strawberries as I continue, “Maybe because I got the job and made this friend on my own—you know? Minus the weekly advice from Dr. Brodie? It all feels…”
I pause for effect. Then, I paste on the very very happy smile before I look up and say the last lines: “I don't know…it all feels so normal .”
Add in a small shrug, and: “Am I making any sense?”
Look up, tilt head to the side, wrinkle the forehead, play the music and roll the credits. Oh. And remember to breathe.
“Honey, that's wonderful!” Mom is practically gushing. All feathers have been smoothed.
Kika smiles and wanders to the counter for seconds on whipped cream without a blink to signal that she's not onto the fact that I'm acting really weird.
Dad's smile widens as he and Mom share a glance.
“Yes. Yes, it makes sense, Jess. We'll give you all the space you need. And we're really happy for you,” Dad says.
I can't reply. I've reached the point where if I get too much air on the back of my throat the crying thing is going to happen. I scoop up a pile of strawberries and whipped cream and stuff it into my mouth. It tastes like rocks and sawdust, but I chew with gusto.
Because it's pushing away the urge to cry.
And because they're all still staring at me. “Mffmf. Good. Thanks.” I chew more.
“You let me know if you need me…or anything. We're here for you,” Dad adds.
I nod. Mom's expression is flooded with motherly delight, approval, and absolute hope for me. My heart clenches with remorse. I toss a look to the ceiling, waiting for God, or lightning, or something huge to strike me down.
Unable to take more of this, it's all I can do not to leap out of my chair. Instead I put down my fork and slowly stand. “Okay. Well…cool. And yeah. Last finals are tomorrow. I'm going to study, then I'm going to text my… friend …and go to sleep. I'm wiped.”
“Well, you go on. We'll handle the clean up,” Mom says, beaming as wide as Kika.
I have this odd sensation that if I asked them to give me a new car right now or twin pet monkeys—I think they'd do it. As I exit the kitchen, I search for some shred of comfort in the fact that two out of three of my last lines to my parents are true:
1. Finals are tomorrow, and after 24 hours of being awake, I'm so tired there's no way I'm going to be able to avoid sleep tonight, no matter how hard I fight against it. Eventually, my body will betray me, so 2. Yeah, unfortunately, I'm going to sleep.
As for number 3. Texting Gray Porter my new friend—or employee or whatever he might be
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