theory. (She
believed in it. My parent’s erred on the side of Protestant caution.) Today, I
was almost happy at the thought of telling them what was new with me because
try as they might (and they would try), they wouldn’t be able to fake how they
felt about it.
I told them
about my new job, and I totally emphasized the atmosphere of TEA and the tired
neighborhood that wasn’t in the trendy part of Old Towne, because I wanted to
see them squirm. It was one way of reminding me that they were in fact human.
“Are you
sure that’s such a good idea?” My mom asked, pausing in the act of sipping her
wine.
“Why not?
It counts.” I shrugged, rolling my asparagus around my plate with my fork.
“It’s just
that you have to take the train. . . .”
“Not that
far. I clocked it on my way home. With the local bus, it’s like a forty
minute trip.”
“The bus?” My
mom asked, and I swore she flinched a little. I imagined her expensive perfume
would not mix well with the diesel soaked smell of the bus.
“Whitney . .
.” I imagined her fishing around for something to say that wouldn’t sound
elitist but still maintained an elitist undertone. “Does this place even count
as volunteer service?”
Bingo.
It did.
Last week, I called the Steeple Academy guidance counselor. She might’ve stretched
the rules a bit—I got the feeling she felt sorry for me (with the whole binge
drinking, rehab, and dead ex-friend and all).
“What
happened to working with Felicia Bennett?” my mom asked.
I looked at
my dad to see if he had anything to add to that, but he remained focused on his
food, no indication on his face that the decorum class meant anything other
than teapots and etiquette. Not surprising.
“That was my
junior year project.”
“Well, why
couldn’t you try for something at Bloom Town Center? If you asked me, Mamie
could have given you something to do at her store.”
“The
knitting store?” I rolled my eyes.
My father
set down his fork and knife. “Your mother has a point. I thought you were considering
work that complemented your future studies. What does making tea have to do
with any of that?”
“What does
knitting have to do with it?”
“That’s my
point, Whitney,” he said, sounding tired.
“What? Oh,
wait. I get it. Knitting does have something to do with your career,
spinning a yarn, lying. You have to be good at lying to be a lawyer, right?”
I stared at my dad.
My mom
pushed back from the table. “Okay, who wants dessert? I made mango sticky
rice. You can have it with or without the vanilla bean ice cream.”
“No ice
cream for me,” my dad said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
I shook my
head. My mom disappeared into the kitchen. She stuck to her role, staying
within character at all times. The only time I ever noticed her do anything
different was after Katie died—my mom never made those stupid rosemary potatoes
again. Not that she said that was why. I could only guess that she thought
potatoes would be a painful reminder or something, as if there weren’t a
thousand other things that made me think of my once upon a time best friend.
But Katie
wasn’t here to lighten the mood anymore.
The only
things left were the food and the palpable silence.
There were
so many elephants in the room: my dad’s cheating, my mom’s acceptance of it, my
stint at Gosley, my dead best friend, and Lauren.
My gaze
shifted to the baby grand piano in the room across from the dining room, to the
frames and photos. My family had a history of elephants. We were like a big
game preserve.
I pretty
much had no respect left for my parents, especially when they dropped me off at
Gosley. That was when I realized my parents only wanted me around as long as I
conformed to their ideal. If I didn’t, they would ship me off to fix me, the
embarrassing anomaly. Or disown me completely. Because my parents wouldn’t
stand
believed in it. My parent’s erred on the side of Protestant caution.) Today, I
was almost happy at the thought of telling them what was new with me because
try as they might (and they would try), they wouldn’t be able to fake how they
felt about it.
I told them
about my new job, and I totally emphasized the atmosphere of TEA and the tired
neighborhood that wasn’t in the trendy part of Old Towne, because I wanted to
see them squirm. It was one way of reminding me that they were in fact human.
“Are you
sure that’s such a good idea?” My mom asked, pausing in the act of sipping her
wine.
“Why not?
It counts.” I shrugged, rolling my asparagus around my plate with my fork.
“It’s just
that you have to take the train. . . .”
“Not that
far. I clocked it on my way home. With the local bus, it’s like a forty
minute trip.”
“The bus?” My
mom asked, and I swore she flinched a little. I imagined her expensive perfume
would not mix well with the diesel soaked smell of the bus.
“Whitney . .
.” I imagined her fishing around for something to say that wouldn’t sound
elitist but still maintained an elitist undertone. “Does this place even count
as volunteer service?”
Bingo.
It did.
Last week, I called the Steeple Academy guidance counselor. She might’ve stretched
the rules a bit—I got the feeling she felt sorry for me (with the whole binge
drinking, rehab, and dead ex-friend and all).
“What
happened to working with Felicia Bennett?” my mom asked.
I looked at
my dad to see if he had anything to add to that, but he remained focused on his
food, no indication on his face that the decorum class meant anything other
than teapots and etiquette. Not surprising.
“That was my
junior year project.”
“Well, why
couldn’t you try for something at Bloom Town Center? If you asked me, Mamie
could have given you something to do at her store.”
“The
knitting store?” I rolled my eyes.
My father
set down his fork and knife. “Your mother has a point. I thought you were considering
work that complemented your future studies. What does making tea have to do
with any of that?”
“What does
knitting have to do with it?”
“That’s my
point, Whitney,” he said, sounding tired.
“What? Oh,
wait. I get it. Knitting does have something to do with your career,
spinning a yarn, lying. You have to be good at lying to be a lawyer, right?”
I stared at my dad.
My mom
pushed back from the table. “Okay, who wants dessert? I made mango sticky
rice. You can have it with or without the vanilla bean ice cream.”
“No ice
cream for me,” my dad said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
I shook my
head. My mom disappeared into the kitchen. She stuck to her role, staying
within character at all times. The only time I ever noticed her do anything
different was after Katie died—my mom never made those stupid rosemary potatoes
again. Not that she said that was why. I could only guess that she thought
potatoes would be a painful reminder or something, as if there weren’t a
thousand other things that made me think of my once upon a time best friend.
But Katie
wasn’t here to lighten the mood anymore.
The only
things left were the food and the palpable silence.
There were
so many elephants in the room: my dad’s cheating, my mom’s acceptance of it, my
stint at Gosley, my dead best friend, and Lauren.
My gaze
shifted to the baby grand piano in the room across from the dining room, to the
frames and photos. My family had a history of elephants. We were like a big
game preserve.
I pretty
much had no respect left for my parents, especially when they dropped me off at
Gosley. That was when I realized my parents only wanted me around as long as I
conformed to their ideal. If I didn’t, they would ship me off to fix me, the
embarrassing anomaly. Or disown me completely. Because my parents wouldn’t
stand
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