there. It’s all they ever seem to talk about. I’m not really sure I want to go there, but I would get a legacy scholarship if I decided to attend, and they have one of the best architecture programs in the country. I’d like to apply to Ohio State University and Texas A&M because they have great landscape architecture programs. But I’m not sure that’s what I want to major in either. Lately I’ve been considering studying journalism, and if I decided to do that, I would really like to go to Northwestern University. Some of the best journalists graduated from that program. Although there are a couple other schools I’d be okay with attending as well.”
"Wow. We might actually be applying to a lot of the same schools if you decide to go that route. I didn't realize you cared so much about writing. Although, I guess it shouldn't surprise me. You work on the school paper, and you've always gotten better grades than everyone else on every essay or narrative we’ve ever had to write for school." Growing up in a small town, it’s not like we read the New York Times or travel the globe. But maybe that’s why he’d like to do it for a living.
"Not every writing assignment. That poetry unit in Ms. Tate's class last year? Your writing was a thousand times better than mine. Or anyone else’s for that matter."
I just shake my head at him.
“You got another question for me?”
I’m not sure what to ask. I know what my third question will be. But I want that to be last, in case I need to leave the room after his answer. “Umm…question two: before I told you what Trip did to me, why did you think I broke it off with Trip?”
“Well, this is a much easier question. I figured you had finally gotten tired of his douche-baggery. No guy should ever ask a girl to change for him. And it was obvious he was making you change. You stopped doing things you loved. And I’m not just talking about spending time with me. I never saw you eat lunch with your friends anymore, and when you thought no one was looking, you looked so lost, so stuck inside yourself, like you were trapped. It seemed like the only thing you were still doing that you loved was singing. But even that changed. When we started practicing that duet, at first, you were pouring everything you had into singing it, but not singing it with me. About a week and a half after you broke things off with Trip, I started to see tiny bits of the old Becca trying to break through to the surface, but even then, you still were holding back with me. I’m glad you felt you could trust me today, to tell me what really happened.”
I am on the verge of tears again, but for a very different reason. He’s right. I had changed. And not for me, or in a good way. And he had seen through it all, even if he didn’t know the specifics at the time. But there’s something I need to know. “Alright, here’s my last question: do you feel sorry for me?”
-----
Asher
Is that really what she wants to know? She has the power to ask me anything in the whole world, and she wants to know if I feel sorry for her. I don’t really understand why this question is important to her.
“Well, yeah. Nobody should ever have to go through what you—“ but I don’t get to finish that thought.
Becca jumps up, turns to face the door, and says, “I think I’m ready to talk to my parents. I need to know what they did while I was sleeping.” Then she takes off, almost at a run, heading upstairs.
Did I say something wrong? I’m not exactly sure what just happened, why Becca bolted like that, but I follow Becca up the stairs. Although at a much slower pace. I, like Becca, don’t have a clue what happened after Amy took Becca’s phone to Rich. I’d really like to know what’s going on, but even more than that, I refuse to let Becca go through this alone.
***
When I get upstairs, Becca is already tucked under her mom’s arm on the love seat, and her dad is sitting backwards
"Wow. We might actually be applying to a lot of the same schools if you decide to go that route. I didn't realize you cared so much about writing. Although, I guess it shouldn't surprise me. You work on the school paper, and you've always gotten better grades than everyone else on every essay or narrative we’ve ever had to write for school." Growing up in a small town, it’s not like we read the New York Times or travel the globe. But maybe that’s why he’d like to do it for a living.
"Not every writing assignment. That poetry unit in Ms. Tate's class last year? Your writing was a thousand times better than mine. Or anyone else’s for that matter."
I just shake my head at him.
“You got another question for me?”
I’m not sure what to ask. I know what my third question will be. But I want that to be last, in case I need to leave the room after his answer. “Umm…question two: before I told you what Trip did to me, why did you think I broke it off with Trip?”
“Well, this is a much easier question. I figured you had finally gotten tired of his douche-baggery. No guy should ever ask a girl to change for him. And it was obvious he was making you change. You stopped doing things you loved. And I’m not just talking about spending time with me. I never saw you eat lunch with your friends anymore, and when you thought no one was looking, you looked so lost, so stuck inside yourself, like you were trapped. It seemed like the only thing you were still doing that you loved was singing. But even that changed. When we started practicing that duet, at first, you were pouring everything you had into singing it, but not singing it with me. About a week and a half after you broke things off with Trip, I started to see tiny bits of the old Becca trying to break through to the surface, but even then, you still were holding back with me. I’m glad you felt you could trust me today, to tell me what really happened.”
I am on the verge of tears again, but for a very different reason. He’s right. I had changed. And not for me, or in a good way. And he had seen through it all, even if he didn’t know the specifics at the time. But there’s something I need to know. “Alright, here’s my last question: do you feel sorry for me?”
-----
Asher
Is that really what she wants to know? She has the power to ask me anything in the whole world, and she wants to know if I feel sorry for her. I don’t really understand why this question is important to her.
“Well, yeah. Nobody should ever have to go through what you—“ but I don’t get to finish that thought.
Becca jumps up, turns to face the door, and says, “I think I’m ready to talk to my parents. I need to know what they did while I was sleeping.” Then she takes off, almost at a run, heading upstairs.
Did I say something wrong? I’m not exactly sure what just happened, why Becca bolted like that, but I follow Becca up the stairs. Although at a much slower pace. I, like Becca, don’t have a clue what happened after Amy took Becca’s phone to Rich. I’d really like to know what’s going on, but even more than that, I refuse to let Becca go through this alone.
***
When I get upstairs, Becca is already tucked under her mom’s arm on the love seat, and her dad is sitting backwards
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