and stared at my mother.
The moment she saw me, she let out a long breath, and I tried not to feel guilty about the fact that she looked like she’d been hit by an emotional semitruck. What did she have to look all traumatized about? Her boyfriend had just proposed to her; mine had played a rousing game of tonsil hockey with my best friend. She was getting ready to start a new life with a new family she loved; I was, inch by inch, losing everything I’d worked for since I was nine years old.
I’d won enough to realize that in the great battle of Emily Covington versus Life, my mother was winning. My status, however, was somewhat questionable, and I hated losing.
“Hey, you,” my mom said softly. She’d greeted me the same way every day she’d come to pick me up from one of my many babysitters’ houses when I was little.
“Hey.” I begrudgingly returned the word. I couldn’t not. It was too deeply ingrained in me. For as long as I could remember (and I couldn’t help but remember, even though I knew it was a dangerous pastime these days), the two of us had made allowances for each other. So what if I had a little trouble remembering my curfew? So what if she’d spent most of my formative years in high school, college, and med school, respectively? So what if I only ate sugared cereal? So what if she refused to tell me a thing about my mystery father?
We’d always survived: Emily and Lilah against the world. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing Gilmore Girls -y about having a mother who was a mere sixteen years older than me, but the two of us got by. She’d bought used textbooks so I could have new shoes, and I’d been the one to make her breakfast in bed (sugared cereal, of course) after she’d pulled three all-nighters in a row.
“That’s my girl.”
My throat closed up a little. For a moment, I thought Ghost Boy had spoken, but when I played the words back in my head, I realized they were my mom’s. One look over my shoulder told me that Ghost Boy, much like my dignity, was gone.
“Sweetheart—” my mom began, and I cut her off as gently as I could.
“Mom, I’m just really, really tired tonight,” I said. “I know you love Corey, and I want you to be happy.”
Years melted off her face as I spoke. Why was it that I could make girls my own age quake with fear without even meaning to, but couldn’t go to bed angry with my mother? Not even when she’d practically ruined my life by pulling a Brady Bunch -esque maneuver with a family I wanted to forget about altogether.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t want to forget about Lexie, but that was only because she was Lexie.
Meara.
I pushed the name and the feelings that came with it out of my mind. I’d been doing just fine ignoring my final lapse in the library, and now was not the time to give in to the familiarity that played in the back of my mind, the visions that wanted, begged to come every time I heard my own mind-voice speak the foreign name.
“Are you okay?” my mom asked me finally.
“I’ve been better,” I said honestly (maybe Lexie was rubbing off on me, or maybe I was just way too tired to care), “but I guess there are probably people out there who are worse.”
Pretty much our entire school thought my life rocked, and maybe, objectively, it did. I wasn’t even sure anymore, and there was a distinct chance that I’d always sucked at being objective.
“Brianna.”
I stared at my mother, sure I’d heard her wrong, only to discover that her lips weren’t moving. When they did move, she spoke a different name. My name. “Lilah.” She paused. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this if I didn’t think I had your support.”
So now she tells me that she couldn’t have done this to me without my permission, I thought. If I’d known that little fact, I might have held out longer.
“Mom, I’m just really tired.”
I figured that as long as I was sleeping, I didn’t have to worry about any of it: no engagement, no
The moment she saw me, she let out a long breath, and I tried not to feel guilty about the fact that she looked like she’d been hit by an emotional semitruck. What did she have to look all traumatized about? Her boyfriend had just proposed to her; mine had played a rousing game of tonsil hockey with my best friend. She was getting ready to start a new life with a new family she loved; I was, inch by inch, losing everything I’d worked for since I was nine years old.
I’d won enough to realize that in the great battle of Emily Covington versus Life, my mother was winning. My status, however, was somewhat questionable, and I hated losing.
“Hey, you,” my mom said softly. She’d greeted me the same way every day she’d come to pick me up from one of my many babysitters’ houses when I was little.
“Hey.” I begrudgingly returned the word. I couldn’t not. It was too deeply ingrained in me. For as long as I could remember (and I couldn’t help but remember, even though I knew it was a dangerous pastime these days), the two of us had made allowances for each other. So what if I had a little trouble remembering my curfew? So what if she’d spent most of my formative years in high school, college, and med school, respectively? So what if I only ate sugared cereal? So what if she refused to tell me a thing about my mystery father?
We’d always survived: Emily and Lilah against the world. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing Gilmore Girls -y about having a mother who was a mere sixteen years older than me, but the two of us got by. She’d bought used textbooks so I could have new shoes, and I’d been the one to make her breakfast in bed (sugared cereal, of course) after she’d pulled three all-nighters in a row.
“That’s my girl.”
My throat closed up a little. For a moment, I thought Ghost Boy had spoken, but when I played the words back in my head, I realized they were my mom’s. One look over my shoulder told me that Ghost Boy, much like my dignity, was gone.
“Sweetheart—” my mom began, and I cut her off as gently as I could.
“Mom, I’m just really, really tired tonight,” I said. “I know you love Corey, and I want you to be happy.”
Years melted off her face as I spoke. Why was it that I could make girls my own age quake with fear without even meaning to, but couldn’t go to bed angry with my mother? Not even when she’d practically ruined my life by pulling a Brady Bunch -esque maneuver with a family I wanted to forget about altogether.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t want to forget about Lexie, but that was only because she was Lexie.
Meara.
I pushed the name and the feelings that came with it out of my mind. I’d been doing just fine ignoring my final lapse in the library, and now was not the time to give in to the familiarity that played in the back of my mind, the visions that wanted, begged to come every time I heard my own mind-voice speak the foreign name.
“Are you okay?” my mom asked me finally.
“I’ve been better,” I said honestly (maybe Lexie was rubbing off on me, or maybe I was just way too tired to care), “but I guess there are probably people out there who are worse.”
Pretty much our entire school thought my life rocked, and maybe, objectively, it did. I wasn’t even sure anymore, and there was a distinct chance that I’d always sucked at being objective.
“Brianna.”
I stared at my mother, sure I’d heard her wrong, only to discover that her lips weren’t moving. When they did move, she spoke a different name. My name. “Lilah.” She paused. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this if I didn’t think I had your support.”
So now she tells me that she couldn’t have done this to me without my permission, I thought. If I’d known that little fact, I might have held out longer.
“Mom, I’m just really tired.”
I figured that as long as I was sleeping, I didn’t have to worry about any of it: no engagement, no
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