accelerates.
“I’m at my parents’ house. The police are here. I had a party. One of the kids got really sick because he drank too much. Oh, please come now! Please! I am so sorry!”
Emma has no time to be angry. That will come later when Emma has made Stephie and her friends clean every glass and tabletop and inch of flooring and carpet, when Stephie calls her parents who are still at the beach, and when every ounce of freedom that Stephie has enjoyed is taken from her life.
First there is Emma racing to her sister Joy’s house and dealing with the police and several sets of parents, who thankfully are not angry at Emma, but their own horrid irresponsible teenagers. Then there is the phone call to the hospital where the boy is having his stomach pumped and where his father says he would sue the living hell out of Emma’s family—except that his son had a similar party last year so he understands.
This is the easiest part of the night.
The hardest part comes when the physical work is done. All the friends have been transported home to their own new lives of restricted hell. The house is as clean as it’s ever been, the sick boy is home and safe. At last the first light of day cascades into the front yard and it is finally just Emma and Stephie. And suddenly Emma cannot stand it any longer.
“Do you have any idea how serious this is?” she says through clenched teeth. “That boy could have died, someone could havebeen hurt, the house was a shambles and you’ve totally destroyed any trust your parents and I have in you.”
Stephie is in that cocky drunk state that allows her to say things she might never say when she is sober. Things that people think, but should never, ever say out loud.
“Kids do this all the time. It’s part of living and growing up and stuff.” She shrugs.
“What?” Emma stammers.
“You know what, Auntie Em,” Stephie says, not as a question but as a statement of fact, “you wouldn’t know about stuff like this because you really don’t live. You hide out in those damn gardens of yours and you run around and take care of everyone else and get all involved with them, but you don’t live. Maybe you should try having your own damn party.”
Emma takes in a breath that is so deep and long, Stephie almost falls over from waiting, and then Emma silently spins her niece around, puts her in the car, and takes her home.
And that is where the truth of Stephie’s words settle against Emma’s wounded heart as she stands in her own tidy kitchen, watches the early morning sun wake up her gardens, and wonders how a sixteen-year-old can be so absolutely stupid and so wise at the same time.
9
THE NINTH QUESTION:
Do you ever wish that you were someone else?
IT IS THE SIMPLE BEGINNING OF what could end up being a twelve-or fourteen-hour day of slave labor for Stephie in Emma’s gardens when the niece, who will be paying off her auntie for everything that has happened during the past week for the rest of her life, leans over the rapidly spreading spider flowers and asks Emma if she ever wishes she was someone else.
Emma and Stephie have designed a kind of mild truce following the horrific drinking-party incident that has totally changed Stephie’s life. Orders from her furious parents have turned teenage Stephie back into a baby. No unmonitored anything. No cellphone. No computer except for school projects. Grounded until she turns fifty, or figures out a way to make amends, and apologizes every second for the rest of the year.
And Emma, not certain if Stephie would even remember what she said to her, accepted Stephie’s sober apology, dealt with Joy on the phone, and had to apologize herself for not realizing what Stephie was up to. She’s talked to her own mother about the incident and they’ve agreed to let Joy decide who to share it with. Marty shook it off as typical teenage behavior, but at the far, far end of typical, and agreed that Stephie had taken
“I’m at my parents’ house. The police are here. I had a party. One of the kids got really sick because he drank too much. Oh, please come now! Please! I am so sorry!”
Emma has no time to be angry. That will come later when Emma has made Stephie and her friends clean every glass and tabletop and inch of flooring and carpet, when Stephie calls her parents who are still at the beach, and when every ounce of freedom that Stephie has enjoyed is taken from her life.
First there is Emma racing to her sister Joy’s house and dealing with the police and several sets of parents, who thankfully are not angry at Emma, but their own horrid irresponsible teenagers. Then there is the phone call to the hospital where the boy is having his stomach pumped and where his father says he would sue the living hell out of Emma’s family—except that his son had a similar party last year so he understands.
This is the easiest part of the night.
The hardest part comes when the physical work is done. All the friends have been transported home to their own new lives of restricted hell. The house is as clean as it’s ever been, the sick boy is home and safe. At last the first light of day cascades into the front yard and it is finally just Emma and Stephie. And suddenly Emma cannot stand it any longer.
“Do you have any idea how serious this is?” she says through clenched teeth. “That boy could have died, someone could havebeen hurt, the house was a shambles and you’ve totally destroyed any trust your parents and I have in you.”
Stephie is in that cocky drunk state that allows her to say things she might never say when she is sober. Things that people think, but should never, ever say out loud.
“Kids do this all the time. It’s part of living and growing up and stuff.” She shrugs.
“What?” Emma stammers.
“You know what, Auntie Em,” Stephie says, not as a question but as a statement of fact, “you wouldn’t know about stuff like this because you really don’t live. You hide out in those damn gardens of yours and you run around and take care of everyone else and get all involved with them, but you don’t live. Maybe you should try having your own damn party.”
Emma takes in a breath that is so deep and long, Stephie almost falls over from waiting, and then Emma silently spins her niece around, puts her in the car, and takes her home.
And that is where the truth of Stephie’s words settle against Emma’s wounded heart as she stands in her own tidy kitchen, watches the early morning sun wake up her gardens, and wonders how a sixteen-year-old can be so absolutely stupid and so wise at the same time.
9
THE NINTH QUESTION:
Do you ever wish that you were someone else?
IT IS THE SIMPLE BEGINNING OF what could end up being a twelve-or fourteen-hour day of slave labor for Stephie in Emma’s gardens when the niece, who will be paying off her auntie for everything that has happened during the past week for the rest of her life, leans over the rapidly spreading spider flowers and asks Emma if she ever wishes she was someone else.
Emma and Stephie have designed a kind of mild truce following the horrific drinking-party incident that has totally changed Stephie’s life. Orders from her furious parents have turned teenage Stephie back into a baby. No unmonitored anything. No cellphone. No computer except for school projects. Grounded until she turns fifty, or figures out a way to make amends, and apologizes every second for the rest of the year.
And Emma, not certain if Stephie would even remember what she said to her, accepted Stephie’s sober apology, dealt with Joy on the phone, and had to apologize herself for not realizing what Stephie was up to. She’s talked to her own mother about the incident and they’ve agreed to let Joy decide who to share it with. Marty shook it off as typical teenage behavior, but at the far, far end of typical, and agreed that Stephie had taken
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