BECKETT PORTER: Why can’t you let this go?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Is this a conversation to have over text? Or at all?
ME: Seriously?
BECKETT PORTER: Yes, seriously! We both hurt each other, but you don’t see me holding a grudge a year later, do you?
When I don’t reply, another message pings.
BECKETT PORTER: Unlike you, I apologized. Are you gonna turn down an opportunity to save your family’s business because of a grudge?
Dad’s tense shoulders hunched over the books flicker to mind. When he thinks I’m not watching, he wears his pain. All I want is to make him happy—make us happy—and failing feels as if I’m being torn in two.
If we paid the back rent in full, Dad could manage the monthly payments, especially if he renovated. But working with Beckett? Breaking the law with him? I can’t be considering this.
Can I?
I am.
God help me, I am.
ME: 75–25.
BECKETT PORTER: ???
ME: We split the money 75 (me) and 25 (you).
I swallow, my throat parched and itchy. This is a test. If he says yes, I’ll do it. But I expect a rebuttal. Negotiations. A reason for me to call him irrational and back out.
BECKETT PORTER: Fair enough. You free tomorrow?
I frown at the words. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but what’s my alternative? Oh right. There isn’t one. At least if I fail, Dad will be none the wiser. If I have to put up with Beckett for a week in exchange for saving Bigmouth’s, then I’ll deal.
ME: I’m at work until 6.
BECKETT PORTER: Cool. See you tomorrow.
No explanation about what we’re doing or when he’ll show up.
Standing, I go in circles—physically and mentally. I do the math. We’ll need to bring in more than ten thousand dollars to split it seventy-five twenty-five. I have two hundred dollars in savings, and we’ll need cash to start with if we’re betting. Or hustling. Breaking the law.
If Aunt Fee or Dad finds out, well, it won’t be pretty.
Ever since I hit puberty and fell heart-first into a nasty depressive episode, my family’s been on alert. That initial episode in the winter of sophomore year earned me twice-monthly therapy appointments until the end of last summer. After six months of therapy with Sarah, Dad agreed when I asked if I could stop going. The sessions were expensive and they made me uncomfortable. All that opening up and talking about my feelings? Hard pass.
During our initial session, Sarah reviewed my family history and instilled a devastating fear: the disorder responsible for ruining my mom might be lurking in my brain.
Sarah told me it’s not my fault.
Faulty wiring. Misfiring neurotransmitters. Losing the genetic lottery.
Whatever you want to call it, it’s shitty. And unfair.
During one of our sessions, Sarah mentioned wanting to send me to a psychiatrist, to nail down a solid diagnosis and dose me with antidepressants or mood stabilizers, but I’ve been doing a lot better. Somehow I’ve avoided ever having to make that appointment. I get out of bed. I eat and sleep a reasonable amount. I’m doing well at school. I’m introverted, but I have my hobbies.
I might not be happy, not in the traditional sense, but that’s okay.
Emotions have always scared me—I can’t control them. But somehow that dark lack of emotion while I was depressed was even scarier. Now I just want to find a steady balance between the affectless and the uncontrollable. Against my best efforts, I feel everything too strongly when I’m not depressed, and it’s overwhelming.
But more than anything, I never want to feel the way I did that winter. Back then everything was great. Beckett and I were best friends. High school hadn’t lost its novelty yet. My life was fantastic, but the joy never reached me, which made me feel even shittier. I woke up only looking forward to crawling back beneath the covers. My eyes would glaze as I tried to read or watch TV, the sinking in my chest threatening to collapse me. I emotionally flatlined.
Wondering if I’d ever feel better.
Worried I wouldn’t.
Scared I’d stop trying.
Eating well, therapy, sleeping enough, and exercising—yoga and hiking the Presidio—balance the scales pretty well. I’ve experienced only a few blips of depression since last year, but I’m constantly on guard. There’s nothing worse than waiting for something you can’t control to derail your life. Despite my ups and downs, I’ve managed okay, but my recent decision to break the law might prove otherwise.
Beckett’s plan makes me sick to my stomach, because until now my fear of spinning out of control has kept me from taking part in normal teenage experiences. Not like this plan is anywhere near normal, but I fear if anyone looked at what I’m doing, they’d worry.
Isn’t this the definition of engaging in “uncharacteristic impulsive behavior”?
In my small adjoining bathroom, I splash water on my face. Hoping to silence the little niggling voice in the back of my head warning me to reel myself in. To behave.
While my mother and I share a name—why I refuse to go by Caroline—our similarities end there. I brace myself against the sink, repeating my comforting phrase, those six little words, until my heartbeat steadies and slows.
You are not your mother’s child.
SATURDAY, APRIL 21 DAYS UNTIL BIGMOUTH’S EVICTION: 9
Five
I SPEND THE first Saturday of spring break at Bigmouth’s, greatly regretting my recent life choices. What was I thinking last night? Beckett’s plan is so many layers of wrong, I don’t know where to start. And yet, even though this idea is the most reckless thing I have ever agreed to, my blood is warmer. My heart faster. My hopes lifted.
I’ve thought this through. Something can’t be impulsive if I’ve thought it through, right? And besides, Beckett has a plan. I’ll be safe, I’ll earn the money, and everything will return to normal.
Despite telling myself this, over and over, my nerves jangle.
When I arrived this morning, Dad was busy working on the accounting books, and he waved me away from his office when I said hello. I’ve been manning the register since ten. Unsurprisingly, the alley is dead, and for once I wish we had more customers.
Maybe it’s in my best interest we don’t, because I’m bombing today. I mess up giving our only two groups their change. I rip the stitching on my sewing project, a Biba head scarf. My body’s so energized I smack my kneecap into the counter—twice.
After lunch, the tinted glass doors open and Beckett Porter strolls into Bigmouth’s, hands tucked into his front pockets. I lower my headphones. He’s earlier than I expected. Surely Beckett’s not loitering around here for my entire shift. We can’t exactly talk Hustling 101 or whatever with Dad hovering.
“Hey.” He motions to the pale pink fabric twined between my fingers. “That looks cool. What is it?”
“A scarf.” I stab the head scarf with my needle and pull the thread taut, unnerved by his interest. Why does he care? “You know I’m not off for another five hours, right?” Sure, I could ignore him for those five hours, but I’ve decided Beckett’s presence is the social equivalent of black mold—unassuming, and it might kill you if you don’t get rid of it.