“Nothing, I guess. But it was my idea. I had to practically threaten Duckie to get him to come with me.” The lie left my mouth easily, and with good reason. If they had any clue that skipping school had been Duckie’s idea, I’d be grounded from seeing him until the end of time.
Dad muttered, “At least one of you has some semblance of good sense.”
“You know the rules. Straight to school and straight back. No stops.” Mom was raising her voice, but I wasn’t sure she was aware of it.
In direct contrast, Dad’s voice was calm. Too calm. Scary calm. “Perhaps taking the bus is a better idea for you.”
Spit wads, dick jokes, and the rampant smell of body odor hit my memory like a Mack truck. Was he serious?
“Dad, I’m a senior. Do you have any idea how ridiculous I’d look riding with the lowerclassmen?”
“We could always hire a tutor and have you homeschooled.” He leaned forward in his seat, eyes on me. He was challenging me. Warning me. The room suddenly felt much warmer than it had earlier. Uncomfortably so. “You tell us, then. What other option is there? Because today you proved that we can’t trust you.”
“I’m sorry, okay? We just went out to our old elementary school and sat on the swings for a while. Duckie asked me to prom. It was really no big deal. He was with me the entire time.” I flicked my eyes between them, wanting more than anything for them to believe me.
My mother snapped, “If you’re lying to us—”
“I’m not. Really. It won’t happen again.” It was another lie, but the truth was going to get me precisely nowhere.
A long silence followed as they looked at each other. I got the impression that a conversation was taking place silently between them, but couldn’t be sure what was being said about me exactly.
Finally, my mom wiped away tears that I couldn’t see, and Dad turned back to me. When I looked at him, I saw a stranger. Gone was the man who’d carried me into the ER after Duckie had accidentally pushed me out of the big oak tree in our backyard when I was eight. Gone was the man who’d taught me how to operate power tools when I was twelve. Gone was the man whom I’d loved more than any guy on the planet. He wasn’t my dad now—I mean, he was . . . but he was also my warden. I’d never felt more detached from him.
“You get one more chance. Step out of line again, and we’ll have to rethink how much time you spend with Ronald.” Dad’s jaw twitched slightly. “Got it?”
“Yeah . . . I got it.”
Once the interrogation was completed, I went upstairs and hung the new cranes up beside the one that Joy had given me. Then I sat at my desk and began folding more, trying not to think about my parents and their seriously asshole threat to keep Duckie and me apart. I thought about the shrink I was supposed to start seeing soon as part of my outpatient treatment, Dr. Daniels, and how he could eat shit if he thought I was sharing any of my feelings with him. I also thought about Duckie and the fact that he knew that my dark thoughts hadn’t been magically cured by some pills. He knew me better than anyone. Better than myself even.
It really irritated me sometimes.
I didn’t notice how long I’d been sitting at my desk, folding paper cranes. Not until I heard my mom shout up to me, “Dinner’s ready, Brooke! Come eat.”
I stood on my bed and hung the new cranes. As I stepped down, I brushed them with my fingertips, sending them to flight. Then I went to the kitchen, my stomach rumbling.
Dad was nowhere to be found—probably tinkering in the garage or off doing whatever it was that dads did when they were avoiding their families. Mom had set a bucket of chicken on the counter beside smaller containers of mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet corn, and biscuits. A chef my mother was not, but she could order up fast food like a pro. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard her leave or return. Either I’d been super distracted by folding cranes or deeply lost in the hurt and anger over the idea that my parents would threaten to keep my best friend and me apart.
As I filled a paper plate, she asked the inevitable question, “How was school today, anyway? I mean, the brief time you spent there.”
Nice burn, Mom. I shrugged in response. “It was . . . school.”
The air was heavy with the absence of Dad and neither of us bringing it up. “Any word on what the play is going to be this year?”
I already knew where this conversation was headed, and I wasn’t looking forward to the destination. She’d been trying to get me onstage since I’d first mentioned an interest in the theater back in the eighth grade, even though I’d made it clear I would rather have a supporting role backstage. It was like nothing I did was good enough for my mother. She couldn’t just be proud of my decisions, she had to tweak them and make them hers. It was annoying. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Last I heard they were still debating between something Shakespeare or a musical. I think it’s between Romeo and Juliet and Fiddler on the Roof. One of those, I guess.”
“Have you thought about trying out for a part? Being on stage instead of heading up makeup crew? It’s your senior year. Graduation is merely months away. Might as well go out with a bang.”
“I don’t know.” I did know, just like I knew every time we had this conversation. But I also knew she wouldn’t listen.
“You’ve been involved in the plays since the eighth grade. It would be a shame not to spend at least one play on the stage rather than behind it.”
I flopped a pile of mashed potatoes onto my plate. They’d been so overwhipped, they almost looked like whipped cream. With my fork, I molded the pile into a tiny volcano before topping it off with gravy lava. The poor little sweet-corn people had no idea what was coming for them. “It’s called being backstage, Mom. And I just don’t feel like it, okay?”
“I think it would be good for you to get back into a routine. To keep your mind off things. That’s all.” She put an odd emphasis on things. Because in my family, we didn’t utter phrases like suicidal ideation or wanting to off yourself. We smiled for the camera and pushed our pain down deep. It was just the Danverses’ way.
“I said no. And before you ask, I’m not going to prom either.” She looked at me as if I’d slapped her. I shook my head. “Just leave me alone.”
I scooped up a few of the gravy-covered corn people and put them in my mouth. So long, little corn people. Rest in peas.
After a long silence, Mom cleared her throat. I was really hoping she wasn’t going to push the play issue some more. I was over it. “Don’t forget your therapy appointment tomorrow with Dr. Daniels. You want me to drive you?”
That was my mother for you. If I said something to upset her, she’d make sure to remind me of my flaws. What she was really saying was, Fine, then. Don’t be onstage, like I want you to. But don’t forget to see your therapist, you little freak.
“I’ll get a ride with Duckie.”
“You sure? Because I can take the afternoon off. Then maybe afterward we can—”
When I dropped my fork onto my plate, it landed in the potato volcano, crushing it. There were no corn survivors. I didn’t even look at my mother as I stood up and started walking away. I went upstairs, closed my door, and shut out whatever fantasy she was building up in her head about whatever stupid mother-daughter bonding activity she thought would make my depression dissolve into thin air. As if taking a few pills and getting a mani/pedi would be enough to make me want to go on living. As if that was all it took to escape from the darkest recesses of my mind.