“That’s wasteful.”
Yasmín pushes her plate away.
“You didn’t want to eat them,” Connie shoots back.
“Actually I do, I just choose not to because I care about the future of this planet.”
“I care about the future of my family.” Connie’s voice is entering Danger Zone, so I don’t say anything about what planet she thinks her family is going to live on when we ruin the environment beyond repair, but I don’t really have to. It’s not the first (or second, or fifth) time we’ve had this fight.
“Fine.” Connie walks very slowly back to the table and lets the tacos roll out of her hands and onto the table. Her lips are pressed together, and her breath huffs and whistles through her nose. “I got these tacos for you. You can do whatever you want with them. But frankly, if this is how you’re going to be acting all summer, I don’t look forward to it.”
“Yeah, well, me neither,” I say under my breath so she can pretend not to hear it.
“Yasmín, have you practiced your flute?” Connie asks. Yasmín shakes her head.
It’s completely unfair that the poor kid has to spend her whole summer on scheduled extracurriculars. But I don’t say that. There are a lot of things I don’t say to Connie since Christmas break.
“Then you’d better get started.” She pulls Yasmín toward the living room. Halfway out the door, Connie stops and looks over her shoulder, sucking in her breath like it pains her. “This kitchen is a mess,” she says.
I offer nothing. This was supposed to be my graduation dinner.
“Come on,” she says, turning on her heel and ushering Yasmín ahead of her.
My head throbs. You can’t just throw food away. It’s irresponsible. As irresponsible as ruining your daughter’s childhood, or teaching her that her appearance is top priority, or squelching her complaints without hearing them.
I know I spend a lot of time on certain social-justice-obsessed corners of the internet, but I don’t understand why my stepmom can’t see the harm she’s causing.
I don’t understand why she won’t listen.
I could talk back and start a real fight. I could storm to my room and slam the door and spend the rest of the night scrolling through environmental feminist blogs. But that would be Christmas break all over again.
Instead, I cover all the open Styrofoam containers and arrange them in the refrigerator. I stack the dishes next to the sink and start filling it with hot water and soap and a capful of bleach—Connie’s secret recipe for dish water. I wash the dishes; I even dry them and put them away. Then I pick up all the tacos, put them back in the cactus-emblazoned bag, and pull out my phone.
Xiumiao normally receives the brunt of my family complaints (she has more sympathy and similar complaints to share), but I’m not sure where texts fall in terms of “getting space.” Besides, I don’t just want to text about whose parents are more frustrating. I need to get out of the house fast. So instead, I text Melissa, Best friend emergency. Please send help.
* * *
• • •
By the time Melissa pulls into the driveway, I’ve distracted myself with YouTube and desperation-snacks. I have to scramble to pocket my wallet, keys, and phone and then grab a thin purple sweater (to protect me from the frigid Houston air-conditioning). Melissa sends an impatient text as I rush for the door.
“Ellen?” Connie’s voice stops me with one foot outside. “What are you up to?”
She stands behind me with a clear view of Melissa’s car, so it’s less of a question and more of a test.
“I was just going to give the food to Melissa, and we were going to hang out for a bit,” I say.
“Hang out where?”
“At Melissa’s house?” I hold back a sigh. “Like always?” Connie sucks air past her teeth. “I mean . . . if that’s okay.”
“It’s getting late,” she says. “Are there going to be a lot of people there? Are you sure Mr. and Mrs. Larsen don’t mind?”
“Just me. I’m sure.” The pained expression stays stuck on her face until I add, “Will it make you feel better if I send a picture of their smiling faces when I get there?”
Connie nods slowly. “Okay. But don’t stay out too long, because Greg called to say that he’s just going to be another hour, and I know he wants to celebrate with you.”
Sure, I can tell how badly Dad wants to celebrate. But it isn’t his absence making me roll my eyes as I stomp through the front yard and slump into Melissa’s car. It’s Connie.
It’s that she doesn’t trust me or consider me responsible enough to make plans on my own. It’s that I still have to ask her permission to leave the house. Obviously that kind of control made sense when I was twelve, but now it’s just annoying. And I have to play along, because we’re all trying to keep Connie happy. Dad with his promises of coming home at a decent hour. Me gritting my teeth against our usual arguments. Even Yasmín, unless she just really loves the idea of math summer camp. We’ve all been walking on eggshells since Christmas break, trying not to cause tension. Hoping Connie won’t leave again.
“Vegan struggles?” Melissa asks when I slam her passenger door way too hard.
I nod and shove the taco bag into Melissa’s lap. “And stepmom struggles. And taco struggles.”
“Ew. Keep your taco struggles to yourself,” Melissa teases, jerking away from the curb as she digs through the bag. “So that was a couple hours at home before you needed rescuing? I think that’s a record, even for this semester.”
“What can I say? Connie’s being record levels of crappy.”
Melissa tuts around a mouthful of taco. Unlike Xiumiao, she cannot always be trusted to take my side against parents on principle. “Are you sure you’re not just mad about the whole graduation thing?”
I mean, she’s not wrong. But she’s not right, either, thinking that my fight with Connie has a simple cause and a linear solution. Dad’s been trying that sort of counseling with me for at least a year now. Be honest about your feelings. Count to ten before you speak.
I’ve known Connie since I was eight. She showed up at Dad’s single-parent support group freshly divorced and new in town with nine-month-old Yasmín on her hip, and the rest is history. She’s been my family for so long that I only vaguely remember life before the wedding. We made it work, with a few bumpy moments. But it’s like the older I get, the less we fit together, my personality clashing with Connie’s vision like a mismatched area rug. It’s not a matter of any single fight anymore. It’s a war.