I give them both a puzzled look. They hardly ever step foot in my room, let alone together.
My mom scans all the movie, comic, and band posters hanging on my black and violet walls then rolls her eyes at one of my sketches, or what she calls my “coloring book drawings.”
“What a waste of time,” she mutters, shaking her head.
I blow out a breath, trying to let her disapproval breeze past me. But the lack of air sensation appears as my lungs tighten and the shell I live in shrinks even more.
“Did you guys need something?” I close my sketchbook to avoid anymore of her insults.
Her cold eyes land on me. “Turn the music down; we need to talk.”
I look over at my dad, who’s staring out the window, his eyes all lost, scared puppy wide.
Something’s up.
“Okay.” I tear my attention off my dad as I reach over to turn down the stereo. “What’s up?”
She presses a glance at my dad, but his eyes are fastened out of the window.
“Do you want to tell her, or should I?”
When my father doesn’t budge, she huffs, snapping her fingers.
“Henry, we agreed to this, so either you can tell her, or I can.”
My dad rubs his hand over his head then looks at me. Or, well, the space around me. “Isabella, your mother thinks—” My mom clears her throat, and my father adds, “Your mother and I were thinking that you should live with your grandmother for the summer.”
“For the entire summer?” I ask, shocked.
“You’ll go in a couple of days when school gets out,” my mom says, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of her pencil skirt. “And you can return here to finish up your senior year.”
The way she words it is confusing, like they’re kicking me out, yet allowing me to come back to finish school. I’m not sure how I feel about this.
“Which grandmother?”
My dad clears his throat. “Grandma Stephy.”
I relax a bit. If it was Grandma Jane, my mom’s mom, then it would’ve been an entirely different story. The woman criticizes me even more than my mom does, so much that I sometimes refer to her as Grandma Jane, Isabella Ego Slayer.
“Okay, I’ll go.” And, hey, it might be good to get a break, if for nothing else than to get away from Hannah and whatever death-to-Isabella tactics she has planned for the summer.
“Of course you’ll go, since it’s not a choice,” my mom snaps. “We didn’t come in here to ask you to go. We came in here to tell you that you’re going to go, that we need a little break from your sarcasm, your rudeness, and your”—she waves her fingers at my worn-out sneakers; holey, a-size-too-big jeans; and my oversized hoodie—my typical outfit—“whatever the hell this disaster is.”
“Honey, easy.” My dad glances at me, throwing me off with the brief eye contact. “She’s just a kid.”
She points a finger at him. “Don’t you easy me. I’ve had enough of this.” Her finger moves to me. “Enough of her. And quite frankly, enough of you. I need a break from one of you, so it’s either you or her, and I’d really prefer her.” She spins on her heels for the door. “This was never part of the deal, and I want it fixed.” She storms out of the room.
“What deal?” I ask my dad, confused. What deal did my mom make that has to do with me?
My dad’s gaze bounces back and forth between me and the doorway. “Sorry, Isa. I really am,” he mutters before rushing away with his shoulders hunched, cowering like a dog with his tail between his legs. He stops in the doorway for a second to say, “Call your grandmother. She wants to talk to you about taking a trip overseas, if you’re up for it. Don’t tell you mother, though; otherwise, she might not let you go do something so … fun.” Then he hurries out of the room like it’s on fire.
I take a few measured breaths then flop onto my bed and hug Mr. Scribbles, a teddy bear my dad won for me at a carnival when I was about five. It was during the one and only birthday he and I spent together.
The day had been absolutely magical, full of spun sugar, bright lights, and the chiming of games. I felt like I was floating on clouds … until we got back to the house, and my mom yelled at him for over an hour because he missed one of Hannah’s beauty pageants. The only way she let him off the hook was when he promised that he would, “Never do such a selfish thing again.” That was around the same time he stopped making eye contact with me.
I never figured out why he stopped looking at me, why he seems to hate me, why my mom has always loathed me. Then again, maybe there isn’t a reason. Perhaps I’m just a terrible daughter.
I set the bear down and roll over onto my stomach, battling back the tears as I work on my comic book drawing. It’s one of my personal favorites, mostly because it stars my alter ego, who’s much more ballsy than me. I have a sidekick, too, a woman who I sometimes like to pretend is my mom. She treats me fantastically and always tells me, “Great job!” every time I kick ass. I actually draw the woman a lot. She’s been stuck in my head for as long as I can remember.
Sometimes, she even makes appearances in my daydreams, where she takes me to movies, out shopping, and sometimes, we just spend the entire day riding the Ferris wheel. She never gets angry with me or makes me feel small and insignificant. She even tells me she loves me.
I wipe a few stray tears from my cheeks then close my sketchbook. I’ve trained myself pretty well not to get too emotional over the stuff they say to me, especially my mom, but I’m not a super robot immune to such human emotion. I’m a seventeen-year-old girl who knows she’s not the best daughter; who, yeah, tests her parents’ patience a lot; and who probably spends way too much time drawing comics and watching cartoons. Still, I want to, just once, hear them say I love you.
My dad said it a couple of times when I was younger, but it’s been a while. And I’m almost sure my mom has at some point. It’s been so long I can’t remember. I’ve started to fear maybe there’s something wrong with me that makes me so unlovable.
“It’s not you. It’s them,” I try to convince myself as I curl into a ball with the teddy bear.
As I lie by myself in my room, though, something I do almost every day, I have to wonder if I’m wrong.
Maybe there really is something wrong with me.
Chapter 2
My dad was right. My grandma Stephy does want me to go overseas with her.
“Are you sure you don’t mind if I go with you?” I ask her the next morning before I head to school.
“Why the hell would I?” she asks, being her blunt, doesn’t-give-a-shit self. “Besides, if you go, then I’ll have someone young and fun to hang out with other than those old biddies.”
“Wait? Old biddies? Who are we going with?” I dig through my dresser, looking for a clean T-shirt. Unable to find one, I end up rummaging one out of the hamper.
“The rest of the Sunnyvale Bay Community.”
“So a bunch of old people?” My mood deflates. Then I remind myself it doesn’t really matter who I’ll be going with. Anything is better than being home.
“Hey, I’m not old!” she argues. “Not even close.”