Because my actual birthday comes first and falls on the holiday Monday, we go for our family dinner that night. Audrey wants pasta and I want seafood, so we go to Red Lobster where they have both. It’s one of those gorgeous spring evenings where the sun doesn’t set until close to 9:00 p.m., and Red Lobster is like entering a dark ship. By the time the food comes, Audrey and I are bouncing in our seats we’re so excited. It feels like when we were little kids. We notice each other doing it and laugh. She gives me a few scoops of her Alfredo and I give her a crab leg. I catch Mom watching us and give her a tentative smile, but she looks back down at her meal.
Is she still angry with me? I feel a pang in my chest. This is how it always is with us now. She and Dad are always rooting for Audrey to succeed and never see me as a separate entity. To them I’m just there to help Audrey too. They’re always trying to understand her, yet they have no idea who I am.
Communicate, Kyle always says to me. Tell them how you feel. How can you expect them to understand what you’re going through if you don’t tell them?
Mom excuses herself to go the bathroom.
Let them see you, Clare. Give them and yourself a chance. You deserve it.
I sit there for a few seconds, staring at my empty plate, and then I make a decision. I get up and follow her.
The restaurant is packed now. There’s a huge crowd by the front door, and a group of kids are ogling the lobsters in the tank. I narrowly miss running into a server as I try to catch up to my mother. I see her disappear into the bathroom, the door swinging closed behind her. Inside, two out of three stalls are occupied. I have to use the bathroom too but I don’t want to miss my chance to talk to Mom, so I wait by the sink. The woman in the other stall comes out first, washes her hands, and leaves. Then it’s just Mom and me.
She looks a bit surprised when she sees me standing there. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
It’s clear she doesn’t like the idea. She goes to the sink and washes her hands.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I got upset when you brought up sharing our birthday. I want to explain why.”
“I know why you got upset. You’re always upset if I do something for Audrey.”
“See, that’s the problem. You think I’m mean to Audrey all the time. You don’t remember how I stopped going to friends’ houses at lunch and went home with Audrey instead. You asked me to stop going so I could walk Audrey back and she wouldn’t be late.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Was that really a big deal, Clare? You spent time with your friends all the time.”
“I’m trying to explain how I want to be seen as a separate person. As Clare.”
“Everyone sees you as a separate person, Clare.” She rips a paper towel from the machine. “That isn’t an issue.”
“It is for me.” I take a deep breath. How can I explain to her that I want space to be my own person, especially now that I’m trying to figure out who that person is? That watching Adam’s videos was like going down the rabbit hole and I need to look after me for once?
“I’ve finally had a chance to be on my own and now all of that might change.”
Mom squishes her paper towel into a ball and leans against the sink in an action that’s meant to tell me I’m going too far. But I can’t stop.
“It’s always about Audrey.”
There. I said it.
“Sometimes one child needs more help than another child, and the parent has to give it to them.”
“That’s the thing: Audrey always needs more help.”
Mom frowns. “I’m disappointed in you, Clare. I thought you’d be more gracious. Is this really the person you want to be?”
“I’m not a bad person for telling you my feelings.”
“What if it was you? Would you rather you were the one with the problem?”
“Of course not.” My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I can’t believe she’d ask me that question.
“Then show some compassion. This is the last thing I need after ten months of hell.” She tosses her paper towel ball in the garbage and leaves.
I don’t go after her. I stand in the bathroom alone feeling horrible and rotten and guilty.
* * *
When we get home, I go straight to bed. Above me are the glow-in-the-dark stars Audrey and I stuck on the ceiling. Mom never noticed.
When did life get so hard? I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere anymore. My parents are acting crazy even considering letting Audrey come back to my school, and all my friends care about is trying to find a boyfriend. Do I want a boyfriend too?
I close my eyes. I’m playing the video again, but this time it’s in my head. I see Dahlia on the bed, only it doesn’t have to be with Adam. It can be any guy I want. A fantasy guy.
Think of a fantasy guy, Clare.
None come to my mind so I go with KJ Apa from Riverdale because I like the show and my friends are always talking about how hot he is. And, yeah, he is pretty built in the scenes where he takes his shirt off.
You just haven’t wanted to think about it because the guys at school are all pimply and pubescent, I tell myself. You just need a hot, older guy.
So KJ Apa is lying on the bed and I’m Dahlia, standing above him. I press my eyes closed tighter and try to put myself in her sexy body. I’m swaying above KJ Apa with my perfect boobs—man, Dahlia’s boobs are so perfect—and I’m hot and wet and I want him. I imagine my long legs, the feel of his shirt against my skin, my fingers on the buttons as I slowly reveal myself to him. Like I’m a present I’m offering to him. I try to imagine his face, the way he’d look, wanting me, aching for me . . .
But all I can see is Dahlia. In fact, I can’t see KJ Apa at all. I try to fight it, try to shift views, but it’s too late—I’m back in his body. I’m watching the strip show and I do feel all hot and wet, but for all the wrong reasons, and all I want is to let it keep going, to keep watching her. Always her.
I stop fighting it.
* * *
I feel sick in the morning.
The alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. and I slam a hand down on it, pull the pillow over my head. A while later Mom walks through my door without knocking—surprise surprise—and announces I’m late, as if I didn’t already know.
“I’m sick,” I tell her. “I’m not going to school.”
She stands at the end of my bed and crosses her arms. “It’s Audrey’s birthday. Are you actually sick?”
Of course she doesn’t believe me. She’s probably still angry with me for last night. “Yes,” I snap. “I’m actually sick.”
Leaning down, she puts a hand on my forehead. “You feel fine. What is it? A cold? Flu?”
General unwellness. Being completely F-ed up. “I just feel off. Like I might puke,” I add so she’ll let me stay home.
“All right.” She sighs and straightens. “I’ll go get you some water and then call the school.”
Finally, after a night of tossing and turning, I drift off to sleep.
I wake up four hours later. I can hear music playing above me and know Mom’s in the attic. There’s a large glass of water on the nightstand, as well as a bottle of Tylenol and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Man, how I love Mom’s PB&J! I scarf it down and am just starting to feel better when, BAM, last night’s events hit me in the face again.