Help, my life has been hijacked! It’s what I’d like to send in an emergency text, but the problem is that anyone I’d send the SOS to is involved in ruining my life. I’m in a fog in my mother’s bathroom as she fusses over my hair and makeup. She’s been talking nonstop since I arrived home from school. Meanwhile, I’m unable to speak, and no one seems to notice.
“You should be proud of your father.” Mom uses the hot iron on a lock of my hair then uses her fingers to draw out the curl.
I try to avoid looking at her palm. Since reading Glory’s books, I can’t help but see things I don’t want to know. Like how almost all the lines on Mom’s hand are weak, broken and fragmented. None of which is a good sign.
“Your father didn’t say no automatically like I thought he would. He listened to what I had to say, spoke with Camila’s parents then Evangeline’s parents, and even spoke to Stewart’s parents. He’s been calm and thoughtful. He wants you to have a good time, and to be happy.”
Mom’s gushing, and I’m sick to my stomach. “Why were you two arguing this week?”
“Your first date,” Mom ignores me. “I can’t believe my baby is going on her first date.”
With a boy I didn’t choose, on a date I never said yes to and that was orchestrated by my father. This is what every girl dreams of.
Mom tilts her head as she takes in my expression. “What’s wrong? Are you scared? You don’t have to be. You’ll have plenty of friends with you to keep everything comfortable.”
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly to keep the tears away. “I don’t want to go.”
“That’s absurd. Of course you want to go. It’s normal to be nervous.”
“It’s not nerves. I should have chosen who my first date is with.”
“You’re being ungrateful. Besides, you have to go. You’d embarrass the poor boy if you don’t. Is that what you’d want? To make him sad?”
No, it’s not. Nor do I want to disappoint Camila and Evangeline. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. But it’s like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded cafeteria and I’m screaming and not a single person is listening. Why is no one asking me what I want? Why is no one concerned about me being sad?
A knock, and Dad stands in the doorway. He smiles at me like he loves me, and my throat swells as I turn away. God, I want to be loved. So badly that it’s causing me pain.
“Our living room is full of teenagers, and one very nervous boy waiting for you,” he says.
Mom beams at Dad. “She’s ready.”
No, I’m not, but Mom takes my hand and pulls me from the safety of my seat. As I pass Dad, he places an arm around me and kisses my temple.
“Scarlett,” he says in such a sad tone that my stomach drops. I look up at him, and meet his anguished eyes. “Can’t you see I’m trying? I love you, and I miss how we used to be.”
Is he changing? Am I the monster by keeping away forgiveness?
Dad lets go of me when I step into the hallway. I glance down into the foyer, and my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Standing at the base of the stairs is a boy who looks up at me with a radiant smile and hope.
I descend, and a cloud of doom hovers over me as I share hugs from friends who have an expectation of me I’ll never be able to meet. Stewart and I exchange an awkward greeting. A side hug, and staged pictures, thanks to Mom.
The cloud becomes a thunderstorm when I walk out the front door. Jesse Lachlin exits his trailer and looks over at me. I should glance away, but I can’t. I need him to understand. This isn’t me. This isn’t my choice.
He turns away as if I’ve slapped him, and my stomach sinks as if I had. Regret becomes a weight on my chest, and I suddenly wish that I hadn’t been so stupid. I wish I had snuck out night after night to meet with Jesse. Even though he promised to be watching out for me at midnight for the rest of my life, I know I just lost my chance.
* * *
I claw at the neckline of my top. I can’t breathe. I haven’t been able to breathe all evening, but there was nothing I could do other than fake a front. But I’m home now, I’m behind the closed door of my bedroom, and I yank the blouse over my head and kick out of my skirt.
“Scarlett,” Mom says. Another knock on my door, and I wipe at the moisture filling my eyes. “I was hoping we could talk. I’ve dreamed of this moment your whole life. I’ll make cookies and tea. I want to hear every detail. He seemed like such a wonderful boy.”
But I don’t want to talk about how this guy was super-nice, did everything textbook perfect, and when he looked at me as if I was making his night, I felt awful because when I looked at him I felt nothing. I don’t want to talk about how my friends had this expectation that I would like this boy. That I would want to hold his hand, and that I would have taken advantage of the moment they all moved from one side of the movie lobby to another to give us time alone.
I don’t want to talk about how he went from talking nonstop to going silent, and I knew if I didn’t start talking, if I didn’t move an inch away, he would have leaned in and kissed me.
I don’t want to talk about how he was understanding. That he didn’t ignore what I did, but instead said he respected my boundaries and that he’d kiss me when I was ready. I don’t want to talk about how I hate myself because I don’t want to upset my friends and I don’t want to hurt him. I hate myself because I wish I could feel. I wish I were normal. I wish I wasn’t me.
Mom knocks on my door again. “Scarlett? Is everything okay?”
No. I open my closet and throw on a tank top and an old pair of jeans my dad told me to throw out. He didn’t like they were so worn and had rips, but I didn’t throw them away. An act of defiance I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now.
“Scarlett,” Mom says again.
I inhale, but that doesn’t help the strain in my voice. “I’m okay, Mom. I want to go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Silence. It stretches for so long that my skin shrinks too tight for my bones.
“I love you,” she finally says, and I cover my face with my hands because I don’t want to cry. I’m so sick and tired of crying. “Good night, baby.”
I drop my hands and catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is curled and pinned up into perfection. My makeup covers every flaw, and creates an image of a girl I don’t recognize. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep being who everyone wants me to be or I’m going to die.
Headlights flash against the wall of my room, and Jesse pulls into his drive. It’s ten-thirty. I could wait until midnight, flash my light three times and pray Jesse comes to me, but he’s not a dog to be summoned and I can’t stomach what would happen inside me if he didn’t show.
Not caring if my parents come to check on me, I open the window and crawl out. I make a point of not looking down as I stealthily maneuver along the branches. Two car doors slam shut, which means Jesse has company, but I don’t care. I need to see him. I need to figure out who I am.