Tears appear in her eyes, and they are like a mirror to what’s going on inside her head. I see now, with a clarity I’ve never had before, the Melody Followhill that I wished to meet my entire childhood. The one who is not only an accomplished ballerina, an amazing teacher, and the talk of the town, but a simple girl—maybe even like me—struggling to do the right thing by her family.
“When Via disappeared and I knew it was my fault, I didn’t even think I deserved your love anymore. You gave it, anyway, though sparsely. We grew apart, farther and farther, maybe a couple of inches each year, until the first semester of senior year. I felt like you were doing things to purposely hurt me. To taunt me about how bad I was.”
Melody shakes her head, pressing her fingertips to her mouth. “Never. I was frustrated and hurt and didn’t know how to reach out to you. I kept waiting for you to snap out of it. One minute, I was trying to talk to you being all submissive and fearful of my own daughter, and the next, I’d get angry and frustrated with you, losing my cool. At some point, when I recognized I became so bad at it, I simply let you be. And when that happened, I watched your relationship with your father, and as much as I love my husband with my entire heart, I finally realized what it felt like to be you. Because not only was I jealous, Lovebug, I was absolutely livid.
“I never loved Via more than you. You were always my strongest, most natural love. But Sylvia needed help. She was poor, and abused, and neglected, and there was nothing I could do because I knew if I stepped in, things could get a lot worse for her. All I could do was help her by buying her gear, providing her with meals and support, and trying to enroll her in the Royal Ballet Academy. I cut her slack not because I was enchanted with her antics—but because someone needed to. I took Penn and Via in without consulting you girls, and that was my biggest mistake yet. I was so focused on trying to atone for letting Via down when she disappeared, I hardly noticed I was stomping all over my own daughter. I’m so sorry you walked around feeling unworthy because of me. It’s always been so hard for me to express my feelings, and I think this is something you inherited from me. I taught you how to act tough, assuming that you are. You became so good at the game, I bought it.”
I laugh through my own tears, shaking my head and wiping them. “You really wanted me to stop trying to be a ballerina.” I sigh.
“Only because I didn’t want you to feel the same pressure I had when I was a pre-teen. You were always a natural.”
“Liar.” I snort, rolling my eyes, which only prompts more tears to fall.
She shakes her head and laughs, the sound bursting from her chest in relief. “Oh, Marx, are you kidding me? You were always so amazing. I watched as you became more and more insecure as time passed, and I had no idea it was about me or Via. I thought you were just tired and bored.”
“Tired and bored!” I screech. “Mom, I tried so freaking hard!”
We stop laughing. And crying. And breathing. Mel’s eyes widen, and we both look at each other with amusement laced with shock. And gratitude. So much gratitude.
“You called me Mom.”
“I did.” I choke on the words. “I did. You are. You are my mom.”
We meet halfway for a hug that squeezes out all the toxic hatred, frustration, misunderstandings, and miscommunication. The more time I spend in my mother’s arms, the deeper I can breathe. We stand like this in the kitchen for twenty or maybe thirty minutes. Until my legs and arms hurt from standing like this, hugging in a weird position for a long time.
“Mom?” I’m the first one to speak.
“Yes, Lovebug?” I can hear the mirth in her voice, and it makes my heart sing.
“I think your chicken pot pie is burned.”
Love is a battlefield
And I think I fucking died
(last entry)
Graduation Day.
The red cape and matching graduation cap make us look like a menstrual cycle. I shit you not, this thing is brutal. I don’t know who thought of the idea to match our capes to our football gear, but whoever they were, they need to lay off the crystal meth.
Kannon and Camilo trudge behind me in the long line on the stairway leading to the stage as our principal reads out our names.
“At least he shaved.” Cam laughs, elbowing Kannon and jerking his chin toward me. His leg is healing, and though he still has a faint limp, he is surprisingly cool about it. I say surprisingly, but really, if there’s one thing I learned this year, it’s that you rise up to the circumstances when they are presented to you. We are so much stronger than we think we are. But sometimes, we go through decades without having a reason to be tested. The thing about life is, it always hits us. No one leads a charmed life. Even the blond, gorgeous, picture-perfect, popular rich girl harbors secrets. Even the football captain. Even the rich mother of two who married her hot millionaire ex-student. The ballet prodigy. Everyone’s got a story, and we all have chapters we’d rather not read aloud.
“You look good, Penn.” Camilo slaps my shoulder.
“I don’t swing that way, Cam. Stop talking,” I grunt.
“Are Melody and Jaime here?” Kannon asks, snickering some more. What’s with those idiots? They act like it’s the first time they’ve met me, and I’m goddamn Taylor Swift. I adjust my stupid cap and let out a breath.