The Originals

by Cat Patrick

  “Let her talk,” I say to Ella; she nods.

  “What are the conditions?” Betsey asks, slouching lower into her chair and picking at a freezer waffle on a serving dish.

  “Well,” Mom says, stalling like she’s making up rules on the fly. “The necklace must be worn at all times, as usual.”

  We all agree; that’s a given.

  “You’ll have a curfew of ten o’clock and—”

  “Uh, Mom?” I interrupt. “That’s a little early, don’t you think?”

  “Eighth graders stay out later than that,” Betsey says.

  “Seriously,” Ella adds, and she does look pretty serious about it.

  “Fine,” Mom says. “Eleven.”

  I bite my cheek to keep from smiling like I’ve been asked to appear on a dancing reality show.

  But then Mom’s eyes cloud over. “I’m not sure what to do about…” Her words trail off and she twists her face in that way that she does when she’s considering something. I want to ask what she means, but I’m afraid to say anything. “Everyone thinks there’s only one Elizabeth, so obviously you can only date one boy. I’m not sure how to make it fair.”

  “Straws?” Betsey offers. “Like our rooms?”

  “This is a little more important than bedroom assignments,” Mom says, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all just too complicated. Maybe you should wait another—”

  “You pick the guy,” Betsey blurts out. Ella and I both look at her, eyes wide with surprise.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say to her.

  “Actually, it’s a good idea,” Mom says. “Who you date matters. We don’t want anyone you’re associated with drawing attention to our situation. I think Betsey’s suggestion is a great one.”

  “But how would that even work?” Ella says. She looks as sick as I feel. Secrets or not, it seems wrong not to be able to just date who I want.

  “Hmm… I guess you three can each pick a boy, and tell me a little about him, and then I’ll take a day or two to decide,” she says, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Fair?”

  Not at all.

  No one answers, so Mom continues. “Let me know when you’ve all figured out who you’d like to submit.”

  “David Chancellor,” Ella blurts out.

  Mom stifles a laugh. “Well, then,” she says, walking back to the table and grabbing the pencil she’d probably been using for the crossword. She writes David’s name on a corner of the newspaper.

  “Lizzie?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “Sean Kelly,” I say, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation, I smile at just the sound of his name. She narrows her eyes and smiles a little, too, then writes. When she’s finished, she looks up at Betsey.

  “And you?”

  Betsey shakes her head. “I forfeit,” she says with a satisfied smirk on her face. “Better chances for the ones who actually like someone.” She doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all,” Mom mutters to Betsey. She starts cleaning again with purpose.

  Ella sits down to eat, but before I join her, I look at Betsey. I know that all of it, from bringing up dating in the first place to the “you pick” thing to keep Mom from throwing out the idea altogether, was all for me.

  Thanks, I think at her. She smiles like she heard me.

  seven

  Sunday, Mom decides that she wants to go to the bookstore with her daughter, and it happens to be afternoon, so I’m the one dragged along. Normally, I’m all for leaving the house, and bookstores are among my favorite places to be. But my mind’s on Sean, and frankly, all I really want to do is listen to sappy songs and think about him.

  “How are you, Lizzie?” Mom asks in that fully loaded way of hers as we drive through the gate in the luxury sedan she bought when we moved here.

  “This car smells like Band-Aids,” I say. “It always has.”

  Mom looks at me funny. “Are you dodging my question?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, looking out the window. “Have you decided about the dating thing yet?”

  “Not yet,” she says quietly. “Do you want to talk about it at all?”

  And say what? Pick me! Pick me!

  “No.”

  “Who’s Sean?” she asks.

  “I just said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She gives me a look, so I give in.

  “Fine. He’s a guy in my creative writing class.” I have to turn my head so far to the right it hurts and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.

  “I see,” Mom says, reaching over to turn down the air-conditioning. She’s always cold. “What else?”

  I consider telling her about Sean’s photography. His laid-back style. His general awesomeness. Instead, I say simply, “Nothing.”

  We ride in silence for a few seconds, and I start thinking about how I really should be campaigning for Sean when Ella’s not around to do the same for Dave. But I don’t want to have to campaign for the guy I like. I just want to see what happens. The whole thing is so unnatural and unfair and unrealistic and a million other un words that I wish I would’ve just stayed home.

  We pull up to a red light and Mom looks at me, concerned. “Is everything okay?” The light turns green, so she’s forced to look away, but that doesn’t stop her from talking. “You’ve seemed sort of sulky lately.”

  “I’m not sulky,” I snap. “I’m just… over it.”

  “Over what?”

  Immediately, I want to take back what I said, not because I didn’t mean it, but because I don’t want to get into a big discussion about it. I think Mom believes that we’re content or at least satisfied with the situation. And I guess until recently, we have been. I have been… maybe because I didn’t know any better. But now I know things need to change… I just don’t know how. And without knowing, now’s not the time to open that can of catastrophe.

  “Betsey keeps taking my clothes,” I lie. “I’m so completely over it I could scream. She has no respect for my personal space. And it’s not like she doesn’t have the exact same outfits as I do. She says that her closet smells, but whatever, that’s her problem.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Mom says, holding back a laugh, which tells me that she believes what I said. I’m quiet the rest of the way to the bookstore.

  Inside, we walk a few aisles together, then split up. I look at practically every cover and read every description on the paperback new releases table, then settle on a book I saw Alison reading before dance last week. When I’m finished, I meet up with Mom at the coffee corner.

  “You’re right, you know,” Mom says after taking a sip of her latte.

  “Of course I am,” I joke. “But about what specifically?”

  She laughs. “You’re growing up. You’re practically a woman.” She reaches over and brushes a piece of lint off my hoodie.

  “Ew, Mom, don’t talk about me being a woman in public,” I say, which makes her chuckle again.

  “Sorry, Elizabeth.” She only calls me Elizabeth when we’re out of the house together. “I’m just sentimental.”

  “It’s okay. I get what you’re saying.”

  I nod toward the door and Mom follows. As we walk into the bright sun, I’m happy to be spending time with her, and I even start to feel a little nostalgic. I think of the lime-green playhouse in Florida that she bought used and decorated with scrap wallpaper and carpeting. She’d fold herself in with all three of us so we could snuggle and read bedtime stories. She’d sing us this made-up song called “Three Little Birdies”; I always loved it.

  On one of the walls, she hung labeled pictures, cut out of magazines and books, of far-off people and places—I think she wanted us to be worldly even though we never went anywhere. The thought of how hard Mom worked to make ours a happy home squeezes my heart. In this moment, I feel close to her again, just like we used to be.

  Two hours later, I hate my mother with all the fiery pa
ssion I possess.

  At dinner, she drops the bomb: We’re approved to date David Chancellor. Apparently, she has a friend in the counselor’s office at school and—Who really cares why or how? The bottom line is that on paper at least, David’s better than Sean.

  As Ella and Betsey ask logistical questions, like “Are we really going to split dating him or can Ella go out at night if there’s a nighttime date?” I think of nothing but how Mom probably knew what her decision was going to be when she made me go to the bookstore today. Why did she even bother to ask about Sean if she was planning to nix my chances with him later?

  In the midst of the conversation, I stand up and drop my full plate of pasta into the sink, then storm up to my room. No one stops me, and no one comes in the rest of the night.

  Later, Sean unknowingly pours salt in the wound.

  I think we should meet at halftime on Friday.

  I stare at the Facebook instant message for a full minute, cycling through emotions. At first, I’m elated—he wants to meet up!—but then I’m heartbroken by the reality of my life. Nothing about this situation is even remotely fair. And although I should find some way to politely decline, I don’t. In this moment, it’s like I’m possessed by a regular girl: a girl whose mom doesn’t dictate who she dates.

  Oh, you do, huh?

  I see that he’s writing another message and wait nervously to read it.

  Yep. I mean, you’ll be cheering; I’ll be taking pictures. Seems perfect.

  It is, I message back, meaning it. It’s a great idea; in fact, it’s the best I’ve heard all week. I add a smiley-face icon, thankful that Sean can’t see my real face: red and blotchy from crying. Sighing a long, heavy sigh, I read:

  So? You in?

  I bite my lip, trying to think of an excuse. I know I can’t commit to this. Mom was clear: It’s Dave or no one. But beyond that, games are at night; Betsey would be the one to meet Sean. Agreeing to this is as pointless as wearing a raincoat in San Diego. But despite all that, the regular girl in me just wants to enjoy the moment.

  I can’t force my fingers to go near the n or the o. Instead, I type:

  Maybe.

  eight

  Mom’s leaving for work when I get home from school on Friday. We don’t usually see each other in the afternoons—which has been a blessing this week—but there’s no cheer practice since there’s a game tonight.

  “I left chicken and rice in the fridge for supper,” she says when I walk into the kitchen.

  “Why can’t you just say ‘dinner’ like normal people?” I ask, hearing the ridiculousness of my gripe. “And I hate chicken,” I add, which is among the most untrue statements ever uttered. But I’m still mad at her, and I’m boycotting chicken to prove it. Or at least I’m telling her I am; you never know what’ll happen when dinnertime rolls around.

  Not wanting to see her stupid face, I go upstairs to my room and slam the door. I fall onto the bed and scream into the pillow. This week has been beyond annoying. Not only have I been tortured by seeing Sean and his wanting-to-hang-out self, but Ella wasted no time setting something up with Dave. They went out on a coffee date, and unfortunately, it went well.

  At least I’m not the one who has to hang out with the guy.

  Since even Mom was grossed out by the idea of three girls dating the same person at once—even if no one else knows we’re three—it was decided that Ella’s the one who’s going to actually do the dating. I mean, I still have to be polite to Dave at school, but Ella’s in charge of the rest. What that means—what’s making me hibernate in the caves of my pillow right now—is that all this was for nothing… at least from my perspective. Ultimately, Ella won big—getting closer to a life of her own—and I just flat-out lost.

  I’m still lying facedown on my bed when Ella comes in a while later. She’s talking on the phone, and at first, I think she’s going to rub my nose in her “win.”

  “Leave me alone,” I mutter into my pillow.

  “Bet wants to talk to you,” she says, tapping me on the arm with the cordless. Glad that it’s Betsey, I reach out and take it.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Picking up my uniform from the dry cleaner,” Bet says. “Geez, you sound like crap.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m fine.” From the foot of my bed, Ella gives me a knowing look. “I’ll be fine,” I add.

  “El said you told her that Sean asked you to meet at the game.”

  “Yeah.” The phone is uncomfortably smashed into my cheek, but I don’t have the will to lift my head and ease my own pain.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, and I can tell from her voice that she feels a little hurt that I didn’t share the story with her, too.

  “Sorry.” Wow, I really do sound like crap.

  “It’s okay,” Betsey says. “Let me talk to Ella again for a quick sec.” Glad to be off the hook, I hand Ella the phone, then drop my face back into the pillow. I listen to Ella’s end of the conversation.

  “Hi.

  “I know.

  “I know.

  “What do you mean?

  “Are you being serious right now?

  “Yes, of course, but…

  “She might. And then we’d all be dead.

  “I don’t know, B.

  “Ugh… I just don’t know.

  “Maybe.

  “Okay, fine, she would.

  “Fine. But if she gets pissed, I’m going to burn your Birkenstocks.”

  Ella laughs and I can hear Betsey laughing on the other end of the line.

  “Okay, sounds good. Don’t forget to check the stain on my blue shirt before you pay, okay?

  “I know, but last time they didn’t—

  “Betsey, just do it!”

  She listens for a long moment and then sighs.

  “I know, I know.

  “Yeah, I’ll tell her.

  “Okay, bye.”

  Ella disconnects the phone and I feel it thump onto the middle of the bed. She doesn’t say anything for so long that I finally pull up my head and look at her. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and she’s staring at me with pity and a plan in her eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “You’re doing evening tonight,” she says, matter-of-fact.

  I bolt up to sitting, eyes wide. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, but WHAT?” I say. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying… are you?”

  “She… we… feel really badly that you’re not getting your shot with Sean,” Ella says softly. “We want you to have this one night. So yeah, I’m saying what you think I’m saying.”

  My heart pounds hard and fast in my chest. “We’re doing a switch.”

  We used to try to trick Mom a lot when we were little. I’d wear Betsey’s favorite T-shirt or Ella would ask for my favorite food for dinner, just to see if she’d be able to tell. She always saw through our makeshift disguises, but we loved it. It was a game, and every time we were called out, we’d launch into a giggle fit cubed, then start plotting our next attempt. But as we got older, particularly when we were made to live as one person, silly switches became less fun.

  Nervous as I am about Mom finding out, tonight feels fun again.

  I make my way to City Stadium in the dying daylight. At one point, on a particularly dark stretch of road, a passing car flashes its lights at me and I realize that my headlights are off. I flip them on, and driving becomes significantly easier.

  When I arrive, I walk with my chin up like I know where I’m going through the lot, then head under the bleachers toward the field. I try not to make it obvious that I’m reading the signs; thankfully, there are many, and they are bold. I turn and make my way down a long tunnel behind several football players. I scan to confirm that none of them is David.

  When I emerge from the darkness, my senses come to life. Massive lights shine so brightly that they make the green grass seem fake. I loo
k down at my yellow and black uniform and practically need sunglasses it’s so vibrant. I suck in my breath and get high on the fresh air and the scent of just-clipped grass. I listen to the sound of hard plastic hitting hard plastic, the grunts of boys warming up, instruments being tuned. I shiver when a breeze winds around my bare legs like a kitten’s tail. I look up to the first few stars already shimmering in the darkening sky even though there’s a glow of daylight peeking through. I feel overwhelmed, and without warning, tears pop into my eyes.

  I’m out at night.

  “Elizabeth!” someone calls. “Elizabeth! Over here!”

  I see Grayson waving at me, with Morgan, Jane, Natalie, and a few others smiling behind her. I’m neither first nor last to arrive: just how I like it. I smile and wave back, then work my way down the ramp to meet up with the girls. I look around for Sean, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  “This is amazing,” I say to Grayson when I join her and the others on the sidelines. She nods, but looks confused: She’s been here before and assumes that I have, too. Except that I haven’t—Betsey has. Thankfully, she doesn’t point out my weirdness.

  Isla and several other squad members arrive. We start stretching, and more girls appear from the tunnel. Soon, we’re fifteen strong and the bleachers are filling up and the players head into their respective locker rooms to get pumped for the game of the year, against Woodbury’s biggest rival. According to Grayson, this game is even bigger than Homecoming.

  “Guys, line up!” she shouts. “Let’s get the crowd going.”

  I move to the center row with the four other medium-height girls and make sure I’m staggered to the right of short Isla in front of me. I know tall Simone behind me will do the same. The goal is for everyone to be visible from the student section.

  Grayson begins by shouting, “Ready? Okay!” Then everyone joins in.

  Bang, bang, choo-choo train!

  Come on, Woodchucks, do your thang…

  The words are completely humiliating, but the moves are a little like jazz, so I zone out and pretend I’m on the dance team instead. Except there is no dance team. The cheer is an easy one consisting of simple clapping, kicking, and jumping—no lifts—so I just go with it and even add an extra high kick at the end.