by Portia Moore
“And whatever happened, it doesn’t have to destroy you!” she yells, and I stop in my tracks. “I know how it feels to hurt more than you ever thought possible. To feel betrayed, duped. I understand what’s that’s like. I know something’s happened. That look on your face, you can’t hide it with a smile. I know that you came here for a reason, so just let me in.”
Before today, there had never been a single thing I did that I wanted to take back, to rewind time and make a different choice. Never once had I thought it. But looking at my sister now, after what’s happened over these past few days, I almost wish I could. If I could go back and change one thing, if I could tell the girl I was then, and even the woman I was up until yesterday, that every choice you make has a price, I would. But then again, the girl I was wouldn’t listen. The girl I was then was just a girl who fell in love with a boy.
The wrong boy.
I DON’T UNDERSTAND what the big deal is. There’re so many worse things I could be doing. They’re mad. Well, a little beyond mad—they’re furious—and for what? I smoked a little pot and got caught making out with Zach behind the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t like I was having sex and doing blow, but as red as Martin’s face is right now and as tight as my mom’s wringing her hands together, you’d think I’d just assassinated the freakin’ President.
“Do you understand what we’re saying to you, young lady? If I can even call you that,” Martin bellows at me as he paces the dining room.
“Mom, you’re going to let him say that to me? He’s acting like I’m some type of tramp.” I laugh, still a little buzzed from the joint that caused all of this ridiculous hysteria.
“Well, Gwendolyn, you aren’t acting like a lady. I can’t believe you,” my mother adds predictably.
“Your actions reflect on this entire family. These ridiculous antics you pull not only make you look bad but make all of us look bad,” he continues.
I focus on the ceiling fan turning above us. It’s a lot more interesting than anything he has to say. I know how this is going to end—me being grounded, him and mom talking about how much of a mess I am when, in fact, I’m fine.
“Look, you guys are blowing a gasket over nothing. I was just having a little fun. This whole campaign thing may be fun for you guys, but it’s stressing me the hell out,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
“Watch your language, young lady!” my mom says, her eyes squaring in on me.
“I’m sorry—it’s stressing me the fuck out.” I giggle, and their eyes widen. Okay, maybe that wasn’t as funny as it seemed in my head. I wish they’d just waited until my buzz was done to have this conversation. It would have gone a lot better for all of us.
Martin’s plump face is beet-red, and he runs his hand over his thick orange hair. When Dad first introduced him to us, I’d figured he was what Opie Taylor would look like if he was a late-fifty-something car salesman with a chronic case of cornball. I start to imagine cheese balls, and I burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is funny? You think it’s a joke, huh? Well, you wouldn’t think it was so funny if we took away the car you don’t deserve to drive and those records you listen to that are probably killing the brain cells you have anyway,” he says, folding his arms in his polyester suit.
“You can’t take my car, Martin. It was a gift from my actual dad,” I remind him, starting to find this conversation more annoying than entertaining.
“I can take the car,” my mother asserts. “I can take the car and your clothes and everything else that belongs to you because we provide it. You are a child, and you are proving it more and more as each day passes. You are being selfish and completely self-centered, but you are not stupid. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were doing this on purpose, but I have to banish that thought because I’d hate to think the daughter I birthed could be so callous and immature.”
I feel a burning in my chest. “It’s not that big a deal! I wasn’t trying to sabotage anything! I just wanted to have a little fun. You knew what that was when Dad was alive!”
“You lower your voice, young lady,” she says warningly, with a glint in her eye that makes me want to cry.
“I just don’t get it. What did I do to you, Gwen? What did I do to make you act so disdainfully toward me?” Martin asks in a tone that would make someone think he actually cares what I think of him. When, really, he couldn’t give two shits. He’s crossing his fingers I just get on a bus one day and never come back. “I know I’m not your dad. He was a good man—if anyone knows that, it’s me . . .” He’s oh so sincere, such a good actor. That works great for tricking people into buying the cars off his lot and getting poor saps to drive off with cars they know they can’t afford.
I smile at him. “Of course you’d know. You were his best friend and didn’t wait six months after he was in the ground to move in on his wife.” I shrug.
I hadn’t known it was possible, but Martin’s already pale face goes whiter, and my mother’s naturally tanned skin even turns a little pale. Martin nods slowly and leaves the room. My mom stands and walks over to me.
“Look at me, Gwen,” she says, her tone warm but stern.
I glance up at her.
“We all miss your father,” she says quietly.
I scoff. You couldn’t tell. They never talk about him. All the pictures of us suddenly “went missing” a few weeks after she married Martin as if my father never existed.
“I miss your father,” she says adamantly.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You don’t think I miss him? You’re his spitting image. Every time I look at you, I see his face,” she says sadly. “You’re beautiful, intelligent, and you’re wasting it. You know your father wouldn’t want you behaving like this.”
“Don’t bring Dad into this. If Dad was here, things would be different.” My throat burns, but I refuse to let her see me cry.
“Are you being this way because you miss him? Do you need to see a counselor, to talk to someone again?” she asks sweetly. Her Southern belle charm coming out, as my father used to say. It used to work on him, and it works on almost everyone around her. It doesn’t work on me.
“I don’t need to see anyone. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want to be in any pictures or pretend like we’re a happy family for any interviews. I don’t give a shit about Martin being the mayor. I just want to be left alone!” I sound a lot angrier than I intend to.
She nods. “Well, alone you shall be.” My mom calmly walks away from me toward the door. “You’re grounded. Three weeks. No TV, no phone, and no car. Give me your keys.”
“You’re kidding. It’s spring break!” I say in disbelief. I’d known she’d be mad. I thought I’d get maybe a week of extra chores, but this is ridiculous.
“No, I am not, Gwendolyn,” she says pointedly. “You’re running around doing drugs and acting like a little slut, so I am not kidding! You are my seventeen-year-old daughter, and I will not stand for it. You are extremely out of line, and regardless of how you feel about Martin, as of now, he is the reason you get to drive your car and wear those designer jeans you like and have a roof over your head. You will not, and I mean this, Gwendolyn, ever disrespect him again, or so help me, you will finish the rest of your senior year at a boarding school in Burma!” She grabs my purse and shuffles through it until she finds my keys and snatches them.
“Great, you think I’m a slut and a drug addict?” I say, trying to laugh, but I can feel myself starting to cry, and I hate it.
“Actions, Gwen, are what people go by. You’re smoking pot and kissing boys who aren’t even your boyfriend. What do you think people believe about you?” she says sharply.
“I don’t care about people! What do you think? Do you think I’m a slut? Do you think smoking a little pot, which I know you and Dad have done, makes me a druggie?”
“I don’t know what to think. I never had these types of issues with Gia. I don’t know how to help
you if you don’t even see what you’re becoming,” she says before leaving my room and shutting the door.
I stomp across my room then throw myself on my bed. She probably does think I’m a step away from being a basehead or prostitute. They act as if they caught me in a drug house having an orgy. I just needed to relax, and Zach helps me to relax. We were only making out, but of course she’d jump to conclusions because I’m Gwen, not Gia. If they caught Gia doing that, she’d of course have the perfect explanation and it’d all be forgiven, not that she’d ever get caught being anything less than perfect.
I walk over to the shelf over my desk and pull out our photo album. A lot of people hate their older sisters, especially their perfect ones, but I never have. Even though Gia does everything right and has things so easy it can make you want to slap her sometimes, things were so much easier when she was here. Then again, she was here when Dad was here. Things changed so much after he passed away. I lost not only my dad but my best friend. If he were here, he’d understand. He’d tell my mom she was overreacting. But then again, if he were here, I wouldn’t be so stressed that I needed to smoke and ended up frenching Zach at school.
I grab the pink teddy bear off my bed, the one my dad won for Gia and me at a carnival when we were little, and hug it as tears come down my cheeks. I wipe them away quickly. I know my dad wouldn’t want me crying. I remember whenever I did, he’d sing that old song “Big Girls Don’t Cry” and tickle me until I had no choice but to stop. If Gia was here, things would be better. She can calm my mom down just how my dad did—that’s the one trait I didn’t get from him.
I sit on my bed and sigh. Three weeks of basically living in a box with no communication with the outside world. I’ll go crazy. I hate it here. Living in this house is so dead. Martin has all of his political people over, and they schmooze and strategize, and my mom floats about, smiling and coddling people. She only talks to me when she’s lecturing or yelling. Martin’s her focus now. She’ll be the wife of someone important if he wins because that’s how gullible the people in this town are. Vote for the flashy guy with the wide smile who tells you what you want to hear and lies to you with ease.
Maybe I should lie, wait awhile and tell them I’m sorry and I’ll never do it again. They probably wouldn’t believe it. I’m not a believable liar in the least—I can’t fake sincerity—but to avoid three weeks of sitting in a box and staring at the wall, I can at least attempt it. I get off my bed and suck it up, prepared to come to some type of amends. I head down the stairs and hear my mother speaking in the tone she uses when she’s doing business.
“Hello, this is Ava Jenson. I spoke with you last week about my daughter attending your program. I’m hoping I could come out this week and get a tour of your campus. If you can give me a call back when you’re able, I can be reached at . . .”
My heart beats a thousand miles a minute. Is this for real? Program? What the hell is she talking about? She really wants to send me away? She can’t do that. Where would she send me, boarding school? That seems like some jacked-up shit Martin would put her up to.
I turn around as quietly as I can and head back up the stairs, into my bedroom, and close the door. It makes so much sense. They can send me away for the rest of the year, then they won’t have any issues with me during the rest of Martin’s campaign. I can’t believe her. I sit on the bed and try to catch my breath. I think I may hyperventilate. What do I do? I can’t go to some boarding school, or worse, military boot camp. My best friend’s cousin got sent to a place like that, and she hasn’t been the same since. If my mother’s going so far as to tour the campus, her mind could already be made up. Only one person can talk her out of this, and she’s five hours away. I haven’t talked to my sister in weeks. Ugh, all of this over a joint and a stupid hormonal moment of weakness with stupid Zach. I’m going to kill him.
I know what I have to do. I have to talk to Gia and get her to convince Mom not to send me away. I run to my closet and rummage through it to find the letters she sent me. I grab my book bag, dump everything out of it, and stuff a few shirts and pairs of underwear in it. I look at the clock. It’s nine thirty. If they follow their routine, they should be in bed by eleven, so my mom will probably come check on me in the next hour.
I take off my top and put on my pajama shirt and climb into bed. Exactly an hour later, like clockwork, I hear my door open. I close my eyes, pretending to be deep in slumber. My mom touches my forehead with a deep sigh and tiptoes back out the room. One more hour, and she’ll be asleep.
I get out of bed and throw on my sweatshirt over my pajama top, put on my gym shoes, and grab my backpack. I grab the box at the top of my closet and count the money in it. One hundred and eighty dollars. That should be enough to get me a bus ticket to Chicago. I open my door and listen for noises, making sure it’s all clear. I tiptoe down the stairs and grab the phone in the kitchen. I dial the number and cross my fingers he’ll pick up.
“Hello?” Zach sounds groggy.
“It’s me,” I say in a hushed tone.
“Me who?” he asks irritably.
“Me, dumbass,” I say sharply.
“Ooohhh. I thought you’d be on lockdown right about now.” He chuckles, and I want to smack his face. He’s lucky he’s the only one I know who has a separate phone line from their parents.
“I need you to pick me up.”
“Where we going?” Now he’s interested.
“I need you to take me to the bus station.”
“That doesn’t sound like it’ll benefit me at all. Good night,” he says.
“Zach, stop being such an ass. I need you to come now, please!”
“Look your stepdad’s about to be the mayor, and I don’t need those type of problems,” he says through a yawn.
“You didn’t give a damn about him being my stepdad when you had your tongue in my mouth earlier,” I say angrily.
“Well, that was worth it.” He sounds smug.
I don’t have any time for jokes. “Look, can you for once in your life think of something besides getting laid? My mom might be shipping me off to boarding school, and the only person who can change her mind is my sister, and I have to go talk to her, so can you just please come . . .” I can hear the disinterest in his sigh. “Okay, I’ll give you ten bucks.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he says and hangs up.
God, I can’t believe I let him feel me up.
ZACH IS OUTSIDE as promised, driving his older brother’s beat-up blue pickup truck. I run down the street to where he’s parked on the corner and hop in. Zach pulls off before I can even shut the door.
“Well, I would say thanks for coming to help in my time of need, but since you’re a jackass, I guess that won’t be needed,” I say after punching him lightly on the arm.
“Oh, you’re so welcome, your highness. I mean, since it’s certainly my obligation to get you since I’m your boyfriend or brother, right?” he says condescendingly.
I roll my eyes, pull out the ten bucks I promised him, and toss it on his lap.
“You’re lucky I’m kind of into rude women with sucky attitudes,” he says, giving me a wink.
I cross my arms and look out the window, hiding my smirk. I don’t know what’s wrong with me or why I am the way I am, but God if I could literally change my taste in boys, I so would. Zach Riley is every father’s worst nightmare. He works at a gas station his uncle owns but only when he feels like it—mostly after he’s gotten high and wants the free snacks to binge on. It’s apparently also a good place to pick up some unsuspecting teenage girls he can feel up while smoking.
He’s lazy, self-centered, and thinks he’s God’s gift to women—not that he isn’t. With that thick coal-black hair, mesmerizing hazel eyes, a six-pack, and a bad attitude, he attracts them like moths to a flame. Maybe he’s God’s gift to women after we’ve really pissed God off.
I can’t really say I don’t like him. I do—he’s the closest thing I have to a
best friend—but unlike other girls, I know he’s damaged goods. There will be no changing him or happily ever after for us. We’ve been hanging out, smoking pot, and making out when the need arises for the past seven months. Sometimes when he’s high enough and lets his guard down, I see the cracks in his bad-boy persona. Maybe one day, after a few more birthdays, he’ll grow up and decide to do something with his life. He’s super smart—he almost had a perfect ACT score—but he hates school and shows up only when he feels like it, if it’s some benefit to him. He comes just enough to get his diploma so he won’t hear his parents nag him.
We almost had an accident once because he didn’t want to hit a confused baby squirrel that ran out in the middle of the street, so I know he has a heart even if he tries to deny it, but this broken man surely won’t be mine to fix. I’ll let another girl try to break through his smug, conceited—albeit super-hot—exterior.
“So your mom’s sending you up the river? Cuffing you to the ball and chain?” He laughs, taking a puff of his cigarette.
“It’s not funny. I can’t go to some crappy boarding school or fix-your-attitude boot camp,” I scoff.
He chuckles. “It’s not like your attitude needs fixing or anything.”
“You’re one to talk,” I spit back at him.
“Hey, I know I’m not winning any congeniality awards anytime soon, but I’m a guy. Chicks think it’s hot. My mom thinks it’s normal at my stage in life, expected even, but you’re a girl.”
I feel my face scrunch up. “What does that mean?”
He laughs again before taking another puff of his cigarette. “It means that you can’t be the female version of me.” He glances at me with a smirk I used to find sexy but I’m now annoyed with.
“Oh, my lifelong aspiration is crushed,” I say sarcastically.
“What I’m trying to say is you can’t do what I do, what any guy does. It won’t look right. Especially with stepdaddy having the political aspirations he does,” he says before drumming on his steering wheel to the solo playing on the radio.
