by Katie Henry
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head. “You know what I kept thinking the other night? When I couldn’t sleep?”
I fell asleep instantly, like the fight had sapped all my energy. I feel awful now, thinking of her lying awake all night.
“This is you and the splinters, all over again.”
“What?” I ask.
“When you were younger. You used to get all these splinters, from trees in the park. Do you remember that?”
Now that she says it, yeah. Almost every afternoon, after school, the twins and I would go to the park with our rotating cast of college-girl babysitters. The twins liked the sandbox and the swings, but I loved the trees. I wasn’t supposed to climb them, but I did—or at least tried—at every opportunity.
I’d never do that now. I was so much braver then.
Maybe I can be again.
“I’d come home after work to find you in the corner of your room, fending off Ava or Caitlin and the tweezers. I tried to tell you the splinter had to come out. Even though it hurt. If we didn’t yank it out fresh, it would just dig deeper and deeper into your body until it festered.” She sighs. “It was going to hurt no matter what. You never wanted to hear that.”
“It doesn’t sound like I was very smart.”
“You were only trying to protect yourself.” She smiles, a bit sadly. “The splinter always came out, in the end. A real fight and some tears later, but we got it out. You and me.”
You and me. I haven’t felt like my mom and I were that for such a long time. Like—
“A pair,” I say out loud, without quite meaning to.
She frowns. “What?”
“You and me,” I repeat. “A pair. Sometimes I think about our family as two pairs. You and Dad together, and the twins together.”
“And you?” she asks softly.
“The remainder.”
Mom looks away. “We—” She clears her throat. “We’ve got to fix that.”
I nod.
“I can’t send you off into the world feeling like a remainder,” she says, and breathes out heavily. “I only have a little more time, before you go.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “For all the things I said the other night, about . . . us. I’m sorry I made you feel—”
“I’m sorry you felt like your job in this family was to be easy. I’m sorry you felt like you had a job at all.”
I hurt myself in a thousand ways, and no one wanted it. It’s both freeing and crushing to realize so many of the boxes I’ve contorted myself to fit inside . . . I built them.
“Work your hardest in school, but other than that—” When Mom looks at me, it seems like she’s trying to keep from crying. “I just want you to be happy, in these last two years you have here. And if that involves some friends I wouldn’t pick, some hobbies I wouldn’t choose . . . so be it. The consequences will never be lighter than they are now. It’s a good time to get into a little trouble.”
“Thank you.”
She straightens up, suddenly all business. “It doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re grounded.”
“But—I’ve never been grounded.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, fighting a smile. “It does not have a steep learning curve.”
“Mom!”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.” She kisses me on the forehead. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”
She shuts the door after her. I just sit there for a couple minutes, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to do when you’re grounded. She didn’t say anything about my computer and didn’t take my phone, either. Sort of an oversight, but hey. This is new for both of us.
When I grab my phone off my dresser, the calendar reminder automatically pops up:
ALL-COLLEGE SHOWCASE: TODAY 3 PM
An hour from now.
I put the phone down. I already decided I wasn’t going. It never crossed my mind I was actually going to win a spot in the first place. Maybe if Sean the Bartender hadn’t blown my cover, maybe if I still had my friends to help me through it, this would be a possibility. But now that they all know who I really am—
It isn’t enough to stay home, I realize. That isn’t enough.
For so long, I was so certain Isabel and Izzy were different people. That Isabel was who I used to be, and Izzy was who I truly am. I thought it was a transformation. But it wasn’t, not exactly. Being Izzy was my real life, but so was being Isabel. The only parts that weren’t real were the lies.
There are the lies I told myself, that I could never be strong, never be heard, never really matter. I know those things aren’t true now.
There are the lies other people told me, that I was unlovable, I was nobody, I was small and should make myself even smaller for their benefit. I don’t believe them anymore.
There are the lies I told other people, to get what I wanted. I haven’t accounted for those yet. And I need to. I want to.
If the Showcase organizers know I’m not coming, someone else can go up in my place. It won’t be a loss, that way. If I come clean now, if I tell the truth, I can still make things right.
There’s a contact number in the email I got, but when I call, it goes straight to a full voice-mail box. Maybe I could text, or send an email, but there’s no guarantee they’ll see it in time. I call again. No answer.
My feet are on the floor, my hands are grabbing whatever shoes are closest, and my mind is racing into overdrive, because I know what I have to do. It would be too easy to stay home, curl up into my bed, and forget what was happening all around me. It would be easy, but it wouldn’t be right.
I have choices, but they’re mine to make. I have a voice, but it’s up to me to use it. I have a chance to make things right, but I have to take it.
And it has to be today.
The auditorium is packed when I get there, and I’m surprised by how many people I recognize. There’s Dave in one of the audience seats, scarfing chips and chatting up a beleaguered-looking girl next to him, one of the Aidans taking a selfie by the All-College Showcase banner, and so many faces I can pair with sets, and bits, and fist bumps after shows. So many people who said “Good set” to me after I went up, even if it wasn’t true. And I realize—this is what I always wanted school to be like, but it never was. A community. A family. A home.
Even if my friends never forgive me for all the lies, even if I never get to go up again, I don’t regret it. I can’t. I found myself here.
It takes me forever to find Mo, and I almost cry with relief when I finally see her in the crowd. She isn’t nearly as happy to see me. The second she spots me approaching, she holds up one hand, like she’s a crossing guard and I’m a garbage truck waiting to run some ducklings over.
“Hi,” I say, about to ask if she’s seen whoever’s in charge. But Mo has always been quicker than me.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“You don’t have to talk.”
“And I don’t want to listen to you talk, either, okay?”
“That’s not why I’m here,” I say, trying not to show my impatience. “I—”
Just then, I catch sight of the same girl who ran the auditions and abandon Mo midsentence.
The girl seems even more frazzled this time, with a clipboard in her hands, two different pens lodged in her messy ponytail, and an expression that is half-panicked and half-homicidal.
“Hi,” I say to her. “You’re in charge, right?”
“Is it you?” she says, with so much hope in her voice I half expect her to hug me and say we’re long-lost sisters. “Are you the last one?”
“I’m Izzy V.,” I tell her, and she sighs with relief. “I’m one of the performers.”
She crosses something off on her clipboard. “Yeah, and your call time was a half hour ago.”
“I tried
to call, but—”
“It doesn’t matter.” She waves me off. “Let’s just get you signed in and we can get this thing started.”
“Small problem,” I say.
She throws a hand up impatiently. “Yeah? What?”
I clear my throat. “I can’t perform.”
“Of course you can,” she says. “You’re here.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But I’m also sixteen.”
She stares at me. Then says, loud enough for half the room to hear: “You’re what?”
“I know,” I say, leaning in closer, hoping she’ll lower her voice a little. “I’m sorry, that’s why I’m—”
“What the hell are you telling me right now?” the girl shouts, even louder.
That gets everyone’s attention—including Mo’s. She’s beside us in a flash, angling herself so she’s right between me and the girl in charge. I don’t understand why until she says: “What’s going on?” And then turns to me to ask: “Are you okay?”
Mo doesn’t want to talk to me, or listen to me, or maybe ever forgive me, but she still wants to protect me. Like she always has.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I promise. “I was just explaining—”
“No way,” the girl in charge shakes her head in clear disbelief. “No way you’re sixteen.”
It’s actually impressive how many emotions Mo cycles through in the next half second. First confusion. Then realization at what I must have done. And finally, total shock I’ve done it. She stares at me and—maybe for the first time—has nothing to say.
“Go ahead.” I shrug at Mo, then gesture at the girl in charge. “Tell her.”
Mo’s eyes might be stuck that wide forever, but she manages to say: “Yep. She . . . is sixteen.”
“I wouldn’t have registered anyone with a high school ID,” the girl says.
“You didn’t ask for my ID. I was very late for the audition, too.”
There’s a flicker of recognition across her face. She closes her eyes and groans for a full three seconds.
“Why,” she says, almost begging, “would you audition for this?”
Good question. Difficult to explain in thirty seconds. I try anyway.
“So you know the Hydra in Greek mythology, where you cut off one head but then like eight heads grow from the stump? It turns out lies are a lot like Hydras—not that they’re snakes, but—” I look to Mo. “Is it a snake, or is it more like a big lizard?”
“Stop,” the girl orders me.
I nod. “Okay.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she says, but it’s less to me, more to the universe that has betrayed her. “There’s supposed to be ten of you. What am I supposed to tell the judges, I let a kid sign up?”
“You could, um.” I steal a quick glance at Mo, then look down at my shoes. “You could ask one of the alternates.”
I feel Mo’s head snap around to stare at me, but I don’t look back at her.
I think: You should have this, if you want it.
I think: If you want this, I want it for you.
I say: Nothing. Not because I can’t, but because I shouldn’t.
It doesn’t matter how much I want her up on the stage. It’s not my decision. It’s not my job to choose that for her, and it shouldn’t be. My only job was to tell the truth.
What comes next is up to Mo.
“It’s two minutes before the show!” the girl snaps at me. “I don’t even know if any alternates are here. What do you expect me to—”
Mo clears her throat. The girl stops short. Mo raises her hand.
“I’m here,” she says.
It takes a moment for the girl to get it. “You’re an alternate?” she asks. Mo nods. The girl takes the pen from her ponytail and the clipboard from under her arm. “Which one are you?”
“Last name Irani,” Mo says, “First name Mo.”
The girl circles something, then makes a few notations on the sheet in front of her. When she shrugs, it’s like her whole body is waving a white flag. “Okay.”
Mo and I look at each other. We’re both thinking the same things—it couldn’t be this easy, right? No pushback, no debate, no need for an impassioned speech?
“What do you mean ‘okay’?” Mo asks.
“I mean okay.” The girl sticks the clipboard back under her arm. “You’re in the lineup. You get three minutes, don’t go over your time, and if you have to pee or throw up or whatever, do it now.”
“Wait.” Mo holds up both hands, like she’s reconsidering. “There were three alternates. Shouldn’t we see if the other two—”
“Nope,” the girl says, glancing down at the clipboard again. “You’re first on the list; you’re the first alternate I would have called.” She looks back up at me. “If I’d had more than two minutes’ notice.”
“I tried calling!” I protest. Both of them ignore me.
“Any questions?” the girl asks. Mo shakes her head. “Okay. Well, Mo, you’re going up first, so . . . hope you’re prepared.”
Mo blanches at that news, but her voice doesn’t waver. “Yeah, I’m—it’s all good.”
“Go wait over there.” The girl jerks her head at the small group of performers waiting by the stage. One boy is shaking both hands like they’re covered with bees. Another is chugging from a water bottle like he just got airlifted out of the Sahara. I can practically hear Mo’s heart trying to launch itself out of her chest, so she’ll fit in just fine.
“Thank you,” Mo says to her, and this time, her voice does shake. Just a little.
“Yeah, please don’t.” The girl gestures again to the waiting performers and then stalks away.
Mo turns to me. “I don’t understand why you did this.”
“You deserve it,” I say. “It should have been you all along. I’m just . . . fixing a mistake.”
“You winning wasn’t a mistake.”
“That’s not the one I mean.”
Mo looks over at the boys gathered by the stage. I know what she’s feeling, at least some of it, I think. The nerves and the adrenaline and the desperate need to hear your own voice in the silence.
So when she asks me, “Are you going to stay?” I know why. As mad as she is with me, she wants me here. She wants me to hear her.
I smile. “They’d have to drag me out.”
A few days ago, Mo would have hugged me. Squeezed my hand. Said something sweet and funny and charming I’d think about all day. But today, she smiles back, then leaves me where I’m standing.
The judges are taking their seats at the table, and for a moment, I have second thoughts. Maybe something could have come of this. They liked me enough to give me a slot, and if they ever see me again, at an open mic or a club, will they remember who I am? I’m throwing away not just this opportunity, but future ones, too. But when I look at Mo, now standing with the other performers, I’m certain, all over again.
I’m not throwing anything away. I’m setting things right, making this moment the way it should be. And maybe—I hope against hope—I’m starting to piece something broken back together.
I take the long way around the chairs set up for the audience. If Will and Jonah see me, they don’t call me over. But I don’t look for them, either. Instead, I find a spot in the very back, by the doors. And I wait, for something I’ve seen so many times before, but I might never get to see again.
And then there she is, clambering up the steps in her giant boots, waving to an audience who already loves her, because how could you not? She adjusts her bow tie—a sure tell that she’s nervous—but the way she plucks the mic from its stand, you’d never know it.
“Hi,” she says, standing onstage, in the spotlight, like she was born for it. “My name’s Mo Irani, and I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here.”
Chapter 26
MY MOM SEES her world like flower petals, each part necessary to create something beautiful. For a long time, I assumed mine was like a solar system, where I was at the center—o
r should be. But now I think it’s more like an endless hallway of doors—some that you can choose to open yourself, and some that other people have to open for you.
One by one, they open their doors, and let me back in.
Naomi is first. We get to choose our own seats in AP US History, and I used to choose a seat in the back corner, where it was easier for me to hide. But lately, I’ve been sitting in the front row, where it’s easier for me to hear. I couldn’t hide now, even if I wanted to. Having a very loud, very public fight in the cafeteria ended that.
Naomi always sat in the back, too. But in the opposite corner, as far away from me as possible. And then one day, she slides into the seat next to me. She doesn’t talk. Neither do I. But I feel her there, and the distance between us.
We sit side by side for two days before she says finally: “I didn’t expect that. For you to . . . be funny. Like that,” she adds, and we both know she means more than she’s saying.
“Thanks.”
“But—” She wrinkles her nose. “You’ve kind of screwed yourself, right? With your new friends.”
“They weren’t ever my friends,” I tell her. “Not really.”
“And your boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
She doesn’t look as surprised as I expected. Maybe she already knew.
“Where do you go for lunch?” she asks. “You don’t come to the cafeteria.”
My breath catches at that—she has been looking for me.
“The library. Or Ms. Waldman’s room.”
“Jack keeps telling people you’re too scared to show your face.”
I snort. I’m scared? “Let him, I guess.”
She nods. But then, after a beat, she shakes her head. “No. Don’t.”
“Huh?”
“Show everyone he’s wrong.” She goes back to her notes. “We’ll—” Her eyes stay on her paper, but I can see the hesitation, the uncertainty, and the decisiveness on her face. All of it, all at once. “I’ll save you a seat.”
Will is next. He invites me out the following week, to an open mic in a coffee shop, clearly picking a day Mo and Jonah were both busy.
“They know,” he assures me. “They’re cool with it. They’re just not—”
