Читать книгу One Small Thing: the gripping new page-turner essential for summer reading 2018! - Erin Watt - Страница 12

4

Tuesday is the first day of school. The first day of my last year, and I should be rejoicing. One year is all I have left under this roof. One year until I’m in college, the college I want to attend, free from my parents’ constant, watchful control.

Their eyes are pinned on me right now. They have questions. I can feel a heaviness in the air. Mom’s disappointment mixed with Dad’s frustration and resentment have formed a black thundercloud that clings to the ceiling and walls like smoke after a pan fire.

I try to act normally, as if I didn’t do things last night I sorely regret. Things I’ve lied about to Scarlett, to my parents, to myself. Since I opened my eyes this morning, I’ve been forcing myself not to think about Chase. But it’s so hard not to. And when the thoughts of him do surface, I feel like sobbing.

I had sex for the first time yesterday. I wanted to, and I enjoyed it. I really did—at the time. But it didn’t take very long for the glow to fade. For the thrill of doing something new and exciting and rebellious to be replaced with bone-deep shame.

My first time was with a stranger. It was a one-night stand.

What the hell do I do with that? I can’t even begin to process it, and I wish my parents would stop staring at me. I’m afraid if they stare long enough, they’ll be able to read my thoughts.

“Did you have a nice time at Scarlett’s?” Mom asks, breaking the silence.

The sound of her voice brings a phantom pain to my cheek. She hit me yesterday. She’s acting like she doesn’t remember. Or maybe she’s just trying to forget. Or hoping I’ll forget. Fat chance.

“Lizzie?” she prompts. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Uh-huh.” I push the sautéed zucchini to the edge of my plate. Scarlett had been sleeping when I crawled into her bed. When morning came, I barely spoke a word to her. She kept pumping me for details about the party, but I could only manage vague answers. I don’t want Scarlett to know that I gave it up to some hot stranger at some random party. It’s way too embarrassing.

“What did you do?”

My fork halts its trek to the side, a pale green half-moon stuck on one of the tines. This type of question is asked only when your parents are suspicious and want to catch you in a lie. The less said in times like these, the better. “Stuff.”

I force my hand to move, to pretend like my heart rate hasn’t picked up and my body isn’t tense with fear.

“Like what?” Mom’s tone is light, but probing.

“Same stuff we always do.”

There are several beats of silence during which I realize that they know something and are waiting for a confession. I keep my eyes pinned to my plate.

Next up for separation are the mushrooms. I hate those. I always have and yet Mom continues to cook with them.

Mushrooms were Rachel’s favorite.

There’s a shuffling of papers. White appears at the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look but I can’t help it.

“Do you know what this is?” It’s Dad’s turn to question me now.

This is a good cop/bad cop routine that they do. Mom pretends concern and when I don’t show any remorse, Dad steps in with his stern voice and even sterner commands.

“No.” That’s honest, at least.

“It’s a printout of your text messages.”

“What?” Jaw dropping, I grab the sheaf of papers. My eyes skim down the page in total disbelief. Either I’m hallucinating, or I’m actually reading a transcript of the texts I exchanged with Scar when I was leaving the party last night.

217-555-2956: How’s the party? U OK?

217-555-5298: I’m fine. Party’s lit. omw back now. cabbing it.

217-555-5298: Prnts call?

217-555-2956: No

217-555-5298: kk cover 4 me if they do

217-555-5298: Made it back, safe and sound.

My stomach sinks. That last one was the message I sent Chase. I almost cry with gratitude that I didn’t say anything more damning.

I flip backward and see more messages.

217-555-2956: party 2nite?

217-555-5298: yessss

217-555-2956: what abt prnts?

217-555-5298: Ill tell them have 2 wrk

Fear, anger and frustration spin around in my head. I don’t even know what to say. And in the back of my mind, all I can think is Thank God. Thank God I didn’t text Scarlett about Chase and confess to having sex for the first time. Thank God I didn’t message Chase about what happened between us. The mere thought of my parents finding out about it, reading it firsthand on some text message, makes me nauseous.

“I can’t believe you’re spying on me!” I shout, slamming the papers onto the table. Unwelcome tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have any right to read my text messages!”

“I pay for that phone of yours,” Dad thunders.

“Then I’ll pay for it myself!” I jump out of my chair and push away from the table.

Dad grabs my wrist. “Sit down. We aren’t done.”

The look in his eye says that I better sit or he’ll make me. He never used to be this hard, this strict. Before Rachel died, he was the fun dad. He told the cheesiest jokes because he liked hearing us groan and cringe at them. Now I don’t think he even remembers how to smile.

I gulp, try to find my bravado, but come up empty. I sit.

“It’s not your actions that disappoint us,” Mom says, “but your lying. We simply can’t trust you.”

“Which is why your car is being taken away,” Dad adds.

“My car?” I gape at them. My car is one of the single instances of freedom I have. They gave me Mom’s old hatchback the second I got my learner’s permit. I would’ve been fine taking the bus or walking, but my parents felt I’d be safer behind the wheel of a car than on foot at crosswalks or bus stops.

Rachel was on foot when she was killed after all. Apparently that means I can’t walk within five steps of a motor vehicle ever again.

God, I sound bitter. I hate feeling this way, especially when deep down I know my parents aren’t bad people. They just haven’t recovered from Rachel’s death. I doubt they ever will, not without years and years of therapy—which they refuse to go to. The one time I suggested it, Mom stiffly informed me that everyone grieves differently, and then she got up and walked out of the room.

But they’re hurting me as a result of their unending grief, and I am bitter. And now they’re taking away my car?

In my car, I can blast my music, scream profanities and give voice to all my inner frustrations. Losing it would be awful.

I grapple for reasons that’ll convince them that this is wrong. “How am I supposed to get to work? Or the animal shelter?” For the past year, I’ve volunteered at a local animal shelter twice a month. Rachel’s allergy made it impossible for us to have pets at home and even now that she’s gone, the no-pets rule is still strictly enforced. So volunteering is the only way I get to be around dogs, who are way better than people, in my opinion.

Mom doesn’t meet my eyes. Dad clears his throat. “You won’t be doing, either. We’ve informed your boss at the Ice Cream Shoppe and Sandy at the clinic that you’ll be too busy with school to be able to work or volunteer.”

“You...” I take a breath. “You quit my jobs for me?”

“Yes.”

I’m so stunned I don’t have a response. All I can see are the doors slamming closed in my already-constrained life. No car. Slam. No part-time job. Slam. No volunteer work. Slam. Slam. Slam.

“You’re saying I go to school and come home. That’s it?” The knot in my chest threatens to choke me. It’s my senior year. I should be looking forward to my world getting bigger, not smaller.

“Until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of our trust, yes.”

I turn toward Mom. “You can’t agree with this. I know you know that this is wrong.”

She refuses to meet my eyes. “If we were stricter before...” She trails off but I know what before means. Our lives are strictly bisected into BR and AR.

“Marnie, let’s not talk about that.” Dad likes to pretend that BR never happened.

“Right, of course, but it’s because we love you that we’re doing this. We don’t want a repeat of the past. Your father and I discussed—”

“This is bullshit!” I erupt. I spring to my feet and out of my dad’s reach.

“Don’t use that tone with us.” Dad shakes his finger at me.

This time I don’t cower. I’m too angry to be afraid. “This is bullshit,” I repeat recklessly. Tears are dropping—which I hate—but I can’t stop. I can’t stop my words, my anger or my tears. “This is punishment because I’m the one alive and Rachel is the one who’s dead. I can’t fucking wait until I leave here. I’m not coming back. I’m not!”

Mom bursts into tears. Dad yells. I spin on my heel and race to my bedroom. Behind me, I hear my parents shouting. I climb the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door shut. I don’t have a lock but I do have a desk. I break three nails and knock the wood against my shin twice, but I finally drag it in front of the door.

Just in time, too, because Dad’s at the door, trying to shove it open.

“You open this door right now,” he demands.

“Or what?” I cry. I’ve never felt more helpless. “Or what? You’ll ground me? You’ve taken away my job, my car, my privacy. I can’t make a call or write a text without you knowing. I can’t even breathe without having to report to you. You don’t have anything left to punish me with.”

“We’re doing this for your sake.” That’s Mom, pleading for me to be reasonable. “We’re not punishing you because of your sister—” she can’t even say Rachel’s name “—we’re trying to help you. We love you so much, Lizzie. We...” Her voice cracks. “We don’t want to lose you.”

I lie down on the bed and pull the pillow over my head. I don’t care what they have to say. There’s no justification for what they’re doing. I wouldn’t be sneaking out if they let me have some freedom. Scarlett’s parents don’t hold her down and she never sneaks out. If she goes to a party, she tells them. If she gets drunk, she can call them and they’ll come pick her up. And the truth is she rarely gets drunk, because they’ll let her have the occasional beer or glass of wine. It’s my parents’ fault I’m this way. They’ve made me into this girl—the one who doesn’t listen, the one who sneaks and lies and breaks promises, loses her virginity to some stranger.

I dig my face into the mattress as hot shame roils through me. I hate them. I hate Rachel. I hate myself most of all.

Because of my actions, the sweet animals at the shelter are going to suffer. Who’s going to take the doggies for a walk? Who’s going to feed Opie his medicine? I’m the only one that can handle the rottie. He hates everyone else at the clinic. And George, the snake? The techs there are scared of the python.

The sound of metal clanking against metal and the whirring of a drill grab my attention. I sit up and search for the source of the construction sounds.

My eyes clash with my dad’s, visible above the door he’s holding. He glares grimly at me before walking away. I gape at the open doorway. He removed my door. He fucking removed my fucking door.

I leap to my feet and rush over to the desk that’s still in the doorway. “What are you doing?” I say helplessly.

Mom appears in the hallway. “Sweetheart, please.”

“Are you serious?” I reach out, still in disbelief that my dad removed the door from the wall, but the empty hinges hang there in mocking proof.

“This is only temporary,” she says.

“It’ll be permanent if she can’t clean up her act,” Dad yells from below.

“Mom. I’m seventeen. I need a door to my bedroom.” I can’t believe my voice is so stable when my insides are rioting. “Even prisoners have a door!”

Her gaze falls to the floor. “It’s only temporary,” she repeats. “Until we can trust you again.”

I stumble back. “I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this.”

“Don’t curse,” she snaps. “You know how much I hate that.”

“Right, because Rachel never cursed.”

“It’s not about Rachel.”

“Of course it is. Everything in my life is about Rachel. You let Rachel do whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to follow a single rule and it backfired on you, so now you’re doing the exact opposite with me,” I spit out. “You’ve kept me on a leash since she died, and now the collar’s so tight it’s going to choke me to death.”

“Don’t say that.” Mom’s eyes glitter dangerously. She advances, stopped only by the desk. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you say that word.”

“Or what?” I challenge. “You’re going to hit me again?”

Her face collapses. “I’m sorry I did that,” she whispers. “I—”

“What’s going on?” Dad has returned. He looks at me and then at Mom.

“Nothing,” we say at the same time.

And then we all fall silent because there’s nothing left on our tongues but caustic, hurtful words and we’ve done enough to inflict pain on each other. I return to my bed, shut my eyes and ignore the grunts from my father as he lifts the desk away from the doorway, the mewling noises of my mother as she frets over how our household is a war zone.

This is my life now. I’m imprisoned in my own home, with no privacy and no escape. Graduation can’t come soon enough.