I’ve been sitting in Sierra’s driveway for five minutes. I still can’t believe Alex and I did it. I don’t regret a single minute of it, but I still don’t believe it.
Tonight I sensed desperation in Alex, though, as if he wanted to prove something to me through actions instead of words. I’m mad at myself for getting emotional, but I couldn’t help it. The tears streamed out from joy, happiness, love. And when I saw a tear escape from his eye, I kissed it. . . . I wanted to save that tear forever because it was the first time Alex let me see him like that. Alex doesn’t cry; he doesn’t let himself get that emotional about anything.
Tonight changed him, whether he wants to face that fact or not.
I’ve changed, too.
I walk into Sierra’s house. Sierra is sitting on her living room couch. My father and mother are sitting across from her.
“This looks suspiciously like an intervention,” I tell them.
Sierra says, “Not an intervention, Brit. A talk.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” my dad says. “You’re not living at home.”
I stand in front of both my parents, wondering how we got to this point. My mother is in a black pants suit and her hair is in a bun, as if she’s dressed for a funeral. My dad is wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s been up all night, I can tell. And maybe my mom has, too, but she’d never show it. She’d put in Visine to mask it all.
“I can’t play the perfect daughter anymore. I’m not perfect,” I say calmly and evenly. “Can you accept that?”
My dad’s eyebrows come together, as if he’s struggling to keep his composure. “We don’t want you to be perfect. Patricia, tell her how you feel.”
My mom shakes her head, as if she can’t comprehend why I’m making a big deal about this. “Brit, this has gone on long enough. Stop pouting, stop rebelling, stop being selfish. Your father and I don’t want you to be perfect. We want you to be the best you can be, that’s all.”
“Because Shelley, no matter how hard she tries, can’t possibly live up to your expectations?”
“Don’t bring Shelley into this,” my dad says. “It’s not fair.”
“Why not? This is all about Shelley.” I’m feeling defeated, like no matter how many words come out of my mouth to try and explain it, it’ll never come out right. I plop myself down in one of the plush, velvet chairs in front of them. “For the record, I didn’t run away. I’m staying at my best friend’s house.”
My mom brushes away a piece of lint on her thigh. “Thank goodness for her. She’s been telling us what’s been going on with you, giving us daily reports.”
I look over at my best friend, still sitting in the corner as a witness to the Ellises’ meltdown. Sierra puts her hands up guiltily as she heads for the door to hand out candy to late trick-or-treaters who just rang the bell.
My mom sits up straight on the edge of the couch. “What will it take for you to come home?”
I want so much from my parents, probably more than they’re capable of giving. “I don’t know.”
My dad puts his hand on his forehead, as if he has a headache. “Is it that bad at home?”
“Yeah. Well, not bad. But stressful. Mom, you stress me out. And Dad, I hate it when you come and go like the house is your hotel. We’re all strangers living in the house. I love you both, but I don’t want to always be ‘the best I can be.’ I just want to be me. I want to be free to make my own decisions and learn from my mistakes without freaking out, feeling guilty, or worrying that I’m not living up to your expectations.” I choke back tears. “I don’t want to let you two down. I know Shelley can’t be like me. I’m so sorry . . . please don’t send her away because of me.”
My dad kneels beside me. “Don’t be sorry, Brit. We’re not sending her away because of you. Shelley’s disability isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”
My mom is silent and still, staring at the wall as if she’s in a trance. “It’s my fault,” she says.
Everyone focuses on my mom because those are the last words we expected to come out of her mouth.
“Patricia?” my dad says, trying to get her attention.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” I ask.
She’s looking straight ahead. “All these years I’ve blamed myself.”
“Patricia, it’s not your fault.”
“When I had Shelley, I took her to playgroups,” my mom says in a soft voice as if she’s talking to herself. “I admit I envied the other moms with the normal kids who could keep their heads up on their own and grasp things. Most of the time I got the pity stares. I hated that. I became obsessed with thinking I could’ve prevented her from being disabled by eating more vegetables and exercising more—I blamed myself for her condition even when your father insisted it wasn’t my fault.” She looks at me and smiles wistfully. “Then you came along. My blond-haired, blue-eyed princess.”
“Mom, I’m no princess and Shelley’s not someone to pity. I’m not always going to date the guy you want me to date, I’m not always going to dress the way you want me to dress, and I’m definitely not always going to act the way you want. Shelley isn’t going to live up to your expectations either.”
“I know.”
“Will you ever be okay with it?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re so critical. Oh, God, I’d do anything for you to stop blaming me for every little thing that goes wrong. Love me for who I am. Love Shelley for who she is. Stop focusing on the bad stuff because life is just too damn short.”
“You don’t want me being concerned because you’ve decided to date a gang member?” she asks.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. If I didn’t feel like you’d be judgmental, I’d share it with you. If you could meet him . . . he’s just sooo much more than people see on the outside. If you want me to sneak around just so I can be with him, I’ll do it.”
“He’s a gang member,” my mom says dryly.
“His name is Alex.”
My dad leans back. “Knowing his name doesn’t change the fact that he’s in a gang, Brittany.”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s a step in the right direction, though. Would you rather have me be truthful, or sneaking around?”
It took us an hour until my mom agreed to try and stop hovering so much. And for my dad to agree to come home twice a week from work before six.
I agreed to have Alex come by the house so they could meet him. And to tell them where I’m going and who I’m going with. They haven’t agreed to approve or like my choice in boyfriends, but it’s a start. I want to try making things right because picking up the pieces is way better than leaving them the way they are.
