Chapter 7
MOST NOSTALGIC
The scent of coffee fills the air as I read over David’s essay for the second time. I’m having a hard time concentrating today. My mind keeps wandering to everything on my to-do list. It’s never-ending—and I still have much more to add to it.
I’m desperately trying to read the words in front of me, but when the barista calls out an order over the gentle chatter of the coffee shop, I lose my train of thought.
Again. I set his essay down on the table in defeat.
Condensation from my glass of water instantly wets the side of the papers.
I groan as I pick them back up and try to wipe the water from the pages.
David looks up from his phone. “Is everything okay?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “Not really.”
“What’s wrong?”
I use a napkin to wipe the water around my glass as I try to formulate a reply.
David and I have been meeting at the same coffee shop for the last year for tutoring.
And while I wouldn’t call us friends, it’s impossible to spend that much time with someone and not have a relationship of some sort.
The fact that David is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met also doesn't hurt.
Of course, I’ve always had to be somewhat guarded with him since his entire family hates me for what my dad did. I don’t want to take a misstep and lose the only source of income I have.
After thinking about it for a moment, I eventually land on an answer that is both vague and honest. “I’m just tired.”
“Cross country?”
I raise my brows at him.
David finds some remaining water on the table and runs his finger across it. There’s a slight upward tilt to his lips. “I may have overheard my brother talking about it.”
My breath catches. We’ve always pretended like Connor doesn’t exist during our sessions.
It’s been an unspoken rule since we started this.
Even when we agreed to meet at this particular coffee shop, one that’s twenty minutes from school, we didn’t actually vocalize the reason we’d chosen it.
We never said it was because we didn’t want to risk Connor, or anyone else, finding out who David’s school-appointed tutor was.
The school handles every aspect of it, from hiring to paying me, so his parents don’t know I’m the one meeting with David.
If his parents ever found out, they’d be sure to put an end to it.
My toe taps against the exposed cement floors of the small shop. I’m dying to take the bait. I want to know what Connor has said about me, but I don’t want to ruin the good thing we have going either.
When I look up at David, I can tell he wants to say it as badly as I want to hear it. I lose any semblance of nonchalance as I lean forward and ask, “What did he say?”
David folds his hands together on the table. “Just that he was sure that you were going to quit, and that he was glad you didn’t.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry, but your brother did not say that.
Maybe the part about me quitting, I almost did.
But he’s definitely not glad I stayed.” All I can think about is that first day when he tried to scare me away.
Even though it’s been several weeks since he was forced to run with me, I doubt his tune has changed that much.
David makes an X motion on his chest with his fingers. “Cross my heart.”
“Why would Connor want me to stay on the team?” I’ve seen the way he looks at me at practice, like he wishes he could make me disappear. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m just telling you what he said.” He shrugs. “How’s it going, by the way?”
“Cross country?”
He nods.
I lean back in my chair. “Okay. I’m less sore than I used to be.
” That first week was so hard. Hardy wasn’t kidding about investing in some Advil.
My legs hurt so badly I could barely get in and out of chairs, and going up the three flights of stairs to my classes at school made me want to cry.
Thankfully, the stage of constant pain has passed.
Now, I just need to figure out how to get better.
“I still have to walk some of the courses, but I’m crossing the finish line. ”
“That’s great.” He smiles, and I’m struck by how similar it is to Connor’s.
They look nothing alike, but their smiles are the same.
The only difference is when David smiles, it’s genuine and kind.
There’s always a touch of malice in his brother’s when it’s directed at me. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Thanks.”
We sit in awkward silence. I’m not sure what else I can say.
The natural progression is for me to say that I’m only doing it for Citrus Scholar.
And the natural progression from that is to ask more about Connor and how he’s doing.
Both are conversations that would break this strange agreement we have, so I keep my lips shut. It’s for the best.
Besides, David is on his phone again. He’s been typing away on it since we got here, barely paying attention to me. His brows furrow as he stares at the screen.
Now it’s my turn to ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says distractedly, his thumb hovers above the screen like he’s trying to decide how to respond. Then, he closes his eyes and sighs.
I fight the urge to reach across the table. I remind myself that we’re not really friends, just friendly. “David,” I say softly. “What’s going on?”
He opens his eyes. “Just some theater stuff.”
“What kind of theater stuff?”
He sighs. “Apparently, we’re still short on stagehands.”
I perk up. Theater is not my thing. I don’t have the bandwidth to memorize lines or practice, but I still need more options to round out my resume. The performing arts might fill a much needed space. How much work could being a stagehand be?
David shakes his head. “No.”
“What?”
“You’re thinking about joining theater.”
I laugh. “How did you know that?”
He motions at his eyes. “You get this little crinkle right here when you’re about to suggest something crazy.”
I jerk back, equally shocked and impressed.
No one has ever noticed that kind of thing.
At least, not that I know of. Lily is my best friend and knows my deepest, darkest secrets.
I don’t want to dismiss our relationship, but this feels different, like I matter enough that someone has noticed the small things. I stare at him wide-eyed.
His cheeks get red. “Sorry. It drives Con—” He clears his throat. “It drives my family crazy when I do that.”
I wave him off. “That’s okay. But what if I did want to join theater?”
“It feels wrong, like I’m betraying my brother if you join.” He picks at his nails. They’re already chewed down to the quick. There’s nothing left to spare.
As much as I want to fill that spot, I don’t want to do it at David’s expense.
Surely there’s a way that it can happen that’s a win-win situation.
An idea comes to me. “What if you offer it to Connor first? See if he wants to be a stagehand. If he doesn’t, then maybe I can consider joining.
That way, I’m not taking anything from Connor that he wants. He even gets first dibs.”
There’s no way Connor will join theater even with Citrus Scholar on the line. He may be smart, but he’s also popular. Theater doesn’t exactly fit into that image at our school.
A corner of David’s mouth lifts into the smallest smile. “That’s actually not a horrible idea.”
“I know.” I perk up in my seat. “You fill the spot, which saves the day for the play. And either Connor or I get to add another activity to our repertoire.”
He nods, mostly to himself. “Yeah, I think this is going to work. Thanks, Ella.”
“You’re welcome, Now, let’s try to focus on this essay.”
Chad’s car is parked out front when I get home.
I shouldn't be surprised, he’s here all the time, but every day I hold my breath as I drive through our apartment complex and hope that I won’t see his red SUV in the parking lot.
Though, I guess I should be grateful that he’s the Devil I know.
I should be thankful that he doesn’t hit her or look at me in an inappropriate way like some of the others have.
I should be grateful that his biggest problem is that he mooches off my already poor mom and can’t wait for me to graduate so he can have her all to himself.
After walking up the stairs to the second story, I turn my key in the lock as quietly as possible and turn the knob slowly.
When I push open the front door, I’m instantly met with the sound of opera music and the scent of garlic coming from the kitchen.
It’s loud enough inside that they shouldn't hear me coming in, and I shut the front door with much less care than I opened it. Now, it’s just a quick walk to my bedroom.
I’m almost there when I hear my mom’s voice.
“Ella, you’re home!”
My feet stop in their tracks. As I stand there, I get a better whiff of whatever my mom is making for dinner. It smells like my dad’s favorite pasta dish. It smells like our old life.
I know that it was all a lie, but sometimes I want to crawl into the past just for one day. I want to remember what it was like not to worry about money or food or what strange man was going to be at our house that day. The thought of all that I’ve lost makes me want to cry.
The music stops, and my mom smiles as she walks in with a wooden spoon covered in red sauce. “Do you remember when I used to make bolognese all the time?” She holds out the spoon to me, careful to cradle her free hand underneath to catch any drips. “Want to try it?”
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I shake my head.
“Suit yourself.” She lifts the spoon to her mouth and moans when she tastes it. “Chad, come try this.”
Chad materializes quickly from the living room, an easy task considering how small our place is and that he doesn’t do anything but sit on our couch.
He comes up behind my mom and wraps his arms around her waist before putting his mouth to the spoon.
“Mmm.” His eyes practically roll back in his head.
It makes me want to barf.
“I wonder why I stopped making this,” my mom ponders aloud.
Maybe because the man you used to make it for got locked up?
I resist the urge to say it. I still don’t trust myself not to cry.
“Hungry? It’s almost done,” she says.
“She probably has a lot of homework." Chad gives me a pointed look.
I do, and I need to get it done, but I doubt he cares. He just wants me locked away so he can have my mom all to himself. I nod.
Forcing a smile, I swivel on my feet and walk into my room.
Once inside, I lock the door behind me and flop down on my bed.
When I hear the music start back from the other room and a giddy laugh from my mom, I grab a pillow and scream into it as loud as I can.
I scream, and then I cry. I hate it here. I hate it so much.
Sometimes I feel so alone. No one knows what it’s like to be in my shoes—at least, no one at Citrus Prep.
To have a dad in prison and a mom who is more interested in her boyfriend than her daughter.
To give up the house I grew up in for this lifeless apartment.
To show up to school every day knowing that the only reason I can still afford to go to Citrus Prep is because my dad had secretly stashed some money in an education fund before he got caught.
The courts aren’t able to touch it because it’s in my name.
Neither is my mom. What was supposed to be my college fund has become my high school fund, and I bet it all on getting Citrus Scholar.
Something that might not happen.
That’s the most painful part about it all.
I've worked so hard to get out of here, and I might be stuck when all is said and done. I cry for a few more moments, not holding anything back. When I’m sure there are no more tears, I sit up and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands.
I sniff as I pull out my textbook. I need to keep working toward my goals.
I need to keep my grades up even as I add extracurriculars.
Do I need more? Maybe.
Probably.
My conversation with David just made me realize how little I’m doing to be well-rounded.
I can’t join cross country and think that’s enough to beat Connor.
I need to join more clubs. Do more activities.
Lily has already suggested every club under the sun, and I brushed off every single one of them.
Why? Pride, probably. I feel like a court jester performing for all the teachers to get them to notice me.
Cross country didn’t feel so bad because they actually needed another runner.
Sarah is happy I’m there, and it feels less performative somehow.
School clubs? They don’t feel right. No one needs me to be in their club. They’re all for fun, and everyone will know that the only reason I’m doing it is because I need extracurriculars to look better on paper—because I want to win Citrus Scholar.
I pull my yearbook from the shelf and flip through the pages that have pictures of the various clubs.
Nothing calls to me. I could join the Spanish club.
Literally all I have to do is take Spanish for that one, and most people do it as an easy club to add to their resumes. But that doesn’t make me stand out.
I scan the different pictures, but my eyes keep going to creative writing. It’s a small group—only half a dozen members—and my favorite English teacher is the sponsor. It’s a win-win situation. I put a note in my phone to talk to Mrs. Grafton tomorrow and already feel a little bit better.