Chapter Thirty-Three
As I walk into the house, I remind myself Momdidn’t see me kiss Davi. That has to count for something. But seriously, who am I fooling? She saw me holding him, probably staring into his eyes like a lovesick puppy. Kiss or no kiss, I’m in trouble.
She stands in the middle of the living room and stares at the floor. Esosa and I glance at each other, communicating our shared panic. Silence stretches, and the tension in the room increases. After a long while, what seems like an eternity, Mom clears her throat and lifts her head.
“Who was that boy you were with?”
My teeth dig into my lip. “Um… he was a… a… friend.”
“A friend?” She squints and watches me closely. “Come o, Enore. Do you take me for a fool? Eh?”
The answer is no, but I’m not supposed to answer that. I’m only supposed to answer one question.
“Who was that boy you were with?”
I can’t lie, not when she’s looking at me like she already knows the truth.
I sigh and whisper, “My boyfriend.”
“Your what? What did you just say?”
I’m positive she heard me, but she’s making me repeat myself. So I do. And her features harden.
“Esosa,” she says.
My sister flinches at the mention of her name.
“Go to your room.”
“What? Why?”
“Now! I don’t want to say it again.”
“Okay.” Esosa looks at me apologetically, then rushes down the hallway and closes her bedroom door.
I wonder if Esosa’s dismissal was necessary. Maybe Mom thought it was. Maybe she’s trying to protect her from the bad example I’ve become. That’s probably what she sees as she looks at me—a bad example, her upstanding, play-by-the-rules daughter who has gone rogue.
“Since when?” she asks. “When did you start all this boyfriend nonsense, eh?”
“A few weeks ago.”
She closes her eyes and presses a finger to her temple while breathing deeply and slowly. “All those times you told me you were studying at your friend’s house, what were you really doing?” Her eyes flash open. She waits for the answer but already knows it. “You were with him, weren’t you?” At my silence, a.k.a. my admission, she shakes her head. She’s disappointed, but after a closer look, it’s clear she’s confused.
Maybe she expected this from Esosa, the daughter with an uninhibited passion she’s been trying to stifle for years. But she never expected this from me. All my life, no character trait signaled I would be the defiant child.
“Why, Enore?”
I huff and say the only thing that comes to my mind, regardless of how stupid it may sound. “I like him.”
Juvenile, I know. But what else am I supposed to say? For the first time in weeks, I can’t lie to divert my mom from the truth. Without my sister and friends to be accomplices or Auntie Sara to be an advocate for teenage fun and freedom, the only thing I can do is tell the truth.
“He’s nice,” I add.
“You like him. He’s nice.” She chuckles slowly, and the sound is taunting. “Enore, are you mad? Have you lost your mind? Against my wishes, you have a boyfriend, and your stupid defense is that you like him. He’s nice. Frankly, I don’t care if he is Christ reincarnated. You cannot date—no boyfriends. You are a child, for God’s sake.”
“I am almost eighteen.” It’s a bold statement, one that could escalate things between me and my mom. I immediately regret saying it.
The concept of adulthood being marked by eighteen candles is very American, and somehow that concept has unconsciously infiltrated my mind. I blame it on the teen movies; they made me believe the milestone birthday equates freedom, freedom to make my own choices as an adult. Unfortunately, that isn’t my reality.
“You’re almost eighteen. And so what?” Mom says. “You think you are now an adult, right?” Her lips fold into a tight grimace. “So, these are the things you are learning from your useless friends? This is the nonsense they have pumped into your head—‘in America, once we are eighteen, we are adults and can do whatever we want.’ They have taught you the American way, right? Sisi Americanah. That’s who you are now, abi? That’s why you have the audacity, the effrontery, to disobey me. To lie to me. To stand in front of me and start spilling this rubbish from your mouth. Isn’t it?”
“Mom, I—”
She lifts her hand, silencing me. “I don’t recognize you. I am standing here, looking at you, and still I do not recognize you.” Gradually, the hand drops. “You leave school without my permission—disappear for hours. You lie repeatedly to me. You date a boy against my wishes. You drink.”
My eyes widen with shock.
“You think I did not smell it—the alcohol on your breath? This is the example you’re now setting for your younger sister.”
Ashamed, I let my eyes fall. I can’t look at her, not when she’s calling me out on everything I’ve done wrong in the past few weeks. And those are only the things she knows of.
Did I go too far? It all started with the musical, and then things spiraled. The first lie was the hardest. And then it became easier. The more freedom I got, the more experiences I had, the more lies I got away with, the more daring I became. I got carried away, determined to satisfy the part of me that had been repressed for so long.
“Enore, whatever you have going on with that boy ends tonight.”
It’s not like I didn’t see this coming. It’s the only way this night can end, with me being forced to cut ties with Davi.
“From now on, it is school, home, and choir practice once a week. That’s it.”
Before Davi, that schedule would have suited me fine. But it doesn’t anymore. She doesn’t understand the impact he’s had on me—how until him, my father’s death was like a thorn in my chest, constantly prodding at me. Being with Davi eases that pain. Being with him makes me happy, really happy—not the mask I wear to relieve my family’s worries and convince the world I’m okay. Being with Davi allowed me to discover a part of myself I never even knew existed. From my mother’s perspective, his influence is probably all negative. But I need her to see otherwise. I need to change her mind somehow.
“Mommy, please.” My voice shakes as I hold back a cry. “I know I’ve lied and done some things, and I… I’m sorry. Really. But Davi is… he’s on the football team and the debate team. He’s smart and funny and so kind, and he makes me feel…” I search for the right word.
If I can just find it and express to her what he means to me, maybe she’ll change her mind. Then I’ll tell her everything—no more lies. I’ll come clean about the musical. About Broadway. About Juilliard. We’ll sit down and talk. I’ll make her understand I can’t imagine doing anything but musical theater for the rest of my life. And we’ll take it from there.
“He inspires me,” I finally say. That perfectly sums it up.
“Inspires you to what?” my mother asks through clenched teeth. “To lie to me? To drink?”
“What? No. He’s not like—”
“I don’t want to hear a word from you, Enore. Not another word!”
Just like that, the conversation is over.
There is no room for understanding, compromise, or reconciliation. There’s no room for the truth. It was stupid to think otherwise, because no matter how well I lay down my case, a school musical and Juilliard and a boy I care for deeply will always translate to absurdity to my mother.