Chapter 8 #2
I glance over at Zoe involuntarily and wonder if she sees it the same way.
She turns around as if she feels me looking at her.
Reed’s arm slides down her back, and he says something to her I can’t hear.
Zoe answers him but keeps looking at me.
Then she hugs him, Tristan, and Nick goodbye and finally walks over to her mom and me, her steps light and delicate.
She stands close to me, and the scent of her shampoo envelops me, but she isn’t close enough to touch me. She makes no attempt to hug me as she did the others. Instead, a beaming smile spreads over her face.
“Congrats on graduating,” she says.
“Thanks,” I reply, not knowing what else to say. Ever since Zoe and I started sharing our secrets on little pieces of paper, it’s become difficult to talk to her in person. Or even to be close to her. Because I suddenly want too many things that I shouldn’t want from my best friend’s little sister.
“I just asked Jase if he’d join us for lunch.
His parents are stuck at the clinic. But I couldn’t talk him into it.
You try. Maybe he’ll listen to you.” Ceara gives Zoe a look that I can’t interpret, but she obviously sees through the lie about my grandparents.
Ceara kisses her daughter’s cheek and leaves us alone.
“Don’t you want to come?” Zoe tilts her head inquisitively, and her long hair cascades over her shoulder like a curtain. She doesn’t ask why, and I suppress a sigh of relief.
“No, I have to go home. I should get going now. I’ll see you later at Adaline’s party, all right?”
“Sure. Jase—”
“See you later, Pixie.” I cut her off and have to grin as she wrinkles her nose in exasperation. She always acts like she hates that nickname, but I know better. She secretly likes it.
I don’t give her a chance to reply as I walk out and make my way home without even saying goodbye to my friends. We’ll see each other again in a few hours anyway.
I’m met with complete silence in the house as the door slams shut behind me, and whatever little spark of hope I had left is extinguished.
They really aren’t here. When Lia graduated last year, it was a celebration: Mom and Dad were both home.
Grandma and Grandpa came all the way from LA.
Grandma did the cooking. Meanwhile, my graduation is ignored completely.
I laugh bitterly, throw my cap and gown into a careless heap on the floor in the hallway, and go upstairs to my room. Maybe that will remind them that today is an important day.
My room is tidy, as usual, even though it only takes me about three seconds to create total chaos.
Margaret, our housekeeper, is always tidying up no matter how often I tell her she doesn’t need to.
But since Margaret has made order of my chaos, I see the letter lying on my desk the second I enter the room.
I immediately recognize the Harvard coat of arms on the envelope and freeze.
It’s more than a reminder of what I’m supposed to do. It’s an order. I already know what the letter says before I open it. My fingers are like ice as I pull it out of the envelope.
ACCEPTED.
It’s a goddamn acceptance letter from Harvard University. Anyone else would probably flip at the possibility of going there. But I wouldn’t, because I didn’t even apply to the damn school. I drop the piece of paper as if it burned me.
Downstairs, the front door opens, and I hear Mom’s voice followed by a deeper one: Dad. So they came home after all.
My legs move of their own accord as hope washes over me—stupid, irrational hope.
But when I walk into the dining room, I see two boxes from the little Italian place they sometimes go to when Mom doesn’t feel like cooking.
Two, not three. They came home for their lunch break and didn’t bring me anything.
They didn’t even ask me if I was at home or if I wanted something to eat.
Neither of them notices me as they talk about some bullshit from the clinic. I have as little interest in what they’re saying as they probably do in me.
Congratulations on your graduation, Jase.
Anger boils over inside me. They could spend at least one fucking day trying to pretend we’re a normal family and that I mean something to them. A few hours, even.
I turn around without a word and go back to my room. I pick up the letter from the floor and go back to where they’re eating. Dad only notices me when I drop the letter on his lasagna.
“What the hell is this?” I make no effort to conceal how pissed off I am.
Dad removes the letter from his food with such dispassionate composure that it makes me want to scream. “Looks like your acceptance letter to Harvard,” he replies coolly.
I laugh involuntarily in disbelief. “I didn’t even apply.”
“Of course you did.” Dad continues eating without even looking at me. “You wrote your application essay. Don’t you remember?”
Yes, I remember writing that stupid essay that they require for the application. I also remember that I never sent it. Which can only mean one thing.
“Are you kidding me? You applied for me. You made sure I got in. I don’t know which fucking contacts you used, but I certainly didn’t apply to Harvard,” I blurt out. Mom sighs.
“Jase, watch your language.”
“I don’t give a shit about my language right now! Dad, you know I don’t want to go to Harvard. I’ve been accepted to the New England School of Ballet, and that’s where I’m going.” It’s not like I haven’t been making this clear to him for weeks.
“It’s not.”
“Dad!” We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “I don’t want to go to Harvard. I want to dance. Why can’t you finally accept that?”
“Because you’re not going to waste your high school diploma on a ridiculous dance school. You’re a Winslow. Act like one.”
I snort. As if it means something that I’m a Winslow. In his world, it does: It means wealth and a bunch of medical success stories. To me, it means nothing.
“If Sam were here—”
“Sam isn’t here!” I shout, interrupting him.
My heart is hammering, and my entire body is shaking.
My voice too. “If he were here, you’d have come to my graduation.
Which was today, by the way.” I glance at Mom.
A guilty expression appears on her pale face.
She actually forgot. “But I’m here. Sorry if I’m not good enough for—”
“That’s enough,” Dad says definitively, finally looking at me. The expression in his green eyes—the same eyes as mine, damn it—is cold and merciless. “You’re going to Harvard. Otherwise, you’ll have to think about how you’re going to finance your education yourself. And where you’re going to live.”
I freeze. “Are you seriously throwing me out?”
“Apparently, you want to make your own decisions, so you can live with the consequences. I guarantee you that I’m not going to fund a totally pointless dance education.”
“But Lia is doing it. Why is she allowed to dance and I’m not?” I look at Mom pleadingly, but she refuses to meet my gaze and stares blankly at her salad.
I want to tell her how much ballet means to me and why I want to dance.
That it’s the only thing I can do well. That it’s the only thing in my life that makes me feel like I can achieve something.
That it helps stop me from going crazy and gives me an outlet for my feelings.
I want to tell her that I feel more alive when I dance than when I do anything else and, above all, that it makes me happy.
But I’ve tried more than once to express to them how important dance is to me, and they aren’t interested.
They refuse to listen. I don’t even try anymore.
“You’re not Lia. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Make up your mind, and live with the consequences.” Dad turns back to his lasagna.
Stunned, I stare at him.
Fuck you. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to say them. Instead, I turn away without a word and leave the house.