Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Vivian
The draft of the text message taunts me as I work up the courage to hit send.
My father hates texting, but a call interrupting his busy life would be worse.
Not that he ever answers. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually called, and it always goes to voicemail.
That’s another reason I’m texting. If I hear his voice, I’ll lose my nerve completely.
My thumb hovers over the button.
You have no other choice, Vivian.
Closing my eyes, I jab send and drop my phone like it’s a bomb about to go off. My stomach bottoms out, and I break out in a cold sweat. I race to the bathroom as my lunch threatens to resurface.
Thankfully, there’s no sound from Jonah’s room. He must still be downstairs.
Deep breaths. I had to do this. There was no other choice.
Pridefest is less than a month away. I’ve scraped enough money together to cover the entrance fee to the talent show, but I still have no way to get there. And I can’t explain to my family what I’m doing or why.
My mother’s supportive. But it’s a quiet support that could never drown out my father’s high expectations. What would she say if I told her my plans? I’m proud of you, Vivian, for taking initiative. Which translates to “this is a foolish venture, but at least you’re trying.”
My stepfather George is an honest man. But he might be a little less honest to spare my feelings.
He’s a farmer. Down-to-earth. Practical.
He’d ask if I was sure this was the way to go and explain the pitfalls and then end with the ever-popular, “I’ll support whatever you want to do. ” Is that really support?
But it’s my stepbrother I least want to hear from.
Like his father, he’s honest to a fault.
Unlike his father, he doesn’t care one bit about my feelings.
In high school—after I had to quit choir—I joined the band.
My father was still providing money back then, and I used it to buy a saxophone.
Jonah was salty about it, probably because the sax had cost more than the old truck he bought from the money he earned bagging groceries.
“It’s just like you to think you can start something that takes people years to learn, but you know what? You’ll probably be perfect at it since everything you do is perfect.”
Which sounds like a compliment but isn’t.
Jonah hates me.
The feeling is mutual. When I moved—was forced to move—to Nebraska six years ago, I tried to get along with my stepbrother, although Jonah might have a different take on it.
I didn’t blame Mom for leaving my father.
But marrying a farmer from Nebraska? That was harder to take.
Still, I’d gone in with a positive attitude, determined to make the best of a bad situation.
But the stunned look on Jonah’s face when we first met had said it all.
He couldn’t look me in the eyes. And when he spoke, he sounded angry.
“You’ll never fit in around here wearing a…” He waved his hand. “Dude, is that a dress?”
It hadn’t been a dress. It hadn’t looked like a dress. It was a long shirt with leggings. But that was Jonah.
His idea of fashion is jeans and an AC/DC tee.
But in this instance, my stepbrother had been correct.
The reaction from everyone at my new school had been brutal.
I thought I’d been prepared. But having a face too pretty for a guy—and wearing makeup—and dressing in a way the other students thought was weird or uppity had nothing on their response to my name.
“Vivian?” one of the football players had said. “Are you a girl? Or a homo?”
I blink away the rest of that memory and focus instead on his insinuation. Does the act of naming a baby predetermine their sexuality?
Am I attracted to guys because of the name I was given at birth? Or is it just an unhappy coincidence?
In France, Vivian is gender neutral. It means lively.
And my father is French. But sure, let’s assume his intention in giving me the name was for his son to be gay.
Ironically, at least it seems that way to me, my father is not at all upset that I’m gay.
He’s upset that I’m not trying hard enough. A constant disappointment to him.
Why did I text my father? I try to hold back the panic, but I feel like I’m choking on it.
“Fuck.” I slap my hands on the sink. A noise from Jonah’s room has me going still, and I take quick breaths, trying to hold everything in so he can’t hear me fall apart.
A soft knock on the door and then Jonah’s voice. “Vivian?”
Shit. I jerk, knocking Jonah’s body wash off the small counter. I reach for the bottle and slip on some that spilled onto the floor. Jonah’s warm vanilla scent is everywhere. Grabbing the hand towel hanging on the rack, I clean up as quietly as I can.
“Vivian?” His voice is louder. “Are you okay?”
He actually sounds concerned, and that’s the last thing I need. “Fuck off, Jonah.”
The first notes of Chopin’s Piano Sonata No 2: The Funeral March blare from my room. Father. Acid churns in my stomach as I leave the bathroom, making sure to close the door, and race to grab my phone.
I swallow the bile clawing its way up my throat. Throwing up is a luxury I do not have. Talking to my father will be much worse if I don’t answer now.
“Hello, Father.”
“Vivian. I don’t have time for your theatrics today. I have an important investor meeting. What do you need?”
I want to go to California and get a job doing makeup for the stars. Not exactly true, but that’s what my father will reduce it to.
The words I’d planned to say get stuck in my throat. I feel lightheaded and realize I’ve been holding my breath. Breathe. One. Two. Three.
“Vivian!”
The words disappear completely. I do the only thing I can do. The thing that has helped me survive for the last twenty-two years. I lie.
“I’m applying to UCLA, and I want to tour the campus. I—” Need money. I try to say the words. I visualize them leaving my mouth. But nothing.
“While I’m ecstatic that you finally want to apply yourself instead of working in a beauty salon…
” He drops the last two words as if they’re something foul.
“I’m not enabling you.” Like your mother.
Those are the words he doesn’t have to say.
I became adept at reading between the lines long ago.
It was a matter of survival. “It’s important that you realize—”
I can’t listen to him rant about my inadequacies when my dreams are on fire, and if they burn to ash, what do I have? Nothing. “It’s my money.”
Silence. It’s worse than the expected yelling.
The anticipation of the storm to come—I stab at the mute button.
The tears make everything more difficult as I drag in breaths so thin they slice my chest open.
I can’t let him hear me fall apart. I manage to swallow back the contents of my stomach, but barely.
But my gasps for air aren’t enough to drown out my father’s disapproving voice. “Your trust fund was put in place for your future. Not so you can throw money away on a joyride to California.”
Just hang up, Vivian. But I don’t. Can’t.
“You know the conditions of your trust fund, Vivian,” my father continues, not needing or wanting input from me. “Prove you’re a responsible adult, and I will release the money. Until then, do not bother me. Are we clear?”
I swallow the emotion clogging my throat. “Yes, sir.”
He ends the call, and I’m left with more silence.
I rush to the bathroom—it’s thankfully empty—and this time, I do throw up.
As I wash my face and brush my teeth, the reflection in the mirror taunts me.
My skin looks paler than normal. My eyes, still wide with the horror of my actions, are red-rimmed with dark circles from lack of sleep.
Gripping the sides of the cold sink, I fight the urge to smash the mirror and my face into tiny pieces.
I despise the way I look. It has nothing to do with vanity and not looking my best, no matter what Jonah thinks.
The face staring back at me is a reflection of my weakness. My failure. Not because my father refused. But because I asked for help in the first place.