Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
CHLOE
Maybe the night will end on a not-so-terrible note. Maybe my mom will understand. I haven’t really done anything wrong. Except miss curfew. Which, okay, is bad. But it could be so much worse. It’s not like I shoplifted or drove drunk or killed anyone.
I take a deep breath in the foyer. The air reeks of vanilla that’s gone sour.
“Mom?” It comes out as a broken whisper. “Mom, where—” I begin again, a little more audibly.
“Kitchen,” she says in a firm and calm voice. I round the corner and find her sitting at the table. “Sit.”
I do—the cushioned seat hardly any comfort—and fold my hands in my lap.
My mom always tells me avoiding eye contact is a sign of weakness.
But the look in her sharp green eyes blazes.
I only manage a few seconds of their flames before breaking away to count the pea-sized orange polka dots on the kitchen wallpaper.
I get to twenty-seven when my mom finally speaks.
“How many times have I asked you to text me, please, if you’re going to be past curfew?” Her voice is even and low, but I wince as if she had yelled. My mom never yells. Sometimes I wish she would. This calm and collected anger scares me even more. Like a silent predator ready to pounce.
“I about had a heart attack when I put my files away, looked at the clock, and realized you still weren’t home.
You’re grounded, obviously. Two months. No car, no social activities.
You may go to work, soccer, and school and its associated obligations.
In your free time, you will study for the SATs and help me at my events.
And no phone, since you don’t seem to use it, anyway. ”
Two months. I open my mouth to protest, to try to explain. But before I can, my mom speaks again. “And who’s that boy you were with?”
I hesitate before answering, weighing how much to reveal. My dry tongue scratches the back of my teeth. “A friend from school.”
“The striker you were studying with?”
My face contorts. Perfect timing for her to remember something soccer related.
It isn’t his fault, I want to say, but I know any word out of my mouth now will only make things worse. Instead, I nod.
“Bed. Now. Leave your phone on the entryway table.”
I sneak a peek at my text messages on my way to the stairs.
Rhoads
Good night, good luck. I’m sorry again. Hope you’re not in too much trouble.
I’m about to respond, but my mom’s watching me. Reluctantly, I drop my phone into the wicker basket on the entryway table and stalk up the stairs, resisting the urge to make extra noise on my way. I make it all the way to my room before hot tears sting my eyes and roll down my cheeks.
What a roller coaster of a night! It went from okay to bad to worse, back to okay, and then, from the time I climbed into Rhoads’s truck and left Dionne’s party behind, the most wonderful night I could have imagined.
I itch to dissect this whole night with Charlotte and Anita. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when I tell them I yelled at Graham. And that I almost kissed Rhoads.
Despite my punishment, I smile as I pull my comforter up to my chin and click off my light.
* * *
The next day, I hole up in my room after breakfast under the pretense of studying my SAT words.
I’ve been trying to sneak emails to Anita, Charlotte, and Rhoads explaining my radio silence, but my mom passes by my room every few minutes, and she insists I keep the door open.
There’s really no excuse to shut it since I’m already dressed.
I sigh and glance at my practice workbook.
Use the word “abate” in a sentence.
The tip of my pencil touches paper, and I scrawl as I say aloud, “I am waiting for my mother’s anger to abate, so she’ll unground me.”
I skim the other “A” words. How many are there? No wonder Anita has been studying for months.
A few hours pass as I work my way through the words I don’t know already. By lunchtime I’ve made it halfway through the “D’s.”
“How’s the studying going, kiddo?” my dad asks from the living room as I trudge down the stairs to make a sandwich.
“Okay.” In the fridge, I find leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes instead. The microwave hums as it warms my food.
“Don’t you mean sufficient?” My dad wanders into the kitchen and sniffs the air. “That smells good. Leave me any?”
“In the container over there.” I point. “You’re right. Sufficient is a much more SAT word.”
“Indubitably,” he responds in an aristocratic tone.
“Okay, Dad.” I sit down with my lunch and dig in.
The house phone rings. Who, besides us, has a house phone these days? My dad rises to answer it.
“Oh, hi. Yeah, Chloe’s here. Sure, here she is.” He covers the mouthpiece of the receiver. “It’s Maggie, for you.”
I swallow and accept the phone. “Hey, Mags. What’s up?”
“I’m so sorry to call your house on such short notice, but can you come in today? I’m short-handed. Again. And swamped. And you weren’t answering your cell.” Something crashes in the background.
“What time?”
“As soon as you can get here.” Maggie’s voice softens, and I imagine her pulling the phone away to yell at someone. “Chloe, I’ve got to go. Damien just spilled sugar everywhere. I’ll see you soon.”
Click.
“Who was that?” My mom enters the kitchen while skimming a stack of papers.
“Maggie needs me today. I think someone called in.”
“I’ll drop you off on my way out.”
“I can drive myself. I don’t want to inconvenience you.” My mom hates inconvenience almost as much as tardiness. Maybe I can win myself a bit of freedom. Or the illusion of it, anyway.
“It’s no trouble. It’s on my way, actually. We’ll need to leave in fifteen though, so you better get ready.”
Inwardly, I groan. Being on my mother’s schedule might be the worst part of my punishment.
My mom finally looks up from her papers. “Leaving in fourteen minutes.” She disappears into her office, leaving no room for discussion.
At least I’ll get to see Maggie. She’s always on my side.