should be. Mom does it all the time. I guess sheâd rather avoid the truth if it isnât what she wants to hear.
âSure,â I say. âGood day.â
Mom is short and fine-boned, with fair hair and brown eyes. Itâs hard to believe we are related. Iâm definitely my dadâs kid though. I have his wiry dark hairânow cut the same as his, come to think of itâhis tall, broad-shouldered build and his blue eyes.
I have my dadâs obsession with books and reading too. When I was little, he used to read to me all the time:
The Wind in the Willows, Peter Pan and Wendy, Aliceâs Adventures in Wonderland
. The original unabridged texts, never the Disney versions. When I was in first grade, we moved on to
The Jungle Book, Treasure Island
and
Gulliverâs Travels
. Poetry tooâT.S. Eliot, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll. We memorized
The Hunting of the Snark
together. I used to spend hours reciting it to myself.
None of which really equipped me to deal with classmates raised on morning cartoons and after-school sitcoms. It was probably just as well that Iâd also inherited Dadâs loner tendencies.
âAnything interesting happen?â Mom asks, ever hopeful.
I think about my day. âNot really.â
Unless you countcutting class and going to the Juvenile Detention Center with a girl with no eyebrows
.
She starts dishing the bright orange soup. Clearly she is on a health kick again. I suspect one of her magazines is to blame for this rather toxic-looking dinner. Maybe itâs supposed to make my hair grow faster.
âWhat are you up to this evening?â she asks. âAny plans?â
âNope.â
âHomework?â
âSome. I might just read.â
âYou read too much. You always have your nose buried in something.â
âSo? I like reading.â
She presses her lips together. âIt doesnât seem right. Youâre a beautiful girl, Emily. You should be going out with friends, buying clothes, talking about boys...â
Sheâs unreal. âMom, are we seriously having this conversation?â
âWhen I was your age, Iâd have loved to go to parties and dances and all that.â
âRight. Mom, Iâve been to parties, okay? Everyone plays drinking games and gets wasted. Then they either make out or have stupid boring conversations about nothing. Iâm so not interested.â
She looks a little shocked. âIâm sure not all the parties are like that.â
âYeah, well. Just be glad Iâd rather read.â
âOh, honey. Of course Iâm glad you like to read.I just donât like to see you spending so much time on your own.â She hesitates. âThereâs a course I was looking at...â
âReally? Youâre going to do a course?â
âNo, no. For you.â
I should have guessed. âWhat kind of course?â I ask.
âItâs a...well, a social thing. A group for girls.â She shifts in her chair and looks at Dad instead of me. âSelf-esteem. Social skills. That kind of thing.â
Dad looks at me, eyebrows gathered and forehead wrinkled. âFirst Iâve heard,â he says apologetically.
I ignore him and glare at Mom. âPlease. My self-esteem is fine. My social skills are fine.â
âOf course they are, sweetie. I just thought it might be a good way for you to make some new friends.â
âYeah. If I wanted friends with low self-esteem and poor social skills, Iâm sure itâd be terrific.â
âEmily...â
âIâm going up to my room.â I push away my orange soup and stand up. âTo be anti-social in private.â
Upstairs, I lie on my bed for a while. I check my e-mail. I do a hundred sit-ups and fifty push-ups. The big old-fashioned clock on my wall ticks away loudly. I wonder if Parker and her friends are going to steal the sign tonight. I realize I never got a phone number
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley