“Now it says here we need to churn the soil,” my dad said. He was reading off his iPad. Normally I would question how successful this garden was going to be if they were starting it based off internet directions, but if there was one thing I knew about my parents, it was that when they put their minds to something, they usually made it happen.
“Can you go get more from the garage?” my mom asked.
My dad scurried off, and my mom turned to me. “Would you like to help?”
I wasn’t much for physical labor, then or now, but I had nothing better to do. Plus—and this is the embarrassing part, the part that makes me wonder if maybe I, at least on some level, did tell Lyla’s secret on purpose—I didn’t often get a chance to spend that much time alone with my mom.
Yes, we did things as a family—benefits at the hospital, meals out, ski vacations in Europe, drives to New York for dinner and a show when my mom felt like “relaxing.” But my mom and I never really did anything alone. We never just decided to have a girls’ night, to pull up a chick flick on Netflix and eat ice cream, or pop over to the mall to shop for summer dresses and cheap shoes. If I needed an outfit for something, my mom gave me her credit card and I went with Aven and Lyla.
That’s not to say my mom ignored me—she always asked me about school and what was going on in my life. But I never felt like there was anything special about our bond as mother and daughter. She had the exact same kind of relationship with me as she had with Neal. And it wasn’t that I wanted to be her favorite—I just wanted to feel like we had something the rest of the family couldn’t understand, the way my dad and Neal could discuss soccer and whether a Porsche was better than a Ferrari.
“Start pouring soil into these pots,” my mom said.
I picked up the bag. It was heavy, but it got lighter as I went, and I fell into a nice rhythm, pouring soil into pots, filling them up almost to the top.
“How’s school?” my mom asked.
“Good.”
“Were you studying for math?”
I nod.
“Review sheets?”
I nodded again.
I waited for her to ask me if anything was wrong. I don’t know why I expected she would—maybe because I was working on a house project with her, which she knew was one of my least favorite things to do. She’d finally stopped asking me to help after I pointed out the fact that she should just hire someone to do all the things she wanted done. I think I’d hit a nerve about her need to control and her need to always have something to do.
We worked in silence for a few more minutes, me pouring dirt into pots, her spraying the hose to moisten the soil when I was done. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“So Lyla’s parents are getting divorced,” I blurted.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” my mom said. She didn’t sound surprised. In her world of being a doctor, divorces were part of the job description—doctors worked long hours, they were never home, they might have to take off in the middle of the night to go save a life. And god forbid you married someone during their residency, or when they were in med school—those marriages were almost certain to fail. As a result, when my mom heard about a divorce, she was able to be almost completely unemotional about it.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
“Is Lyla okay?” my mom asked.
I looked up in surprise. It was such an unexpected question—my mom didn’t inquire about emotions, not mine, and certainly not my friends’. It was something I’d grown to accept about her. Her father, my grandpa, wasn’t much on talking, and before he died my only memory of him was a meal where he was sitting at the head of a dining room table, telling everyone to be quiet. I was four. We sat there, and I ate my dinner in complete silence.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to her.”
My mom nodded and moved the spray of water over the pot I’d just finished filling.
“She got invited to move in with her dad,” I said, not because I was even that upset about it, but because I’d sensed an opening. “In New Hampshire.”
“Is she going?”
“I think so,” I said. “But I’m really not sure.”
“You’ll miss her,” my mom said. “But New Hampshire is certainly close enough for lots of visits.”
“Yeah.”
My dad came back with more soil then, and that was the end of the conversation. I didn’t think anything of it. I wasn’t telling my mom because I wanted to talk about Lyla, or because I was upset she was moving. I did it because I was looking for some kind of connection.
And that would have, should have, could have, been the end of it.
Until my mom ran into Lyla’s mom at Whole Foods, and they started talking, and my mom made a comment about how if Lyla’s mom needed any antianxiety pills, she should make an appointment to come to see her, and that having a child leave the house and move with their father to another state must be extremely stressful.
But of course, Lyla’s mom didn’t know anything about Lyla moving to New Hampshire. Because it wasn’t even a real plan. It was just something that was being discussed. So Lyla’s mom flipped out, and then she went home and told Lyla, and by the time I saw Lyla again at school, she was irate. At me, for telling my mom. And at Aven for telling me.
The three of us got into it outside before first period, so badly that I was afraid it might come to a fistfight. But even though I knew Lyla was really mad—it was the worst fight we’d had since we’d been friends—I thought the whole thing was going to end up flaming out. I figured it was kind of like a bomb—it had gone off, and now we’d pick up the pieces, talk about it, and move on.
But it wasn’t like that.
Lyla shut down. Completely.
She wouldn’t talk to me or Aven. I tried texting her a bunch of times, but she didn’t want to hear my apologies. I tried to explain it to her, to tell her that that if I’d known my mom was going to run into her mom, I never would have said anything. But Lyla didn’t care.
Looking back, I think she’d taken the anger she felt toward her dad for making her choose between her parents, and toward her mom for being such a mess that she couldn’t deal with Lyla not living with her for a while, and put it onto Aven and me.
But I still felt horrible. Why had I told my mom? Aven had asked me not to tell anyone, and even though I didn’t really consider my mom someone of importance, I’d still told. I’d broken my promise, and I felt awful.
At first, Aven and I worked together to make sure Lyla would talk to us again. But when it started to become clear that Lyla wasn’t going to just get over it, Aven started resenting me. She never said it, but I think deep down, she blamed me for what had happened. Aven and I started slowly drifting apart, and after a while, we drifted completely apart.
I’d never felt more alone in my life. So I did what I always did when things got hard—I threw myself into my work. Extra credit, extra responsibilities, volunteering, committees, meetings . . . now that I had no friends, I had no need for free time, so I was able to pack my schedule with things that would look good to Stanford.
And after about six months, I met Celia while working at the food pantry. We bonded over our Ivy League ambitions, and she introduced me to Paige, who was working there, too. They invited me to a party that night, to blow off steam after our long day of being on our feet handing out food. I usually avoided parties like the plague, opting instead for sleepovers with Lyla and Aven, or nights out to the mall or the movies. But obviously I hadn’t been doing any of that, and so my lack of socialization made me desperate enough to say yes.
And that was it. I slid into Celia and Paige’s threesome, not because I was all that suited for it, but because I was hungry for a group to be in.
And after a while, Lyla and Aven started to fade from my memory.
THIRTEEN
WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOTEL AFTER TALKING to my mom and leaving Abram and Lyla on the beach, I head right for Celia and Paige’s
room. I’m in full-on damage-control mode now, and I need to make up with them. I mean, what the hell was I thinking, blowing them off for some guy? It’s completely humiliating and totally against every girl code in the book. I almost threw away my friendships, my future, everything for some guy I didn’t even know. I flush as I think about the fact that I lost my virginity to him. I slept with him. I had sex with him! I might be able to make up with Celia and Paige, but I’m never going to be able to change that.
But I’m not going to think about that right now. I just need to focus on one thing at a time. Almost like a to-do list. One, make up with Celia and Paige. Two, get my outfit ready for tomorrow’s interview. Three, figure out if there’s any way I can help my parents get me into Stanford. Maybe I can write a special statement, or ramp up my volunteer work, or send updated transcripts showing I’ve kept my grades up and haven’t gotten senioritis like a lot of kids at my school.
Of course I know the only thing that’s really going to get me into Stanford is my dad writing a check or making them some kind of promise, but it still makes me feel a little better to think there might be something I can do.
When I get to Celia and Paige’s room, I pause before knocking, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to the two of them. Finally, I decide to just keep it simple. Apologize. Say I’m sorry. Explain that I didn’t mean to hurt them, that I just got caught up in a boy and the thrill of it all.
But you didn’t just get caught up in a boy. You really liked him. And you didn’t want to stay and take care of Celia when she was drunk—you’ve never really wanted to do that.
I hesitate. But then I tell myself those thoughts are coming from the part of me that wants to take the easy way out. My feelings for Abram are based on nothing but hormones and vacation and stupid teenage lust. They don’t have anything to do with Abram himself. And this whole thing with Celia and Paige—yes, I didn’t want to stay and take care of Celia, but some of that was motivated by wanting to go see Abram. Which was based on hormones and vacation and stupid teenage lust. It’s a vicious cycle.
I knock on the door, hoping they’ll be there.
“Come in!” Celia opens the door without even asking who it is. I get nervous for a second that they’re not going to accept my apology, that maybe they’ll say they’ve realized they can’t count on me and so they’re just . . . done with me. I know that’s crazy. It wasn’t like I did anything horrible to them. But then I have a flashback to standing outside school that day, Lyla yelling at me and Aven, the two of us just standing there, helpless.
Celia sits at the desk chair, one of those plug-in lighted magnifying mirrors in front of her. Paige stands behind her, holding strands of long blond hair extensions.
“You need to place them perfectly,” Celia is instructing. “It’s really important, because if you don’t, they’re going to slip. And if they slip, everyone’s going to be able to see the tops of them, and that, like, defeats the purpose. You know, of people thinking they’re real.”
“Okay,” Paige says, not sounding that sure.
The two of them have full faces of makeup on, way too much for daytime, so I’m assuming they’re getting ready for something.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” Celia says stiffly.
Paige doesn’t say anything. She just clips an extension onto Celia’s head.
“Good!” Celia says, turning her head and admiring Paige’s work. “Good job, Paige!” Paige beams, and a flash of annoyance pulses through me. Why does Paige have to do everything Celia says? And why does she need Celia’s approval so much? And over something so trivial and demeaning as putting in hair extensions? Why couldn’t Celia put in her own damn hair extensions?
“I see you’re feeling better,” I say, making sure my voice stays upbeat.
“You know I recover quickly,” Celia says. It’s true. She’s always having little drunken mishaps and feeling sick, but after she eats something and takes a quick nap, she’s usually fine. Last year she got drunk on the field trip to Conifer Lake, puked in the bushes and everything, and by the time Paige got her a honey bun and Celia took a nap on the bus home, she was able to finish the rest of the school day like it was nothing.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Listen,” I say. “I’m not . . . I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”
Celia gets quiet, takes a deep breath through her nose, then swivels around in her chair and looks at me. Paige sets the hair she’s holding down on the desk and turns to look at me, too. I see her eyes flick to Celia’s face, trying to figure out what Celia’s going to say. And I get it—Celia is the one in charge of this. If Celia says I’m forgiven, then Paige will follow suit. If Celia decides she’s still mad, then so is Paige.
“Go on,” Celia says patiently.
“I just got confused for a little while,” I say. “I was just really . . .” I trail off, because now that she’s put me on the spot, I don’t know what exactly it is I’m sorry for. Is it because I didn’t want to hang out with them? Because I didn’t want to order Celia’s pizza? I’m not really sorry for those things. But I can’t say that. There’s no way Celia’s going to want to hear about how I’m sick of taking care of her.
It’s not that bad, I tell myself. She’s a good friend. So what if she’s a little bit spoiled? She’s been there for me when I had no one. And if I blow her off just because she can be a little entitled, isn’t that exactly like what Lyla did to me, by just giving up on a friendship after one fight?
“You were just really . . . ,” Celia prompts.
“I just really got worked up over Abram,” I say. “He’s really good-looking, and it was fun getting attention. So I kind of got, like, caught up in him.” I try to convince myself the words are true—maybe if I say them enough, I’ll start to believe them.
Celia nods, like she can accept this. “Okay,” she says. “I mean, I understand.”
“Me too,” Paige says kindly. “I know you don’t get that much attention from guys. So it would make sense you kind of freaked out.”
“So can we just move on?” I ask, feeling my fists clench at my side. It’s actually better to move on, and the faster the better, because if I have to sit here and explain myself to them for one more second, I’m pretty sure we’re going to get into another fight.
“Yes,” Celia says. She jumps up from her chair and envelops me in a hug.
And after a moment, Paige does the same.
They don’t ask me any questions about losing my virginity. I don’t think it’s because they don’t care, although that could be a small part of it. They’re doing it mostly because they want to make it clear they’re still mad at me, that they’re not going to go out of their way to show an interest in my life or be super nice to me right away. In their opinion, I messed up, and I’m going to have to prove myself again, at least for a little while.
On the other hand, they’re getting ready for a sunset cruise around the key, and they just assume I’m going with them. I kind of have to, since (a) I don’t want them to be mad at me anymore, and (b) I need something to do, especially since I’m not going to be meeting Abram.
Abram. Whenever I think of him, emotion flows through my body like a wave. But I push him out of my mind and focus on getting ready for the cruise. When I think of sunset cruises, I think of people getting dressed up in semi-nice clothes and being served a fancy dinner consisting of exquisite-sounding seafood dishes, like mussels in garlic butter with truffle oil. But Celia quickly sets me straight when I come out of the bathroom wearing a simple red T-shirt dress.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t wear that. It’s not sexy enough.”
She’s changed into a black glittery miniskirt and a hot-pink top that ties behind her neck and hits just below her belly button. Paige is in a red bandeau dress with straps that crisscross in the back and show off her tanned skin.
“You can borrow this,” Paige says, holding up a pair of short shorts and a tuxe
do-style tank top.
Celia nods. “Very fashion forward,” she says. “And those shorts will look killer with your legs.”
I reach out and take the clothes, thinking of how ridiculous they’re going to look on me. It’s definitely not an outfit I would ever choose for myself, even if I decided I wanted to go for a sexier look. This isn’t last night, when I was pretending to be something I’m not.
Abram.
I glance over at the clock.
Two minutes after six.
I should be meeting him now.
I wonder if he’s at the restaurant, waiting for me, wondering where I am, if he’s worried about me or if he knows he’s being stood up. The desire to be there with him is so overwhelming that for a moment, my eyes fill with tears.
“Jesus, Quinn, you don’t have to cry about it,” Celia says, sounding annoyed. “If you want to wear a T-shirt, go ahead and wear it.”
“It’s not a T-shirt,” I say. “It’s a T-shirt dress.”
“Whatever,” Celia says.
“It’s a nice color,” Paige says, deciding to show me a little sympathy. “It’s nice for a sunset cruise.”
“Thanks,” I say. I turn around and head back into the bathroom, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill down my cheeks.
Stop being pathetic, I tell myself. He’s just a boy you barely know. You’re only feeling this way because you feel guilty about standing him up, and because you had sex with him.
I know better than to think sex means anything. Just because you sleep with someone doesn’t mean you have a connection. In fact, it’s just your body tricking you into thinking you have a connection. Especially for girls. It’s, like, a scientific fact that once a woman has sex with someone, a hormone gets secreted in her body that makes her feel like she’s in love with the person she just slept with.