“So I spoke with your therapist from the program,” she says, “and he told me how you floated the idea of applying for the youth performing arts program at Henderson High School as part of your reentry strategy.”
Oddly enough, there’s a silver lining to Holiday’s boyfriend showing—I never told Axle of my plans to apply to the youth performing arts program for my senior year. I haven’t told him yet that there’s a scrap of me that’s considering applying for college. Before the arrest, my entire life was living one high to the next. No future. Just living in that minute. Going wherever my emotions dictated.
“You know this is a private high school, correct?”
I nod.
“You’re hoping for one of the scholarship spots?”
I nod again.
“I know that the program promised to help in any way they could with securing your future goals. Specifically, I know that there had been some conversation of pushing along your application to help you secure an audition, but after much discussion, the governor’s office doesn’t feel that would be the best course of action.
“The performing arts program is extremely selective, and the competition to gain one of those spots into the school is fierce, especially with a transfer student about to start their senior year. Our involvement would send the wrong message to critics of the Second Chance Program, and alienate parents and students who have worked hard to claim those spots. So, instead, we are highly encouraging you to apply on your own. If you receive a spot in the program and are awarded money to go, won’t it feel good to know you did it all on your own?”
She smiles then. Big white teeth against red lipstick. I didn’t know I had hope until my gut twists. Getting in on my own. Like that’ll happen. Will they trash my application when they see my transcript that’s C’s and below, or will they deep-six me when they read my essay of what I did on my summer vacation in juvenile detention?
“I agreed to being your poster child, and you guys agreed to get me the audition.” I can hold my own in the audition. There might not be much substance to me, but I’m good at music.
My current high school is a holding cell for teens between stints in juvie. If I want more for my life, then I’ve got to start making some major moves fast. Music was the only good thing about me before the arrest. Maybe music will keep me on track. That youth performing arts program was my best hope at building a résumé that could possibly get me into college. “I never asked for you to get me in. I only asked for the audition.”
“Well, we can’t,” Cynthia snaps, and after she briefly closes her eyes she returns to fake cheerful. “We would love to help, but you’re our model for the Second Chance Program. Hopefully, the entire state will know who you are soon and will know that the governor’s program is successful. But we can’t do anything that will bring criticism to the program. That includes the governor’s office calling in a favor. These things get leaked. How the public and media perceive this program is crucial. I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”
“You think they’re going to give an audition to a juvenile delinquent?”
“Your records are sealed.”
“But my transcript will speak for itself, as well as any explanation on time gaps in my education. Part of being in the program was your promise to help all of us in our future plans. Since I’m your circus monkey, that promise no longer applies to me? If so, I’m not seeing the benefit of going onstage.”
“Being the spokesperson was part of your plea deal. You’re choosing to see this in a negative light. You have no idea how this will play out until you apply for the program. Try thinking positively. Good things will happen if you remain positive.”
I stand abruptly, the seat beneath me cracking against the floor with the movement. “I’m going to let you in on a secret—hoping and wishing food would appear when I was younger didn’t work. Scamming people outside of grocery stores did. So I do know how it’s going to play out. The boy who has nothing is once again going to get screwed.”
Not how I should be talking to my handler, but it’s better than the string of four-letter words I’d rather be yelling.
My therapist told me when I couldn’t handle my emotions to remove myself from the situation. So I turn away from Cynthia and begin to walk.
“Don’t go far,” she calls out.
She shouldn’t worry. That leash she has me on is so tight it’s cutting off blood flow, and it’s so damn short, I’m surprised I haven’t fallen prone to the ground. At least now I know the score, and once again I’m on the losing end.
Ellison
“No more bringing animals home,” Mom says in front of an entire room of people, and it takes an amazing amount of self-control to not let my face show how mortified I am by her public admonishment. We’re in a private room at the conference center, and the clock ticks down for Dad’s press conference.
“The dog you brought home yesterday made a mess in the laundry room. There was mud everywhere, and it growled at me. How could you bring home something dangerous?”
“He didn’t growl with me.”
“He was feral.”
“He was lost.” Annoyance thickens my tone. “Someone needed to help him.”
“That someone isn’t you. I’m serious. No more. I’m tired of coming home and wondering if there’s going to be some rabid beast waiting to eat me when I open my front door.”
The poor thing had curled up with me. I fed him, gave him a bath in my tub, fed him again and then he rested his head on my lap and eventually closed his eyes. I loved him from the moment his dark, scared eyes first looked in my direction. “You probably spooked him when you opened the door to my room. He wasn’t alone in there but for three minutes.”
“Elle,” Dad says my name with finality. He’s lectured me easily a hundred times: no more bringing animals home, no more talking back to my mother, no more arguing. Just do what I’m told.
“Can everyone give us a few minutes?” my dad asks the room. “Elle, you can stay.” Very rarely does my father ask me to leave, since my parents love to keep a close eye on me.
In the mirror, my eyes meet Andrew’s, and I try to gauge if he became a tattletale. Andrew is twenty-two, is royalty in this state, and his family and my family are good friends. His grandfather is the current and retiring US Senator. While his grandfather is well loved and respected, Andrew is sought-after, and I understand why. He’s gorgeous with his blond hair, green eyes and built body. Plus, he stands to inherit a fortune.
But Andrew and I are complicated. Not only am I the “little sister burden,” but at thirteen I confessed my undying love for him. He laughed, I cried and, since then, there’s been a sense of embarrassment that includes my face morphing into crimson when I spot his amusement.
Today, I’m able to keep my embarrassment in check. Andrew’s been gone a year to study abroad in Europe, and the break has helped me realize he was mean to laugh at a thirteen-year-old. It also made ditching him earlier much easier than expected.
Andrew smirks as he walks over to me, and I immediately pull my gaze away and pretend to smooth out my dress. He presses a hand to the small of my back as he leans in. Years ago, my heart would have leaped at his touch and at how incredibly close his lips are to my ear, but now all I can think is...jerk.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I didn’t tell.”
My eyes dart to his in the mirror again, and he waggles his eyebrows. Andrew, even after a year, still finds me amusing.
“I’m assuming you’re waiting for me to say thank you.”
“Why the bitterness? You used to love it when I babysat you.”
Babysat. He needs to be in pain. I check the mirror to see if my parents notice us talking and discover my mother watching us with rapt and joyous attention. Kneeing Andrew in the groin wouldn’t meet her approval.
“I’m a bi
g girl,” I say under my breath, “and I don’t need you anymore.”
Full smile with straight teeth. “Been gone a year and I guess you’re all grown up, Ellie.”
“Guess so. And so you know, I go by Elle. Have now for a few years.”
He chuckles and finally removes his hand. “See you later, Ellie.”
Andrew bids goodbye to my mother and father, then leaves.
I pivot to confirm my sundress isn’t riding too high in the back. It’s beautiful, it’s purple, thick-strapped with no scoop, made of material that feels like I’m being wrapped in soft feathers, and tailored just for me. But sundress does not mean serious. It means pretty, it means fun and this means I will once again smile for the camera and remain silent.
My mother still watches me. Today she slicked back her blond hair and pulled it into a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s stylish in her white blouse and blue pencil skirt. People say we look alike, but other than hair and eye coloring, I don’t know if we do. She’s so poised, and I’m so different from her. She’s ladylike, reserved and calm, and I’m...not.
“You look beautiful, Elle.” Mom smiles in approval.
“Thank you.” The response is so automatic I barely register it.
Mom’s spent much of the past three years grooming me and teaching me how to react to people. As it’s been explained to me thousands of times, someone is always watching. The media, my father’s critics, current and future voters. What I do or don’t do is forever a reflection upon my mother and my father.
Perfection. It’s what the world expects of anyone in the limelight, especially from our leaders. Absolutely no pressure.
Speaking of zero room for error—there’s a piece of paper in my bag of tricks that needs a parental signature: the permission slip to enter the final stage of the internship competition.
Success, at least in my parents’ eyes in regard to me, is elusive. I have two left feet, I have no rhythm, no coordination and no athletic grace. I’m smart, I do well at school, but I’m not the kid who can rattle off the capitals of all the nations in the world, or has pi memorized past the sixth decimal place, or cares why I should have pi past the sixth decimal place memorized.
Sometimes it’s tough to be the daughter of two extraordinary people and not be nearly as successful as them. While other people my age have found their passion and are on track to whatever greatness they’re destined for, I have yet to figure out who I am and who I’m meant to be. But this internship is going to change that; I can feel it down to the marrow in my bones.
I inhale deeply and press my practiced smile on to my face. As I’m about to turn to gain their attention, Mom says, “Elle, come sit. We need to talk.”
A hiccup is created in my brain because that was not part of my plan, yet I slip into a seat at the small table and take comfort in the quiet and closeness of my family.
My dad is in a white dress shirt, and his tie is undone. Dad loathes dress clothes. He’s more relaxed in jeans and T-shirts, but people aren’t fond of politicians in dress-down clothes. When Dad practiced medicine, he said his patients weren’t particularly thrilled with the relaxed look either.
What I adore about Dad is how he gazes at Mom—like he’s still one hundred percent puppy dog in love as when they met in college.
“Everything okay?” I ask. T-minus ten minutes to a press conference. Not typical heart-to-heart time.
Mom and Dad do that thing where they share hours’ worth of conversation in a single glance. Someday, I want that special connection, but I’m not naïve. Their relationship is rare.
“Elle.” Mom uncrosses her legs and edges forward in her seat so that her arms rest on the table. “Henry called your father today.”
I perk up. Henry and Dad haven’t talked for two years. Maybe the Cold War is finally thawing. “That’s a good thing.”
“Yes,” Mom’s answer is hesitant, “it is.”
“Did you invite him to stay with us? I know he prefers Grandma’s when he’s in state, but maybe if you asked him to spend time with us, he’ll come home.”
A sad shadow crosses my father’s face. “I asked.”
A ball of lead forms in my stomach and rolls around. I miss Henry at home, and Mom and Dad do, too. Henry came to live with us when his parents died when he was a child, and he became like a brother to me. But two years ago, Dad and Henry got into a terrible argument, and Henry left. To this day, his room is exactly the same as when he walked out, just dusted and vacuumed every two weeks. It’s a living tomb.
Mom places her perfectly manicured hand over mine. Her eyes flitter over my flawed nails, thanks to playing the midway games, but she’s gracious enough to know that I need a mom and not a campaign adviser on appearance. “He initiated a call, and that’s a positive step.”
I hope it is because I’m tired of being torn between the two shores of a large ocean. Henry and I talk. Obviously, I talk to Mom and Dad. The three just don’t talk to each other. “What did he call about?”
“He’s worried about you,” Dad says. “He says you’re miserable.”
I withdraw from Mom and slump in my seat. Henry is a traitor. “I’m not miserable.”
“You sure look happy,” there’s a tease in my father’s tone.
A few weeks ago, I called Henry after a particularly rough fund-raiser for my father, and in my exhaustion and lapse of judgment, I might have cried a little too long to my cousin. If I had known that confiding in him would lead to this conversation, I would have never called him.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were applying for an internship with Morgan Programming?” Dad asks.
My head falls back. Henry is dead. I’m going to have to kill him. He’s the only person outside of school who knew about the internship, and he ratted me out to my parents. “Henry told you?”
“No, but your school called a few months back when you started the application process. I was wondering if the miserable Henry mentioned had any connection to this internship.”
Gaped. Open. Mouth. “You’ve known about the internship?”
“Yes, and I’ve had the school update me every step of the way.”
If I could fit into a sugar cube, I absolutely would. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Mom counters.
All the air rushes out of my body because this is going to suck. “I didn’t know if I’d make it to the final stage of the interview process or not.” I didn’t want them to know if I had, once again, become a failure.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve applied for?” Mom asks.
“It’s a computer programming internship that will start in college and will last four years. I’m a finalist which means the last part of competition is to spend part of my senior year creating an app.”
One of my elective courses during my senior year will be an independent study in creating this app, and I’m expected to start that independent study over this summer. Knowing that the last part might not go over well due to my schedule for my father’s campaign, I keep that information to myself.
Mom purses her lips, and I can’t decide what that means. “Computer programming? When did you become interested in that?”
I shrug because the answer is since freshman year when I took a class that sampled new careers every quarter, and one of those quarters was on programming. I liked it. I also liked drama club and about a hundred other things, so I never thought much about it, but the truth is... “I didn’t give it serious thought until I saw the internship announced on the school’s morning news. Something grabbed me, and I thought...why not?”
“Why not?” she repeats in a slow way as if the words are new to her.
“Why not,” I say again and mentally add why not, me?
“Elle.” Mom touches her throat in search of the gold locket that contains picture
s of me and Henry. “You agreed to help your father with the campaign. In fact, we’re paying you to help. You have a ton of scheduled appearances this summer. Then there is the fund-raising and...”
I sink lower in my seat. “I can still do all those things.”
“You believe you can compete in this final stage of the application process and still have time?” Dad asks.
“Yes.”
Dad shakes his head like I announced I’m attempting a solo trip to the moon. “Your counselor explained that the last stage of the application process is the equivalent to working a part-time job. How are you going to participate in the campaign, which requires traveling, keep up your grades in the fall and compete for this internship? I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”
Dad’s not seeing the bigger picture. The last stage of the application process is to create an app from scratch. My idea. My conception. My responsibility from birth to production. “Creating the app will be considered one of my classes in the fall, and I have the summer to work on it, as well. I have time.”
“Twenty hours a week,” Dad says. “That’s the minimum the counselor said is expected of you to work on this program. Subtract the hours you’d work on the program at school, and that leaves fifteen hours to be done at home. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it’s possible for you to create this program with the commitments you’ve already made to me and your mother.”
The ends of my mouth turn down. “So you’re saying I can’t apply for the internship?”
Mom slides the locket along the gold chain. “What we’re saying is that six months is your shelf life on anything. You try something new, you grow tired of it and then you flitter off. There’s something about your personality that loves to chase the new and shiny.”
“It’s not like that this time.” It’s not like that most of the time. Shame overwhelms me and I stare down at the table. I don’t grow tired of what I try as much as I grow tired of Mom and Dad waiting for me to be the best. When I don’t somehow become a brilliant star in the new thing I’m trying out, it’s akin to a failure.