Where You Are
But Mom wasn’t finished digging her hole, with me right there, praying for invisibility. As she glanced around at all the pretentious, sniggering patrons, her face twisted into a haughty demeanor. “Well, f**k all y’all!” she declared. The wave of laughter crashed over me, and invisibility wasn’t good enough. I think I prayed for death.
A few months later, my new manager strongly suggested speech therapy to rid me of my accent. I jumped at the chance. The most puzzling thing was Reid’s objection. “I like the way you talk,” he said, running his fingers through my hair as I lay with my head on his lap while we watched a movie. “It’s different. It’s hot.”
“Pshh! No it’s not. I sound like a redneck with a fifth grade education.”
“But you’re not.”
“It’s what I sound like, so it’s what everyone thinks.”
“Who gives a shit what everyone thinks?” he said. I see now that this has long been some sort of mantra for him. I’ve never been that free. I want to be, and sometimes I pretend to be, but I’m not. I’m forever chained to giving a shit about what someone thinks.
***
“Is she your girlfriend now?” Cara’s idea of whispering is anything but.
I’ve made it a habit to avoid my younger half-siblings when possible—all too simple, living in another state, especially after passing the age of mandatory visitation. So I don’t spend much time in the company of small children. I’m not used to the way a kid Cara’s age just blurts out indelicate questions. In the middle of dinner, no less.
Every eye at the table shifts to Graham, who chuckles at his daughter. “No, Brooke is a really good friend—like Daniel or Rob.” These two are classmates of Graham’s. We’re going to a party tomorrow night that one of them is hosting. I’m not so sure I want to be grouped with a couple of guys in Graham’s head. Talk about the friend zone.
Audible exhalations of relief come from his mother and his sister, Brynn, who came over for dinner tonight because she can’t take off work for the ceremony tomorrow morning. I plaster a rigid smile on my face at their oh-thank-God sighs. What the hell.
The kid taps her fork against her plate, her head angled like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise. “So Emma is your girlfriend?”
Graham sighs. “Cara, it’s time for dinner, not twenty questions.”
She gives him a cheeky look. “That was two questions, Daddy. Two.”
“Yeah, well, just because you ask a question—or two—doesn’t mean you get an answer.” He winks at her and she rolls her eyes like she’s heard that before and digs into her lasagna. Then Graham turns to his family and says, “Brooke is going to be filming a romantic comedy here in New York, starting—when is it, Brooke, mid-August?”
“Yes.” He’s letting his family know I’ll be around in the future. This is good. I’m closer to being able to tell him that I’ve sublet an apartment with a lease running from the beginning of August through December.
“Are they still talking to Efron about the male lead?”
“No. I think he’s had some other contract he can’t get out of. I’m not sure who they’re considering now.”
“Congratulations, Brooke,” his father says as his mother and Brynn mumble vague acknowledgements.
On the outside, I thank them graciously and smile obliviously, like the vacant little bimbo they seem to think I am—totally unaware of their disdain.
On the inside, I’m snarling f**k all y’all.
*** *** ***
GRAHAM
Cara gets a case of the giggles when she sees me in my graduation garb, and I haven’t even donned the cap yet. I shake my head as she collapses onto the bottom stair, sliding into a prone position and laughing like she does when Brynn tickles her. Finally, she pauses long enough to tell me that I look like Cinderella, before she dissolves into another round of unreserved laughter.
“She has a point, Graham,” Cassie says, juggling Caleb. “You are rockin’ the baby blue satin in that commencement dress.”
Cara slaps the wooden step with her small hand, howling with laughter. I’m afraid to put on the cap and tassel in front of her, because she might lose the ability to breathe. Mom insists, though, because the ceremony is outdoors and unless she pins it beforehand, one gust of wind could send it flying. Once the cap is affixed to my head, Cara is beside herself for another five minutes, and I wonder how she’ll react when confronted with several thousand graduates in light blue caps and dresses.
Brooke’s eyes are sparkling, and for a split second I realize how rare it is to see them free of her guarded cynicism. She seems like she’d be the last person on earth to censor herself, when in actuality, that’s all she does.
A few hours and a long, strangely exhilarating ceremony later, I text Emma to tell her I’m an official college graduate. We arrange an early Skype time because of the graduation party tonight and her flight from Sacramento to Burbank tomorrow morning. Neither of us mentions the fact that Brooke will be tagging along to the party, meeting my school friends and possibly inciting more photos and stories for the rumor mill.
***
“So… do I look smarter as a college grad? Or at least hotter?” I smooth my hands over the light blue Columbia t-shirt before shrugging into a plaid shirt, leaving it open over the t-shirt and dropping into the desk chair. I angle the monitor so that Emma’s face is clear.
She laughs and looks me over. “Definitely both. I like the baby blue on you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in that color.”