Exposure (17 page)

Her father continued, “So I have to think you never asked him to send them at all. Which means you’re hiding the truth—and we need to know why.”

Amelia pulled off one sock and began picking at a toenail. She said, “You’re right; I have been hiding the truth. But,” she added, looking up at her parents, “I’ve also been telling it. I did ask him for the pictures. Just not for the reasons I said.”

Her father put his plate down. “Now, come on—”

“I’ll explain,” she said, drawing a breath. Here, finally, was her chance to tell all. “He’s … Okay, so, we met last year at school, when we did
As You Like It
. Remember, he was Orlando? And I thought he was so talented and good-looking, and he thought the same about me, and, well, we started going out.”

“ ‘Going out,’ ” her father said, mimicking her tone. “You started ‘going out’ with a boy, without telling us.”

Amelia gave a small shrug that said,
What else could I do?
“You’re always talking about the right kind of guy for me—but what you want’s not what I want. I knew you’d reject Anthony without even knowing him—and this, the way you’ve reacted, the way you’re accusing him and ignoring what I keep telling you? This proves it.”

Neither of her parents responded right away. They peered at her, they looked at each other, her mother picked invisible lint from the front of her sweater. Amelia wondered if they hadn’t drugged themselves with tranquilizers.

“What else?” her father asked.

“Well, that’s pretty much the whole story.”

“Those pictures, though … He did send ’em to you. And what you said, about asking him to, that’s just you being nice, trying to protect him.”

Amelia felt a flush rising from her collar. “No … That is, it’s complicated. I took some, he took some—I’m not a child, Daddy. In seven more months I’ll be on my own.”

“Is that how he’s put it? Because being at college, that’s not like being on your own. Not when it’s your daddy’s checkbook that’s making it happen.”

“Which is why you’re not going to pay for my college,” Amelia said. “And I’m not going to Duke, I’m going to NYU—that is, if I get in.”

Her father’s forehead wrinkled and he said, “Come again?”

“New York University, in New York City. Anthony’s applied there, too.”

Her mother’s eyes grew very round as she said, “You applied to New York University?” Amelia looked away. She and her mother had worked together on her college applications, to Duke, and to UNC and Wake Forest and Davidson, her “back-up plan.” They’d all visited the campuses together last spring.

Her father no longer looked relaxed. “And who do you imagine
is
gonna pay—not him, that’s for damn sure, unless he’s got a daddy somewhere with deep pockets.”

“We’re going to get financial aid, and apply for scholarships, and we’ll work, too—maybe not on Broadway at first, but there’re lots of other paying theatre jobs, and, you know, regular kinds of jobs too.”

“And live where?” her mother asked.

“In an apartment, off-campus—the school has a housing office just for off-campus, and we probably would share a place with some other students, to make it more affordable.”

Her father said, “So this is what the two of you have cooked up, is it?”

Amelia nodded.

“And what was wrong with Duke—or, let me guess, he couldn’t get in.”

Her father’s sarcastic tone put Amelia on guard. “He didn’t apply,” she said, trying not to take the bait. “Duke is fine, I’m sure … but they don’t have drama, and, you know, it’s not in New York. I’m sure Anthony could get in to Duke if he applied. His grades are as good as mine. But he’s always known that NYU was where he’d go,” she continued steadily, as if by staying calm she would calm her parents. “He wants to be a playwright and director, and he’s an amazing actor—but then, you’ve seen him; I don’t have to tell you.”

“Oh, yes, without question, he is definitely a good actor.”

“Harlan,” her mother said, “is that tone really necessary?”

He frowned at her. “I’m trying here, but this is, well, this is …” He stood up, set his plate on the coffee table, ran his hands through his hair, and told Amelia, “Your momma and I talked a lot last night, because it’s our jobs as responsible parents to make sure you don’t turn left when you need to turn right. We’ve been around that whole block, so we know—I know especially—where you should and shouldn’t go.”

“Is this about me majoring in business?” Amelia said, praying it would all come back to their old argument, rather than to Anthony. “Because it doesn’t matter where I end up going—I’m not doing it. I love
theatre
. I love
music
and dance and performing. You pursued your passions, both of you did; how can you say that I shouldn’t?”

“Nobody’s saying don’t,” he told her, beginning to pace. “But it’s no
life
, Amelia, that starving-artist bit. Sure, it looks all pretty and shiny when you sit there in New York watching the plays, but all the rest of ’em, the ones who aren’t stars, how do you suppose they live?”

“Like regular people—in apartments. And okay, so they don’t live like this,” she indicated the room and the house with the sweep of her arm, “but so what? Most people don’t.”

Her father stopped pacing and faced her. “You aren’t ‘most people,’ Amelia. You think I’ve done what I’ve done for me? It’s for you, and your mother. You do not want to live like ‘most people.’ Believe me—I grew up in a trailer that was already old when my
parents
were born. You want to sing and dance and act? Fine, wonderful. Do it as a hobby. Get yourself a real profession, like your mother did—and I guarantee you’ll meet a terrific man who you can trust and admire, and who’ll give you everything you and your children need when that time comes.”

“I don’t want a man to take care of me, and I don’t want children, and I trust and admire Anthony,” she said carefully. “He understands me. He loves what I love. He
is
what I love.”

“That’s not love,” her father said, waving his hand dismissively. “Somebody who fills your ears with what you want to hear is a con man. We’re doing you a favor by keeping you away from him.”

“Keeping me away from him? Meaning what?” she challenged.

Her father held out his hand to her mother, but her mother shook her head and said, “This is not on me. You tell her.”

“All right, fine, I’ll be the bad guy: we’re taking you out of school for now, and all the rest—computer stuff, phone, social stuff, all that will be limited and/or supervised. And no more theatre, no dance or voice lessons. That’s done for the time being. You need to focus, and all that is just a distraction.”

Amelia knew her mouth was hanging open, yet she was powerless to close it. They could not be serious. This had to be a joke, or some kind of perverse scare tactic.

“It might be good for you to have a break from all the … pressures,” her mother said, her voice sounding small in the high-ceilinged room.

“Momma, I can’t leave school.”

“You’ll have a tutor—we’ll do the same as if you were injured or sick or had to work, like Elise.” Amelia’s classmate, Elise Vawter, was a high-fashion model who often jetted to Paris or Milan or Buenas Aires to be draped and photographed. Most of the girls hated her. There were so many ways to not fit in.

“You’d still graduate from Ravenswood,” her mother added.

“My New York trip coming up—”

“Forget it,” her father said.

“I
have
to go, I have an appointment at NYU. To get in, y-you have to audition.”

He said, “No need. It’s out, Amelia.”

“You can’t tell me w-where I’m going to college,” Amelia said, losing her struggle to keep calm.

“I can prevent you from making a gigantic error, and that’s what that school would be. We’re goin’ to have you see someone,” her father said, “to talk about all this.”

“See someone?”

“A doctor.”

Amelia stood up. “No sir, I’m n-not seeing any doctor. I’m not sick, in any way—and I wasn’t even upset or anxious or anything, until now.” She paused, upset by her stutter and fighting the pressure in her chest that was stealing her breath. “I guess the only thing I’ll have t-to tell this doctor is how upset I am about what you’re doing to me, and to Anthony.”

“We didn’t expect you to agree with us, Ladybug. You’re not thinking clearly, that’s the point.”

Amelia closed her eyes for a second, summoning calm, then opened them again. “Anthony Winter is an amazing human being. I have not been coerced, not by him or anybody else. You just want to think so, but guess what? I’m not the perfect, innocent little girl you want to force me to be.”

“The subject is closed.”

Amelia, fuming, started to put on her shoes, but her father said, “Hold up. You’re not going running this morning, not unless you use the treadmill downstairs. For now, you need to be where your mother or I can keep an eye on you.”

“You aren’t serious,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. She had a regular route through the quiet, hilly roads surrounding their neighborhood. Her pleasure in running came as much from the landscape as it did the exercise. “You don’t trust me to go
running
?”

“Obviously you’ve been hiding things from us, so it’s best we limit your opportunities for trouble.”

“Harlan, let’s not be—”

“I n-need to run,” Amelia said, unable to stop the tears, her fortitude crumbling under this additional insult. “I
need
to. If I don’t, I’ll …”

“Honey,” her mother said, putting an arm around her. “Let’s all just calm down. It’s going to be fine—”

“It isn’t,” Amelia said, pulling away and backing out of the room, into the front hall. “Anthony is my best friend. Everything I want to do with my life includes him. Why do you want to ruin it this way?”

“Ruin?” her father said indignantly, following her. “My job—our job—is to protect you, which right now means from yourself
and
him, until you get right about things again. Everything was fine and on track until you met this boy. Before you met him, we knew who you were.”

“My life started when I met him,” she said, before she turned and crossed the hall to the wide, winding stairway of this ridiculous home that had now become her prison.

If you were to poll Amelia’s close friends with this fill-in-the-blank statement, “Amelia Wilkes is many things, but she is mostly ___________,” answers would vary, but all would be synonyms for
determined
. Amelia was the toddler who, with the towering bars of her oak crib keeping her from her beloved stuffed giraffe, piled her pillows and comforter and less-loved animals and climbed them so that she could get a leg over the rail. She was the first-grader who circulated a petition to get the school to add a second playground water fountain (the boys often bullied the girls to the back of the line, little silent Amelia in particular). In response to her dance teacher’s warning that she’d better find a way to keep her blossoming curves at bay, she began running and, at age thirteen, set a new all-school record for the mile, then went on to place third in state competition. Amelia, at sixteen, raised more money than any other North Carolina high-school student in a Change for Change campaign, winning a trip to Washington, D.C., and write-ups in all the metro North Carolina newspapers. She worked hard at her studies, each high mark a defense against low self-esteem.

That her parents saw great potential in her was no surprise, and, if Amelia thought about it objectively, she appreciated their confidence. She valued their support. But their involvement came with a price: her father felt that because he’d produced her life, he was entitled to direct her entire life story.

Given the way he’d reacted to the photos, Amelia was trying, now, not to hate him outright. He wasn’t ordinarily controlling. Not an ogre. Not harsh. His strict views on her dating had been easy enough to get around—he hadn’t done before what he now insisted he had to do. She would not hate him for reacting this way, and she would not hate her mother for going along with him. She would simply find a way to get around this new, high, heavily guarded wall until the time came when they couldn’t hold her inside it any longer.

In her room, she changed from her running clothes into jeans and a fitted tee and a black hoodie, then stood in front of the cheval mirror that had been her mother’s mother’s, its frame made from hand-cut polished hickory, and brushed out her hair, trying to see herself the way her parents saw her. Did she look obedient?

Innocent? Sensible? Naïve? Did they still see her as the barefooted six-year-old running in the surf, as in the portrait of her that hung above the conservatory’s sofa? She frowned at her reflection. Was she supposed to still be that girl? What if she became, instead, The Girl Who Ran Away?

As appealing as the idea was, it wasn’t really a temptation. She had to finish high school or there would be no NYU education. No valuable mentors. No New York connections to Broadway work, or none that would come as naturally and easily as they would if she and Anthony immersed themselves in the school’s theatre culture. For all that she dreamt of starring, of headlining, on Broadway, she knew it was going to take a lot of effort and no small amount of good luck—but, Thomas Jefferson said that hard work made good luck, and she believed this wholeheartedly. The hard work was just going to have to include whatever her parents heaped on her these next seven months. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.