Just You (17 page)

For the rest of the weekend, I thought about
what Michael had said about me being perfect for him. Then I
thought about the way he looked when my fingertips traveled across
his bare skin. Then, during breakfast on Monday morning, I lied to
my mother about having a yearbook committee meeting after school
and went to the doctor instead. And an hour and one thoroughly
humiliating check-up later, I walked out of there holding a
three-month trial of birth control pills with my name on it.

Chapter 15

My mother still had no clue Michael even
existed, but I was on constant alert anyway, expecting her to burst
into my room at any given moment, demanding to know about this new
boyfriend Emma had been talking about. But she didn’t, and by the
time February rolled around I was feeling pretty secure. I’d been
dating Michael for almost four months now and Mom was none the
wiser. She’d never have to know. I was safe.

Michael and I had a system for phone calls
during the week. I would always call him, because if he called me
and my mother answered, she’d no doubt start asking questions. So
at around nine every night, when Mom was busy with work or
engrossed in TV, I’d go in my room, shut the door tight, and make
my secret phone calls to Michael, all the while remaining on alert.
It worked fine up until one Wednesday evening, when my complacency
made me sloppy.

I was sitting on my bed, phone pressed
against my ear as Michael and I discussed our plans for the
upcoming weekend. We talked for a half hour or so and then ended
the call like we usually did, gushing about how we couldn’t wait to
see each other after the long week apart. Somehow, I failed to
notice I’d left my bedroom door open a crack and that my mother was
lurking nearby, either shamelessly spying on me or innocently
overhearing. The first was more likely.

By the time I hung up the phone and ventured
out to the kitchen for a glass of water, my mother was at the
kitchen table, reading
People
and having her nightly cup of
chamomile. “Did you gather up all those dirty clothes like I
asked?” she said, flipping a page in her magazine.

“I’ll do it in a minute.” I got a glass from
the cupboard and filled it at the sink. Out of the corner of my eye
I saw Mom close her magazine and take a sip of tea.

“Who was that on the phone just now?” she
asked in a neutral voice.

My lie came quick. “Ashley.”

“It didn’t sound like you were talking to
Ashley.”

I peered into my water glass, watching the
tiny bubbles burst along the surface. I wondered how much she’d
heard.

“Who was it, Taylor?” she asked again, dead
serious this time.

I was trapped. I could no longer avoid this
confrontation. “His name is Michael,” I said. Mom raised her
eyebrows and sat back, waiting for more. I pressed my back against
the fridge, soothed by the coolness seeping through my shirt. “I
met him in October, at a party I went to with Robin.”

“He’s from Weldon?” Mom asked, her voice
calm. Too calm. Scary calm.

“Yeah. Redwood Hills.”

“And you’re dating him? Exclusively?”

I nodded. She broke eye contact and looked
down at the picture of Brad Pitt on the cover of her
People
.
“You’re sixteen years old,” she said as she focused, still
composed, on Brad’s smiling face. “You’re far too young to be
dating anyone exclusively.”

“I dated Brian exclusively,” I said. Like it
mattered. She’d thought my romance with Brian was “cute”, two
childhood friends maybe experimenting with a little kissing.
Harmless. And for the most part, that was exactly what it had been.
Michael, though, was a stranger, and because I’d hidden him from
her for so long, there had to be something wrong with
him
.
Obviously.

She peered at me again. “How old is this
boy?”

Why did she have to ask about his age, of
all things? It was like she knew, without my even saying anything,
that this was the one detail that would really set her off. “He
just turned eighteen.”

My mother got out of her chair and walked
over the counter. She slowly and carefully placed her mug in the
sink, and then gripped the counter with one hand, as if to steady
herself. I waited, my lungs burning, as if I could prevent her
reaction simply by holding my breath.

“No sixteen-year-old daughter of mine,” she
said, her voice rising with each syllable, “is going to date an
eighteen-year-old boy. An eighteen-year-old
man
. Taylor,
what are you
thinking
?”

I finally exhaled, feeling like the air had
been punched out of me. “Mom…”

“Your father has been letting you get away
with this?” She took a step closer to me and I instinctively
cringed, even though she’d never hit me before in my life.

“Dad likes him. He doesn’t see a problem
with me going out with him.”

“Of course.” She gave a short laugh and
turned away, crossing her arms. “Abdicating responsibility. That’s
your father to a T.”

Even with everything my father had done, my
hackles still rose when she criticized him. “He’s a good father,” I
said with a quiver in my voice.

“Good,” she echoed in disgust. “Of course
you think he’s good. He lets you do whatever you want. He always
has. I remember coming home from work when you were little and he
was letting you ride your bike in the street without a helmet. Or
he was letting you have cookies for dinner. Or he didn’t know where
you were at all.
You have to give them the freedom to grow and
make mistakes
, he’d say. Right. Who do you think worried about
you and disciplined you and made sure you were always safe? Me,
that’s who. Not your father.
Never
your father.”

“He does love us, you know.”

She flipped her hand at me. “Oh, he adores
you. His little girls can do no wrong. That’s the problem.”

“I didn’t
do
anything wrong,” I
yelled. Bad idea. Yelling at my mother only ever amounted to
regret.

“Watch your tone, young lady,” she said,
pointing a finger in my face. “You may be allowed to run wild at
your father’s, but it’s not like that here. Someone has to lay down
the law and it’s quite obvious your father is still failing
miserably in that department.”

I tipped my glass and drained it, trying to
distract myself from a panic that threatened to suffocate me. “It’s
no big deal, Mom. Michael’s nice. You’d like him.”

“That’s completely beside the point, Taylor.
He’s too old for you, and you’re too young to be in a serious
relationship. You’ll only wind up hurt. This is going to stop and
it’s going to stop now. End of discussion.”

I squeezed my water glass, feeling its cool
solidness in my palm as I looked her straight in the eye. “I love
him. I’m not going to stop seeing him.”

I’d never so openly defied my mother before,
even as a young child. I’d also never seen her face turn purple
before. She was so mad, her voice trembled. “Oh yes, you will stop
seeing him. I will call this boy’s parents. Don’t think I
won’t.”

“Mom! My God!” I wasn’t even trying to
control my emotions anymore. “I’m not planning to run off and elope
with the guy. We’re just dating.”

“Just dating.” She snorted. “I find that
hard to believe. Are you sleeping with him, Taylor? Tell me.”

Not yet
, I thought. But I swore to
her that I wasn’t, that Michael wasn’t like that. That just because
he was eighteen didn’t mean he was gearing up to take advantage of
me. She studied me for a long time, her angry green eyes—so much
like my own—taking in my earnest, tear-streaked face.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “And I
don’t want you to see this boy anymore. You are grounded,
indefinitely. I’m going to call your father, and after I give him a
piece of my mind, he and I are going to figure out what to do with
you. This lying and sneaking around and dating older boys is going
to stop, right here, right now. It’s over. Do you understand what
I’m saying to you?”

Rage that I never knew existed inside me
suddenly roared through my limbs, and in the next instant my water
glass was in mid-air, hurling across the room, smacking with a loud
crack against the wall. It exploded on impact, sending hundreds of
particles of glass flying everywhere. All over the floor. All over
the stove. Scattered around our feet. The room became eerily
silent. I lifted my eyes to my mother’s white, stunned face.

“I won’t stop seeing him,” I said, no longer
scared of her wrath, or her words, or her stupid judgmental
attitude. “I’m not a child anymore. You can’t stop me from seeing
him.”

Mom’s mouth opened, and for a moment I was
sure she was going to flip out on me, but she closed her mouth
again and bent down to pick the glass shards off her feet. A second
later, I realized she was crying.

Completely numb, I turned and left the room,
knowing she wouldn’t dare try to follow me.

****

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

I’d found her in the kitchen, dressed for
work and sweeping the floor of whatever glass she had missed the
night before. She continued sweeping, ignoring me. Emma sat at the
table, eating a bowl of cereal and watching us with wide eyes. I
felt horrible. I’d barely slept the night before, and as I lay in
bed after my outburst and listened to my mother sniffling and
cleaning up the aftermath of my anger, I began to feel guilty. I’d
never behaved that way before in my life, but then again, I’d never
felt such fury before in my life either. It had happened before I
could even think, or stop myself. And now, for the first time in
her
life, my mother didn’t know what to say to me.

“Mom?” I said, slinking closer to her. “Let
me do that.”

She stopped sweeping and handed me the
broom, not looking at me. Her face was pinched.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I didn’t mean
to…”

“I’m calling your father this evening,” she
said, steely and emotionless. “I don’t know how to deal with you,
Taylor. You’ve never acted this way before. All because of this
boy.”

I leaned on the broom, forcing myself not to
cry. Tears had no effect on my mother. “It’s not him. It’s me. It’s
my fault. I was so angry, I just—.”

“I won’t stand for this kind of behavior,”
Mom said, and we were right back to where we were the night before.
A sob bubbled up in my throat.

“Why is it so wrong? I’m not drinking. I’m
not doing drugs. I’m not getting pregnant. For God’s sake, I’m a
virgin, okay?”

She shot a glance at my sister, who was
still at the table, listening to every word. I bit my lip and
looked down at my bare feet.

“Emma, go brush your teeth, all right?” Mom
said softly to her. Emma jumped up and scurried from the room. Once
she was safely out of earshot, Mom turned back to me. “Your sister
doesn’t need to hear this.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She heaved a tired sigh and glanced at the
clock on the wall above the table. “I have to get to work. I want
you to come directly home after school. Understand? I will be
calling later to make sure you’re here.”

My hand grew sweaty under the plastic handle
of the broom and all of a sudden I felt sick, like I was about to
either throw up or faint. Everything rushed into my head in
nauseating waves, overwhelming me. Being grounded indefinitely.
Calling Michael and telling him all this. My mother’s angry,
unwavering face. Not seeing Michael, not hearing his voice or
watching him smile or feeling his arms around me. Not being with
him, ever again.

Over nothing. Because my mother, in her
warped view of reality, thought she was protecting me from
heartbreak.

The broom fell to the floor with a clatter
as the sob in my throat finally broke free. I started to cry,
turning away from my mother and facing the wall where the glass had
hit the night before. There was a mark there, some chips in the
paint, and I touched it with my fingertips. I couldn’t remember the
last time I’d cried like this. Not when Brian dumped me. Not even
when my father left.

“Taylor.” Mom put a hand on my shoulder,
trying to comfort me. At first I brushed her off, but she kept
trying until I turned back toward her and let her hug me.

“Try to understand,” I said, burying my face
in her blouse. “Please.”

“I do, honey,” she replied, resigned now as
she rubbed my back. “I do.”

Chapter 16

Mom may have understood, but not enough to
change her mind. By the time I got to my father’s house on Friday
evening, I was well aware of exactly how much crap had hit the
fan.

“Boy, was she mad,” my father told me.

Mad
was a modest way of putting it.
I’d heard Mom’s side of their conversation the night before. She’d
said some pretty nasty things to him, even called him a “negligent
bastard” at one point. It couldn’t have been pleasant for him.

“I know.” I slumped against the table. “I’m
in big trouble.”

He chuckled. “So am I.”

We were sitting at the kitchen table, just
the two of us, the dog stretched out at our feet. The only sounds
in the house were the distant beep-beep-beep from Emma and Jamie’s
video game in the living room, the quiet hum of the dishwasher,
Leo’s panting, and my venting.

“It’s so unfair. She doesn’t even
know
Michael. Who’s she to decide I shouldn’t go out with
him?”

Unlike Mom, my father refused to bad-mouth
his former spouse, no matter what horrible names she called him. I
guess he thought he’d put her through enough already. “She’s just
trying to do the right thing, sweet pea,” he explained gently.
“Look out for you.”

It annoyed me that he was even remotely
sticking up for her. “I don’t need looking-out for. You’d swear I
was out every night getting drunk and smoking crack.” I bent down
and scratched Leo under his ears, causing his tail to thump wildly
against my chair leg. When I straightened up again, Dad was looking
beseechingly at me.