Keep Holding On (13 page)

I’m whipped up into a froth of agony by the time mother gets home. She scavenges through the kitchen cabinets, hunting for random scraps to scrape together for dinner. I don’t know why she’s bothering. There’s never anything to eat. We have some stale crackers. Some odd spices that were here when we moved in. A lonely packet of revolting mint hot-chocolate mix. She should throw those things out. But clinging to them gives her backup when she insists there’s stuff to eat.

She opens the refrigerator. Which is an even bigger joke. The entire contents of our refrigerator are a jar of spicy mustard, butter, and the end piece of a loaf of bread.

“You ate the rest of the cheese?” mother accuses.

“There wasn’t anything else to eat. And it wasn’t even that much.”

“I can’t keep food in the house if you’re going to gobble everything up in one day.”

“Um, it’s called I’m hungry?”

My stomach growls loudly. She can’t pretend she doesn’t hear it.

“There’s never anything to eat!” I yell at her.

Mother looks up from where she’s crouched in front of the refrigerator. “Excuse me?” she says.

This could be dangerous. When mother’s in a bad mood that isn’t my fault, she’ll rant about her job even more than usual.
Or she’ll sit around staring into space, playing her sad music. If I’m lucky, she’ll go hide out in her room so I won’t have to deal with her. But when I’m the one who made her angry, she’ll get crazy nasty for days and do scary things like slam my door in the middle of the night. I hate being on edge, carrying that nervous feeling around in my stomach of never knowing what to expect. I’m nervous all day at school. I really don’t need to be nervous at home, too. I should just stay quiet.

Except I’m not thinking rationally right now.

“There’s never anything to eat,” I say. “Isn’t it against the law to starve your kid?”

Mother scoffs. “You’re far from starving.”

“Why, because I’m not anorexic like you? Because I actually worry about not getting any nutrients? It’s normal to want three meals a day.” I’m craving the kind of dinner Mrs. Feldman makes so badly I can’t stand it. Delicious main dish. Pretty bowls of side dishes. Basket of warm, homemade bread with whipped butter. The wanting is driving me crazy.

Mother closes the refrigerator door. “I can’t deal with the grocery store tonight. Guess I’ll run to McDonald’s.”

“Why can’t we ever have real food?”

“Real food costs money. McDonald’s has a Dollar Menu. Guess which we can afford?”

I hate that she’s right. How ridiculous is it that fresh produce is so expensive? Shouldn’t food that’s good for you be affordable and junk food cost more?

Mother gets back from McDonald’s a thousand years later. She takes cheeseburgers and fries out of the bag. I’m so hungry I
don’t even care what I’m eating. I stuff my mouth with huge bites of burger. I cram in fries.

Then I start crying.

I should not be forced to eat this crap.

I bat my fry carton across the table. I’m disgusted by everything right now.

“You shouldn’t be feeding me this junk,” I say. I wipe my eyes with the thin napkin. It rips apart on my face. “We should be eating healthy food. Why am I the one explaining this to you?
You’re
supposed to be the mother!”

Instead of waiting to see how angry she’ll get, I storm off to my room. I slam the door. Let her be the scared one this time.

She never even noticed my hair. I can’t remember the last time she really looked at me.

I have this fantasy of going to Retail Rodeo one day when mother’s working. I’d pile my basket full of all the things I need that she never buys me, like deodorant and face cleaner and tampons. Then I’d go over to customer service, ring that stupid bell they have on the counter, and drop my basket in front of mother when she comes out.

“I would like a refund,” I’d say, “on a defective mother. And P.S.? Here are some of the things I need. I’m a teenage girl, in case you haven’t noticed.”

It would be epic. I just wish I had the courage to actually do it.

Parents should be interviewed before they’re allowed to have kids. They interview people to work at McDonald’s. Isn’t taking care of a kid a way more important job?

Sometimes I wonder if things would be different if my parents
were married. The only thing I know about my father is that he’s an addict. He left when I was one. But then a few years later, he came back. He must have been high that day. He came bursting into Lewis’s house threatening mother that if she wouldn’t let him see me, he’d take me away.

That’s all I remember. He went away again and never came back.

Being a parent isn’t supposed to be a job you can quit.

Warner Talbot takes
one look at me in physics.

“Nice hair,” he announces.

“What did she
do
?” Jolene DelMonico wonders.

Welcome to my Monday.

I concentrate on avoiding Julian between classes. There’s no way I can face him with my hair like this. Matt probably wouldn’t be too bothered, but I tell him that I can’t hook up today because I have to do some homework in study hall.

When it’s time for Spanish, I dart in with my head down. I put my hand up to cover the side of my hair facing Julian, pretending that I’m smoothing it. I can tell Julian’s already here without having to look up. It’s like there’s this force field around him that I
can always detect when he’s nearby. I slide into my seat. My plan is to quietly start getting my stuff together before the bell rings so I can run out. If I do this every day until my hair grows out, maybe Julian won’t notice that I’m more deformed than ever.

My plan to make a fast exit backfires. Mrs. Yuknis slams us with a pop quiz ten minutes before the end of class. I’m still answering the last question when the bell rings. I pass my quiz up and prepare to bolt.

Julian is right by my desk.

“I like your hair like that,” he says.

“Yeah, right,” I mumble. It’s bad enough being inflicted with a staircut. Does he really have to make fun of me like everyone else?

“I’m serious. It looks nice pulled back. You can see your face more.”

I peek up at him. He doesn’t appear to be making fun of me.

“Oh. Well … thanks.” Julian probably feels bad for me. There’s no way I can compete with Jolene. I don’t know why I even tried.

Gym. Shoot me now.

We’re playing volleyball today. Volleyball ranks extremely high on my Worst Things We Have to Play in Gym list. The only thing worse than volleyball is dodgeball. Dodgeball isn’t remotely a good idea. Since when does a bunch of balls being hurled at you sound like fun? Why is that even allowed? Volleyball is almost as excruciating. Instead of balls being whipped at you from all directions, one ball fired right at you instigates the inevitable disappointment of everyone on your team when you can’t smack it back.

Any time balls are flying at me, I’m an unhappy girl.

Pretty Perfect Popular girls are picking teams. Triple Ps always get to pick teams. They are the Deciders.

I am always their last choice.

We gather in a clump across from the Deciders. The polished gym floor has all these lines painted on it. I have no idea what any of them mean.

“Jolene,” Caitlin Holt says.

Jolene DelMonico whisks herself over to the Other Side. Once you are on the Other Side, you are safe.

The Deciders go back and forth, selecting who gets to cross over. Rewarding all the other girls who were born beautiful. Confirming the genetic lottery losers.

“Kim,” Caitlin Holt says.

The teams get bigger. Our clump gets smaller.

I always promise myself that I won’t get upset next time we’re picking teams. And then it’s next time and everyone’s smirking at me from the Other Side and I’m a sweaty, dizzy mess all over again.

Only three of us remain in the clump.

“Noelle,” Caitlin Holt relents.

I cross the divide on shaky legs. There is no walk of shame more shameful than this one.

Caitlin Holt only picked me because she had to. I wish someone would pick me because they want to.

After carving out a squiggle for my new mobile and painting it lime green, it’s time to chill with my people on
Friday Night
Lights
. My shows and books are an instant mood adjuster. They’re my drugs of choice. And the fictional characters I love are like my friends.

My stomach clenches when I hear mother’s car pulling into the driveway. The warm, fuzzy feeling I had going is erased in one harsh swipe. I get tense like this every night when she comes home. But her weird behavior since the McDonald’s Incident is making my stomach hurt even more.

All mother did the whole weekend was sit around sulking. She’d either hide out in her room or sit on the couch, staring at nothing for hours. I knew there’d be fallout from yelling at her, but it was ridiculous. Mother hogged the living room last night. She planted herself on the couch, cranked up her oldies, and just spaced out.

I was trying to do my homework. Which was impossible with her annoying music blasting through the cardboard wall. Her music was so loud that it sounded like she’d come into my room and cranked my stereo instead. Focusing on my Spanish essay was impossible. So I went into the living room. Mother was still lost in her own world on the couch.

“Could you turn that down?” I yelled over the music. “Some of us are trying to do homework.”

Mother ignored me.

“You have to turn it down!” I yelled louder.

She glared at me. A scary, hateful glare. Like I was the enemy. Which mother had already made clear. I’d heard the diatribe a thousand times. If it wasn’t for me, mother would be happy and
married and wouldn’t have to work at a job she hates. I’ve ruined her life by existing.

She didn’t move from the couch. I stomped over to the stereo and poked the
OFF
button.

“You have to let me concentrate,” I said. “A person should be allowed to do her homework.” I was the first person in the history of public education begging to do homework on a Sunday night.

There hasn’t been any drama tonight. Even more perplexing is mother’s anomalous good mood. We’re actually sitting here having dinner without her verbal vomit contaminating everything.

“Eat your carrots,” she says. Why is she trying to bust out the Normal Mom Act when no one else is here?

“Carrot cubes are not real carrots,” I object.

“Sure they are.”

“They don’t even taste like carrots. And I’m pretty sure carrots don’t come in neon orange. These might be radioactive.” I don’t think mother knows how to prepare a vegetable that doesn’t come from a can. She even manages to mess those up.

“Eat them anyway,” she says like we’re sharing an inside joke.

Beyond irritating.

I swear, when she gets fake like this, it’s even more annoying than her usual stank mood. At least then I know she’s for real.

Matt’s already waiting
for me when I get to our place.

“You look different,” he says.

Is he seriously just noticing my hair now? I mean, we haven’t hooked up since last week, but still. He sees me in the halls. He’s had plenty of chances to notice.