One Small Thing. Erin WattЧитать онлайн книгу.
the better. “Stuff.”
I force my hand to move, to pretend like my heart rate hasn’t picked up and my body isn’t tense with fear.
“Like what?” Mom’s tone is light, but probing.
“Same stuff we always do.”
There are several beats of silence during which I realize that they know something and are waiting for a confession. I keep my eyes pinned to my plate.
Next up for separation are the mushrooms. I hate those. I always have and yet Mom continues to cook with them.
Mushrooms were Rachel’s favorite.
There’s a shuffling of papers. White appears at the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look but I can’t help it.
“Do you know what this is?” It’s Dad’s turn to question me now.
This is a good cop/bad cop routine that they do. Mom pretends concern and when I don’t show any remorse, Dad steps in with his stern voice and even sterner commands.
“No.” That’s honest, at least.
“It’s a printout of your text messages.”
“What?” Jaw dropping, I grab the sheaf of papers. My eyes skim down the page in total disbelief. Either I’m hallucinating, or I’m actually reading a transcript of the texts I exchanged with Scar when I was leaving the party last night.
217-555-2956: How’s the party? U OK?
217-555-5298: I’m fine. Party’s lit. omw back now. cabbing it.
217-555-5298: Prnts call?
217-555-2956: No
217-555-5298: kk cover 4 me if they do
217-555-5298: Made it back, safe and sound.
My stomach sinks. That last one was the message I sent Chase. I almost cry with gratitude that I didn’t say anything more damning.
I flip backward and see more messages.
217-555-2956: party 2nite?
217-555-5298: yessss
217-555-2956: what abt prnts?
217-555-5298: Ill tell them have 2 wrk
Fear, anger and frustration spin around in my head. I don’t even know what to say. And in the back of my mind, all I can think is Thank God. Thank God I didn’t text Scarlett about Chase and confess to having sex for the first time. Thank God I didn’t message Chase about what happened between us. The mere thought of my parents finding out about it, reading it firsthand on some text message, makes me nauseous.
“I can’t believe you’re spying on me!” I shout, slamming the papers onto the table. Unwelcome tears prick the corners of my eyes. “You don’t have any right to read my text messages!”
“I pay for that phone of yours,” Dad thunders.
“Then I’ll pay for it myself!” I jump out of my chair and push away from the table.
Dad grabs my wrist. “Sit down. We aren’t done.”
The look in his eye says that I better sit or he’ll make me. He never used to be this hard, this strict. Before Rachel died, he was the fun dad. He told the cheesiest jokes because he liked hearing us groan and cringe at them. Now I don’t think he even remembers how to smile.
I gulp, try to find my bravado, but come up empty. I sit.
“It’s not your actions that disappoint us,” Mom says, “but your lying. We simply can’t trust you.”
“Which is why your car is being taken away,” Dad adds.
“My car?” I gape at them. My car is one of the single instances of freedom I have. They gave me Mom’s old hatchback the second I got my learner’s permit. I would’ve been fine taking the bus or walking, but my parents felt I’d be safer behind the wheel of a car than on foot at crosswalks or bus stops.
Rachel was on foot when she was killed after all. Apparently that means I can’t walk within five steps of a motor vehicle ever again.
God, I sound bitter. I hate feeling this way, especially when deep down I know my parents aren’t bad people. They just haven’t recovered from Rachel’s death. I doubt they ever will, not without years and years of therapy—which they refuse to go to. The one time I suggested it, Mom stiffly informed me that everyone grieves differently, and then she got up and walked out of the room.
But they’re hurting me as a result of their unending grief, and I am bitter. And now they’re taking away my car?
In my car, I can blast my music, scream profanities and give voice to all my inner frustrations. Losing it would be awful.
I grapple for reasons that’ll convince them that this is wrong. “How am I supposed to get to work? Or the animal shelter?” For the past year, I’ve volunteered at a local animal shelter twice a month. Rachel’s allergy made it impossible for us to have pets at home and even now that she’s gone, the no-pets rule is still strictly enforced. So volunteering is the only way I get to be around dogs, who are way better than people, in my opinion.
Mom doesn’t meet my eyes. Dad clears his throat. “You won’t be doing, either. We’ve informed your boss at the Ice Cream Shoppe and Sandy at the clinic that you’ll be too busy with school to be able to work or volunteer.”
“You...” I take a breath. “You quit my jobs for me?”
“Yes.”
I’m so stunned I don’t have a response. All I can see are the doors slamming closed in my already-constrained life. No car. Slam. No part-time job. Slam. No volunteer work. Slam. Slam. Slam.
“You’re saying I go to school and come home. That’s it?” The knot in my chest threatens to choke me. It’s my senior year. I should be looking forward to my world getting bigger, not smaller.
“Until you can prove to us that you’re worthy of our trust, yes.”
I turn toward Mom. “You can’t agree with this. I know you know that this is wrong.”
She refuses to meet my eyes. “If we were stricter before...” She trails off but I know what before means. Our lives are strictly bisected into BR and AR.
“Marnie, let’s not talk about that.” Dad likes to pretend that BR never happened.
“Right, of course, but it’s because we love you that we’re doing this. We don’t want a repeat of the past. Your father and I discussed—”
“This is bullshit!” I erupt. I spring to my feet and out of my dad’s reach.
“Don’t use that tone with us.” Dad shakes his finger at me.
This time I don’t cower. I’m too angry to be afraid. “This is bullshit,” I repeat recklessly. Tears are dropping—which I hate—but I can’t stop. I can’t stop my words, my anger or my tears. “This is punishment because I’m the one alive and Rachel is the one who’s dead. I can’t fucking wait until I leave here. I’m not coming back. I’m not!”
Mom bursts into tears. Dad yells. I spin on my heel and race to my bedroom. Behind me, I hear my parents shouting. I climb the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door shut. I don’t have a lock but I do have a desk. I break three nails and knock the wood against my shin twice, but I finally drag it in front of the door.
Just in time, too, because Dad’s at the door, trying to shove it open.
“You open this door right now,” he demands.
“Or what?” I cry. I’ve never felt more helpless. “Or what? You’ll ground me? You’ve taken away my job, my car, my privacy. I can’t make a call