Page 11 of Race to Me

As they discuss drafts, work, and other meaningless things, I zone out. I nod at the parts I need to and ignore the rest.

I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, but I am so sick of it. Normally, I’m positive and carefree, but these past few weeks have changed me slightly.

It all started when I mentioned to my parents during summer break that I loathed my all-girls private college and wanted to go somewhere more open. Somewhere bigger.

I don’t go to parties, I’m a straight-A student, and I don’t hang out with boys. Simply, I’ve never defied my parents, and I found out quickly why I shouldn’t.

When they told me no, I looked in the mirror and thought to myself, like I normally do, that I shouldn’t be questioning them. I mean, look at everything I have; all these opportunities are available to me because of their wealth.

Most kids only dream of the kind of life I lead, but the moment Mom sat me down and told me the only reason that I was going to an all-girls college was to collect a meaningless degree until they married me off to Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth’s son, I broke.

It’s not that I hate Warren Hollingsworth; I’m sure he doesn’t even know of their master plan. I just don’t believe my parents should dictate how my life plays out. I’m an adult, and I will marry for love when I find the right man.

The next day, I called and canceled my upcoming semester for Crestview, effective immediately. I signed up for Miami State and didn’t look back. When I told them, it was during one of their fancier dinners, with their most influential friends, the Hollingsworth’s.

I knew they couldn’t stop me if I played it off like it was their idea. I looked at everything in a different light at that point, with my unknowing future husband sitting next to me.

It was the wrong choice. When they left, Dad’s immediate reaction was to yank me from the chair by my hair. I looked to Mom as I was being dragged across the hardwood floor into the living room, but she simply shook her head and walked away.

With a few quick jabs to my ribs, I was left with dark bruises on each side, and that wasn’t the first time.

They couldn’t deal with their perfect daughter crumbling their perfect life.

“Honey,” Mom’s voice snaps me from my thoughts, and my eyes trail towards her voice. The table is empty, and I hadn’t even realized anyone got up. “Come to the kitchen. Veronica made apple pie.”

I tip-toe across the marble floors, my heels tapping against them while my dress flows around me. Her and Mrs. Miller are chatting while Rita cuts the pie and plates it. Couldn’t they have cut it themselves? David is on his phone in the living room—I can hear him—and my father is with Brett on the porch. His hand is firmly planted on his shoulder as they talk about something that surely entails football.

Rita hands me a plate, always giving me the biggest piece with a grin. I slip a bite into my mouth, saying, “It’s delicious, Mrs. Miller.”

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?” Mom gushes, then leans in so Veronica can’t hear, adding, “Be careful with that or you won’t fit into your uniform.”

That’s the longest conversation we’ve had in months. I place the dish back on the table, losing my appetite. “I’m not feeling too well. I’m going to go lie down.”

∞∞∞

The house goes quiet after an hour. That is, until Rita slips into my room like a secret agent, carrying a plate of warm apple pie that she surely heated in the oven with a side of cold milk. “Here’s a little late-night snack.” She gives me a knowing look, indicating she’d heard everything.

I give her a tearful hug, and she sits with me while I eat. “I don’t know why she’s like that.” She moves the fallen hair from my face, cupping my cheek. “But you’re every bit as perfect as a flower, Skyler.” Her accent is warm like the pie, and it heals my heart.

I shrug, not wanting her to think it’s a normal thing. “I’m fine. She’s just looking out for me.”

Rita hesitantly nods her head, patting my hair in the process. She exits, and as soon as my head hits the silk pillowcase, my phone dings.

Unknown Number: ‘You up?’

Another text comes in.

‘Never mind, it’s nine ... You probably went to sleep hours ago.’

I don’t need to ask, but I do anyway.

Me: ‘Who is this?’

Unknown: ‘It’s me, Freckles.’

For some reason, my heart flutters in my chest.

Me: ‘How did you get my number?’

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