Page 17 of Please, Sir

Talking to my parents about cheerleading, however, is like throwing sand into the wind. They aren’t even trying to hold onto anything I’m saying–it’s just meant to distract me from the gaslighting.

I’m both not distracted and irritated, but remind myself that I have to push past this. I have to move forward. They aren’t going to change, so I have to work through that and move on if I want them in my life. Plain and simple.

That means having a normal conversation and ending the call.

“Cheerleading is going very well, thanks,” I tell my parents, directly answering my mom’s questions as I draw my knees to my chest in the corner of my second-hand little couch. I pull my faded college alumni blanket over my feet, and twirl a damp piece of hair around my finger, trying as hard as I can to feel relaxed. I’ve learned relaxation is a lot like attraction—you can’t force it. If I do all the things that make me feel good, then goodness will come.

It has to.

I even flick on Netflix and start a no-volume stream ofGilmore Girlsin the background. Still, irritation gallops through me like a thoroughbred around the racecourse as my mom and dad hammer me with questions. It’s quite literally verbal assault.

“Do you like it there more than Willowdale?”

“How’re the classrooms up there? I heard that Bluebell is smaller than Willowdale. Gotta have smaller classrooms then, right?”

“Does the cheer program receive funding with the football program like in Willowdale?”

“Are you teaching health or is coaching all they could set you up with for now?”

I try to calmly answer each question, and think I’m doing pretty good five minutes into the call when my father randomly drags the massive elephant back into the room.

“Have you spoken with Michael recently?” he pokes, his tone secure and unwavering, no second thought as to whether the question is appropriate or not. He just asks it, the same as he asks if I made sure to roll the garbage cans out or whatever the hell.

“I have not,” I reply, staring at the quiet screen, watching Rory undoubtedly unleash an off-the-cuff witty stream of logical ramble onto her mother. Their problems are fun, TV problems, not real, self-worth stealing issues that make her question whether or not her mother even loves her or not.

I want TV problems with TV solutions.

“He expressed he may reach out, that’s why I asked,” my dad says, and while I’m not surprised that my dad is on speaking terms with my ex-boyfriend, I hate it, and I feel like it’s well within my right to let him know.

“You’re on speaking terms with Michael?” I question, waiting for him to verify.

But Mom steps in, because any time the going gets tough, my mother steam rolls everyone to have control of the mic. Control everything, really.

“Riley,” she says, using my name like a weapon as she scolds me. “The Rhodes have been our friends for years and years. You and Michael grew up together. Of course we’re on speaking terms with him.” There’s a pause, and I could mouth the words that come next, that’s how well I know my parents, and how sure of them I am. “We see him around the country club all the time. What are we supposed to do? Ignore them entirely?”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “Yes, you are supposed to keep your head high and pretend you don’t even see them, because that is how the blameless party behaves. You don’t go and befriend him and his family.”

They sail right over my accusations of guilt, one of our biggest sources of contention. “We didn’t go and befriend them, Riley. We’ve been friends with them for years. That’s what I’m saying–can’t you just take Michael’s phone call and work together to get to the bottom of things?”

Heat swims through my vision, making it temporarily blur around the edges. Sweat dampens the back of my neck and beneath my armpits, too.Work together, to anyone on the outside of this moment looking in, sounds so harmless. But to me, in my situation, asking or merely proposing that I should “work together” with Michael is the equivalent of asking me to say I made it up, asking me to say I lied so that we can all move on.

Except I didn’t lie because I don’t lie.

I never have.

I grew up as an honest girl, and that trait was something my parents proudly boasted to all of their friends. My dad joked that I couldn’t be a lawyer, or a successful salesman because of my honesty.

And yet these days, you’d think I spent my childhood weaving intricate webs of lies because I’m absolutely being treated as a liar.

“There is nothing for me to get to the bottom of, Mom,” I reply, my nostrils flaring as heated tears fill my eyes. Rory and Lorelei blur on the screen, and heat swims up the back of my neck. I kick my legs, sending my blanket to the hardwood floor.Stay calm, Riley, I tell myself, slipping off the couch to pad across the room to stand in front of the large mirror next to my front door. I got it at the farmers market that first timethat Leah took me, and I love it. But right now I’m not looking to appreciate the ornate metal frame. I need to look at myself. I need to see my reflection to stay strong.

In front of the mirror, I take a long look before closing my eyes, replacing the image of myself in the mirror with the image of myself that night.

I reach up, touching beneath my left eye, a memory of the pain he caused fluttering beneath my skin. I refuse to let my lip quiver. “Am I important to you? Hmm? Do I matter to you, Dad?” I ask my father, the line already flooded with irritated sighs.

“Don’t get yourself all worked up–” my father starts, but I cut him off.

“Do I matter to you? Do I? Because I don’t feel like I matter. I don’t feel like you care about me at all. I feel like all you care about is that I pretend I’m okay.”

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