Page 3 of Eye of the Beholder

“I work at five,” I say in response. I’m not sad to miss the spaghetti, though; meat sauce isn’t my favorite.

I go up to my room to do my homework, just like I do every day. I spread my books out on my soft, downy bedspread—floral—and pull open my homework planner—also floral. I have a total of three bouquets of flowers in my room. This is my flower haven. It’s my safe haven in general. It’s a warm, inviting space—I’ve gone out of my way to make it that way. I thrive in warmth. Warmth and bouquets of flowers. And in the corner, there’s a picture of Jesus—it’s been there forever. In the picture he’s sitting with a little girl; I always used to pretend she was me. I even colored her eyes in; one is blue, and one is brown. It helped me feel better when I was lonely or scared. These days that takes more than just a picture—because these days I feel like I’ve got a bit of a “damsel in distress” vibe going on—but I like it where it is.

I open my homework planner and pull out the college pamphlet that’s been calling to me like a beacon all day. It’s to a university in Massachusetts with a great interior design program; I haven’t told my parents I’m considering it yet, mostly because I doubt I’d work up the nerve to actually apply in the first place. But for a moment, I let myself dream. I let myself think about going, about experiencing life so far away, in a place so different from Stone Springs. Then I sigh and put the pamphlet back in my planner.

Maybe tomorrow.

2

Cohen

Itry to ignore the phone buzzing on the table next to me. First I turn it on silent. Then I push it away, all the way across the table. Then I restrict my gaze to the bowl of cereal in front of me.

But it’s no use. I know my phone is still ringing, and I know it’s my dad. Why does he keep calling? He doesn’t call my twin sister, Lydia, all the time. He probably doesn’t call my older brother, Ian, either. Just me.

I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t have anything to say, and I can’t imagine he has anything to say that I want to hear. What could he say that will make this situation okay?

I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I gave up trying to make things work. I’m sorry I didn’t love you enough to stay.

“Sorry” won’t cut it. Not now; not ever.

I haven’t spoken to him since he left about a year ago. How could I? How can I speak to him? Look at what he’s done to my mom.

I glance at her from my spot at the kitchen table. I’ve always had the same seat at the table; we all have. But the woman who sits in my mom’s spot isn’t the same anymore. She’s lost weight. Not much, but enough to tell. There are dark circles under her eyes, although given that she’s raised three kids, those have probably always been there.

But she hasn’t always done it alone. And I don’t think it’s coincidence that the dark circles have gotten darker in the last year.

Her brown hair is grayer, too, and her mouth more perpetually turned down. She’s just not herself anymore—except that she is. This is her now. The post-Dad her. The deteriorated-marriage her. I can’t say she looks heartbroken, which is painful to admit, but I’ve never seen her look so emotionally exhausted.

“Are you going to answer that?” she says, her voice gentle as she nods to my phone.

“Nope,” I say, shoving another bite of cereal in my mouth—a big one, so that I can’t say any more.

My mother eyes me for a second, and I look away.

“All right,” she finally says, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Well, hurry up. You’re going to be late for school.”

I’m not upset about that, honestly, but I nod. “I’m done.” I take my bowl to the sink and rinse it quickly, yanking my hand out from under the hot water, and then heft my backpack over my shoulder. I shove my phone into my back pocket and kiss my mother on the cheek.

“Have a good day,” she says, and I try to ignore the worried look she gives me. She always worries about me. But I’m fine.

“I will. I’ll see you after practice,” I say.

“There’s the church dinner tonight,” she calls from behind me. “We’re going to help serve the food.”

“I’m not going,” I call back. My voice is neutral, but my jaw is suddenly clenched. “Bye.”

Church dinner? I don’t think so. I’ll help God when he helps me.

I close the front door behind me before my mom can respond.

***

I’m distracted at school. Partly because Virginia has been throwing herself at me recently—it seems she wants to get back together—and avoiding her is a feat of both intellect and footspeed. But I’m also distracted because I can’t stop thinking about my ACT scores. They’ll show up sometime today. They might be in already. I’ve checked the site twice since this morning, but I haven’t been able to check in the last two hours.

I really need to do well on the ACT.

I’ve been looking at a lot of colleges. It’s what you do when you’re a senior. You eat, breathe, and sleep colleges. But the one I keep coming back to is in Nebraska. I’d never heard of it until I searched for small colleges, but it’s perfect. It’s far away—far enough away that my dad will stop inviting me to dinner. Far enough away that this little town will be nothing but a speck in my rearview mirror. Plus it’s tiny, and it’s got a good program for what I’d like to do.

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