Page 11 of The Fangirl Project
“Can I have a look?”
I tug the sketchbook a little way off the desk, like I’ll hug it to my body if she comes too close. “It’s not ready yet.”
Mom clicks her tongue and laughs, used to me not showing my schoolwork. She jokes that it’s because I’m a perfectionist like her, and I let her go on thinking it. The truth is, in the past couple of years it’s been more a case of not wanting to show off my artwork, because it usually leads to a fight with her and Dad and then they end up at each other’s throats.
Dad was an artist, when they met. He would do wedding photography, and he liked painting in his spare time. He even sold a few pieces, and had been looking into a gallery exhibition, but ultimately he gave it all up for a more stable job working for a marketing agency. I’m not exactly sure what his job is these days, but Iknow it’s more corporate and a lot less creative. Lately, he’s blamed Mom for “stifling” him and forcing him to give up his passion, although I haven’t seen him pick up a paintbrush in forever.
I found all his old art supplies in the garage when I was little. Half-dried-out tubes of acrylic paint and stiff paintbrushes and a stack of unused canvases.
Mom threw them out when she found out I was using them, although Ihadjust spilled a big blob of scarlet paint on my cream bedroom carpet. Dad bought me a new set of supplies, but these days I’m pretty sure it was in retaliation, and less about supporting my new hobby.
I hated feeling responsible for their fights, even in a small way. Whenever I think too hard about it, I end up with more questions than I honestly want the answers to; but I know my pull toward art is tangled up in a lot of messy emotions for both my parents, so I’ve learned that it’s easier to bury it away, rather than thrust it in front of their faces.
So I appreciate Mom asking and showing some interest, but I wish she wouldn’t. There are a lot of things I don’t bother sharing with my parents these days; a rough sketch of a woodland scene is the very least of it.
Mom goes back downstairs to order the food, and when the doorbell rings with our delivery I pack up my stuff to go join her. We lay everything out on the coffee table and load up our plates, resting them on our laps to eat while our movie of choice plays on the TV. Tonight, Mom’s chosenNotting Hill.
She asks me how school’s going, and I tell her it’s fine. She asks if I’ve made any new friends, and I say sort of.
“There’s some girls in a few of my classes I’ve been eating lunch with” is about all I offer up, not really feeling like getting into it now. Once upon a time I probably would’ve agonized with her over every exchange, every Instagram like and in-joke, but this is probably the most we’ve really talked in a while. It’s a nice change; that distance from Dad and the divorce stuff must really be helping.
Adults are always saying teenagers are a law unto themselves and don’t talk to their parents, but it’s really the other way around. My parents are both so wrapped up in their own lives—and their ongoing divorce—that I’m just…there.I guess I’m old enough to look after myself now, though, so maybe this is what it’s like for everybody my age? Maybe this is just their way of treating me like a grown-up, like the teachers at school who don’t need us to ask permission to go to the bathroom during class anymore.
“Haven’t you got any plans with them this weekend?” Mom asks me.
“No…not yet.”
“Well, you can always invite them over here, if you like? Order in some pizzas or something.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh in her face, and instead I choke down my food, spraying a little egg fried rice out on to my plate as I cough. I cover my mouth with my hand and Mom hands me my glass of water.
In what world could sheeverthink I’d want to invite people over here?Idon’t even want to be here sometimes.
But I just say, “Maybe. I’ll see. It’s early days, so we’re not really that sort of friends yet.”
“And what about Jake? How’s he been?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s busy tonight with the soccer guys.”
They’ve gone to someone’s house to play Xbox. I bet Max is there, since he’s on Jake’s team. I grit my teeth just thinking of his smug, judgmental face from the convention last weekend. The fact he’s probably there tonight feels like a point for him, a loss for me.
Which is silly, I know. We’re notcompetingfor Jake’s friendship, but…
We are.
We’re absolutely competing for it, even if Max doesn’t realize that yet.
Mom senses there’s something I’m not saying, because she lowers the volume a bit on the movie and pierces me with a worried look over the top of her thick-framed glasses. Her eyes aren’t the deep mossy green mine are, but ringed with a hazel that makes them look gilded. “Are the two of you not talking very much anymore? You’ve hardly mentioned him recently, even after you saw him in town on the weekend.”
“Oh my God, Mom—”
“It’s really normal for that to happen, Cerys, you know. Especially at your age. Going off to different schools, then universities, living all around the country, growing up…Lots of friendships just fizzle out. Life gets very busy.”
“That’snotwhat’s happening,” I snap, a little too sharply. She raises a blond eyebrow. “There’s just not a lot to say, that’s all. We still text loads. And I might see him Sunday, actually.”
I’ve asked if he’s free, if he wants to hang out and watch a couple more episodes ofOWARwith me, but of course he hasn’t replied yet; he’s busy with the boys. I messaged in the Discord, too, abouthow I need some more Téiglin content for my art projects, but Jake hasn’t replied there, either.
There’s a hollow, raw feeling in my chest, and it doesn’t go away even after Mom pulls a blanket over both our legs so we can snuggle into the sofa with our food comas for the rest of the film.
