Page 70 of Intermission
Mom exhales loudly. “Look, I know you and Faith have a special bond. But step back from the situation. For just a few minutes, see if you can set aside that she’s your baby sister. Maybe then you’ll see where Faith’s involvement with this Noah character could lead.”
“They’re both good kids. If you would just meet him—”
“Ryan, if Faith gets pregnant, and this boy heads off to acting classes or whatever, is your little apartment big enough to hold you, your new wife, and Faith and her baby? Because if that happens, she’s not staying here.”
Whoa.I cover my mouth to keep my shock from coming out as sound. How can Mom think I would—?
And even if I did, she would disown me? Kick me out?
Will she also provide me a sweatshirt with a big red “A” on the chest, my own personal scarlet letter, as a parting gift?
“C’mon, Mom. Faith is too smart for that. And Noah isn’t that sort of guy. Believe me, I questioned him pretty harshly.”
“Oh, please. What would youexpecthim to say to a girl’s big brother? Besides, if he’s studying to be an actor, how can you know if he was telling the truth or just putting on a good show?”
The insult against Noah balls my hands into fists and heats my scalp. I have to strain to hear Mom’s now softer voice over the blood pulsing in my ears.
“But even if he is agood guy, as you say”—I can almost see the air quotes she probably used to further express the sarcastic tone of her voice—“you know how it goes in the heat of the moment. And this isFaithwe’re talking about, remember? She’s ruled by her emotions. Always has been. It’s dangerous. Although, I suppose that’s one of the things that makes her so good at drama.”
The miniscule compliment is hidden inside the much larger, conversation-encompassing insult, but it grabs my ears.Mom thinks I’m a good actress.
I creep down a few steps to hear them better.
“Faith is a teenager, and teens are unpredictable. If you don’t believe me, believe what science says about all those young, raging hormones, racing around their brains and bodies, seeking a life to destroy.”
“Pretty sure ‘science’ wouldn’t frame it quite like that.”
Watch it, bro. We’re on thin ice here.
“I had to watch it happen to my sister. I refuse to see that happen to one of my kids. You watch the news. Every other day some actor or musician ends up overdosing, committing suicide, or being arrested for... whatever. Artistic types are emotional and unpredictable. They’re flighty, fickle souls. And few of them come to a good end. Why would you want to encourage that for her? You didn’t know Becca when she was sixteen, but trust me. She wasn’t that different from Faith.”
Even though Mom’s voice is tighter, sadder now, I’m seeing red—and it has nothing to do with that imaginary “A” she seems to think I’ll soon deserve.
How can she compare me to Aunt Becca? Yes, we’re both musical, I guess. But my personality is about as much like Becca’s as Ryan’s is like Dad’s.
Which is not at all.
“Becca was smart, beautiful, and talented,” Mom says, with an oddly hard sort of wistfulness in her voice. “A real force of nature, my sister. She could have been so successful. She could have gone to college, maybe become a music teacher, at least. Instead, she invested all her potential in a boy with a guitar and a dream, neither of which panned out. You won’t let yourself see it, but it’s there. Faith is so much like Becca it’s... it’s scary.”
“She’s not,” Ryan insists.
“Sheis. I’ve never understood either one of them. Knowing Faith, she probably thinks she’sin lovewith this Noah Spencer, but when he turns on the charm and smooth-talks her into the back seat of his car, will she have the presence of mind to take precautions? Or will she just follow whatever passionate whim shows up at the moment and end up waiting tables at some dive so she can buy diapers and formula?”
“Janet.” Dad clears his throat and enters the conversation, surprising me. “Faith may be artistic like Becca, but she’s not a flake. Ryan’s right. Faith has a good head on her shoulders.”
Thanks, Dad.My heart lifts just a little.
“You didn’t have to clean up the messes Becca left behind, Joseph.” Mom’s voice is hard again. “I did. If we don’t keep Faith on a tight leash, she’ll take us down the same path.”
“Mom,” Ryan’s voice is soft, “you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”
The spring in the couch pops, like it does when someone stands who’s been sitting where Mom was sitting. I pull my head back out of sight and creep a few steps higher.
“I think it’s time for coffee,” Mom says. “I’m going to go make a fresh pot.”
That’s it, then. The subject is closed. Not that it was ever trulyopen, regardless of Ryan’s efforts.
I race up the stairs so I won’t be caught eavesdropping. With each step, a sense of doom climbs higher, starting in my stomach until it becomes lodged in my throat—hard, like a rubber ball. Once Janet Prescott makes up her mind about something—or someone—there is no changing it.
