Page 41 of Wild Flower

“Is that what you told Carl when you kissedanother manin front of him?”

Shit.

I knew Carl would tell my mother something, but was he really that detailed?

“You don’t deny it!” my mother hisses, pointing an incriminating finger in my direction. “I did not raise you to berudeandobsceneto people I care about!”

My gut twists. People she cares about? Is Carl her child and not me?

“I told you I didn’t want to be set up. Things were never going to work out with me and Carl,” I grit out behind clenched teeth.

“To which”—my mother stands angrily—“you say thank you for a lovely evening, and you leave like a lady!” Her accusing finger is in the air again. “You don’t act out like a child! You want to be treated like an adult, Rebecca, then act like an adult!”

Why do conversations with my mother always feel like she’s lighting my flower farm on fire?

“Please don’t set me up again,” I say so quietly she probably doesn’t even hear it.

“You’re dang right I’m not going to put my reputation on the line again for you!” she snaps. “Not when I have to do damage control after you—” Her accusing finger curls into her fist, which she shakes like she’s using every ounce of her composure to not fling it in my direction. “Thethingshe said.”

She’s talking about Archer and Finn. They weren’t gentlemen. I loved that they weren’t. But that’s not how things work in my mother’s world.

“Do you want to askmeabout what happened,” I ask defiantly, even though it’s clear Carl is the child she wishes she had. “Or are you going to get out of my way so I can get ready for work?”

“You will behave like a lady as long as you live under my roof,” she cuts back.

“I pay rent,” I clarify. “That makes you my landlord, not my—”

“Mother?!”

“And I’m not sixteen!”

“You’re right,” she agrees. “You should be—”

“Married and eager to pop out babies like Helena,” I answer for her. “Yes, I’ve heard this speech before. Thank you, but no thank you. Now will you excuse me, I have to shower.”

I push past my mother and head for the bathroom.

“Where were you all night?” My mother calls after me, but I don’t answer. I’m sure the truth is worse than what she imagines.

All I want is to scream. This conversation hasn’t changed. It was exactly the same when I was a teen, and every iteration comes rushing back at me in burning technicolor.

Miranda’s right; living here is a problem.

I glance out the window of the guest house to my greenhouse and farm that sit on the perfect plot of land for them to thrive. Except, leaving means I’m not the only one I’ll uproot. Literally, a thousand tiny plants that depend on me would die.

24

FINN

Ipin three of my photographs onto the cork board for our group critique, and everybody in class does the same. We all put our hearts on the wall and settle in for two hours of Randolph Katz pontificating.

Like my classmates, I look to see what Krista Jones has put up. She’s always the darling of Katz’s critiques, and we all exercise our masochistic need to see how we don’t measure up. Her images are sparse: a series of black and white portraits with crushed blacks against a white background. They pack an initial punch—pulling you in with their starkness.

Katz stands stoically in front of the wall wearing a turtleneck that reminds me of Steve Jobs. Only, Katz looks more like Jeff Goldblum with a swash of pepper-black hair atop his head and black spectacles on his nose. Slowly, he walks past each submission—one after the other—scrutinizing without speaking as if the work must first speak to him.

The knot in my stomach is the same as always, but the difference today is I’ve submitted photographs that are completely new. They’re unlike anything I’ve shared before.

An experiment. Or a dumpster fire.

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