Page 21 of I Need You

Do I tell her about my deception? The lie I told my father in order to convince him to let me take this job.

“Yes,” I tell her hesitantly, “but I may have lied and told them I planned on telling the people I make deliveries to about the church.”

Bea drops my hand and slumps back in her chair.

Oh no, should I not have told her? Now I’m worried she’s mad and I’m about to get fired from my first job.

“But I promise–I haven’t and won’t say anything to anyone. I–I no longer believe anything the church says. That’s actually why I even wanted the job. So I could make some money and move out of my parents' place.”

Slowly, a sound escapes Bea, softly at first but growing louder. She’s laughing. Not only a soft chuckle anymore, but holding her stomach, double over in her chair, laughing.

“That is absolutely hilarious,” she says between laughs.

“You’re not mad?” I ask.

“Mad? No, definitely not mad. Impressed.”

She stands, still trying to control her laughter, and pats my shoulder.

I think Bea is going to be an amazing boss and maybe even my first friend.

I wrap up my leftover sandwich, say goodbye to Bea–who tells me I did a great job today–and start my walk home. I feel lighter and happier than I have in a long time, practically skipping as I walk the path to my house.

When I make it home, Mom is still out and Dad is in his study with the door closed. I can hear him listening to one of Pastor Johnson's recorded sermons. I tip toe into my room, hoping he won’t hear me and I can have the afternoon to myself.

I pull my tip money from my pockets and straighten the bills, counting them out. I made an extra forty-seven dollars in the few hours of deliveries. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll hopefully be able to find a small apartment in a few months. I’ll probably be sleeping on the floor and eating my meals standing at the counter–but at least I’ll be free. Free to do and think what I want. Free from the guilt and shame that surrounds me in this house every day.

I quietly lift my mattress, revealing my treasure trove of things I hide from my parents. I put most of the money into an envelope I have hidden there that already has almost a hundred dollars. For the past year, anytime Mom or Dad would send me to the store or give me money to go for ice cream after church, I’ve snuck a dollar here and there from the change.

I notice the romance novel and think about the things I read in it. The woman lusting over the man. I’m startled when my thoughts turn to Emmett. I let the mattress fall back down, shaking the thoughts of him from my mind when I hear the front door open and the familiar clink of Mom’s keys in the dish where she always keeps them.

As often as I can, I avoid giving my parents a reason to come to my room. I know Mom will come knocking, asking me to help with dinner. I beat her to it and meet her in the kitchen.

“Can I help with dinner?” I ask.

I smile and put on the show of the perfect daughter.

“You can set the table. I’m too tired to cook a big meal. We’ll have leftover casserole. It should only take a few minutes to heat up.”

I do as I’m told. Setting places for Mom and Dad at either end of the small wooden dining table. A place for me between them, as always. The prospect of eating leftover casserole is depressing after the delicious lunch I had, but I know better than to complain.

When Mom and Dad had trouble getting pregnant with me, they cut out all fast food and most restaurant food except for special occasions. We rarely have red meat or dairy, and never any gluten. When I first got brave enough to order onion rings from the diner on my own, I discovered I had been missing out on delicious food. Mom’s cooking has never tasted right since.

We all sit for dinner. Neither Mom nor Dad asks about my day. It’s not unusual, but I am surprised they didn’t ask about work. Talk is instead, mostly about the new vegetable canning class Mom is teaching at church and the sermon Dad was listening to before dinner. I tune them out and hum Let It Be in my head.

Chapter nine

Emmett

Ican’tbelieveagirl like Aubrey, so seemingly unphased by societal norms, who reads science textbooks for fun—has a thing for Adam.

I’ve hated the guy on principal ever since Jesse told me he caught him trying to cozy up to Taylor over the summer. It’s not only Taylor he flirts with, he flirts with anyone with boobs. I know I’ve got a reputation, and it’s not completely unwarranted, but I would never go after someone else’s girl. I have morals. I have standards. Even if most people think I don’t.

Thinking about this is kind of bumming me out. What if I would have died back when I had that cold, and things were touch and go? I would have died with a legacy of what? The guy who banged the most babes? Honestly, the thought of that kind of makes me sick to my stomach. I want to be remembered for more. For something, anything, meaningful.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

I haven’t moved from the spot Aubrey left me standing in when she walked away. I turn toward the familiar voice. Taylor’s standing there, an arm full of books. Her near permanent smile stretched across her face, her blonde hair piled on top of her head.

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