by Sarah Sutton
“I know it’s my night to cook,” I said. “Can I change first?”
“We ordered pizza,” Mom said in a level tone.
I looked between the two of them. “Dad hates pizza.”
“Your mother was craving some.” Dad pulled back from the fridge with a soda in his grip, eyes tired. “It should be here any minute.”
“Don’t pretend like it was only my idea,” she quickly said, giving him a look. “You knew Sophia would want some, too.”
“I can’t read our daughter’s mind and know if she wants pizza.”
Mom transferred her focus from him to me, her eyes still holding leftover anger. “We have something to tell you, Sophia.”
“Over dinner, Amber. Like we talked about.”
“Can this wait until after I change?” My shirt was suctioned to my skin, making me feel like a soaked sponge. With the air-conditioned chill of the house, I started to shiver.
Mom acted like the pair of us hadn’t breathed a single word. “Your father and I are separating.”
All three of us had different reactions. Dad’s face practically fell into his hands, a muffled groan coming from him. Mom looked at his reaction with a triumphant smile.
I…wasn’t sure how I felt. “Like a divorce?”
“Yes, like a divorce,” Mom said, and this time, when she looked at me, her gaze was a little less steady. “We understand this may be tough to hear.”
“Sweet,” I said with absolutely, completely no idea why I said it.
It was almost comical how quickly their heads whipped towards me. Mom was the first to speak. “What did you say?”
Honestly, that probably wasn’t the smartest response, but I couldn’t help it. And sparking their anger was something that happened very, very rarely, and I found myself uncaring if I evoked it further. “I said ‘sweet.’ I’m going to go change.”
Dad’s eyes were bright and filled with a terrible emotion, a bottled mix of anger and pain. “You think your parents’ marriage falling apart is something to celebrate?”
That question made my insides shift, like a hand reached into my stomach and clenched its fist tight. But I wasn’t going to feed into their drama by giving them a reaction. I’d save it for my bedroom and Shiba, who would just sit and listen. “I’m going upstairs.”
Neither one of them thought of an appropriate response until I was halfway up the stairs, Mom calling after me, “Good! Stay there, because you’re grounded, Sophia!”
Taking a cue from my mother’s playbook, I lifted my hand in a thumbs-up. The only difference was that where her hand had been steady, mine was shaking.
A separation. An actual divorce. A myriad of emotions battled inside of me, negative and positive, but I couldn’t latch onto a single one. It left me disoriented, unsteady in my thoughts, as if the earth was tipping on its side. I felt the exact same way when I realized Scott was holding Jewel the night of the party, the realization that something wrong was happening sinking into my bones.
But I recognized this—their announcement of a divorce—for what it was. Mom used to fear separating from Dad. Dreaded it. I couldn’t imagine anything changing her mind, and that’s how I knew this wouldn’t stick. It was like a board game, where someone draws a card and reads off a command for them to do. Sometimes they plucked up “Start Fight Over Dinner” or “Watch A Movie Together,” but they’d picked up a new one for them: “Divorce.” They were just playing their game.
I fell back onto my bed, hair still damp from swimming. Through the floorboards, my parents’ voices were silent.
I couldn’t deal with the idea of them right now, the pain or the thought of a divorce or any more theatrics. I had too much on my plate. The article, the fake relationship with Walsh, the internship—all that needed my focus.
My parents and their never-ending drama would have to wait.
Chapter Thirteen
My dreams that night weren’t pleasant ones, filled with stress and anxiety that manifested as darkness. But what had I been expecting? I’d been looped into a soap opera of my own, following in my parents’ footsteps. The Young and the Overwhelmed.
Totally me right now.
The next morning, a knock came at my door, and Mom and Dad stood on the other side, ready to dole out my punishment.
“We’ve decided to ground you until after the Fourth of July,” Mom announced, her yoga gear all in place for her morning class. “Three days of grounding should do you good. And then maybe you’ll learn to be more respectful.”
Ha. More respectful, how funny.
“Plus, having you home will be better for us during this trying time.”
Sheesh, “trying time”? Where’d they hear that from, a stupid pamphlet? Getting Divorced and Bonding—How to Manage Both?
I blinked at them, not quite believing what they said. “I have plans on the Fourth.” Plans that I really couldn’t cancel. Despite the fact that it was the biggest party of the summer, Walsh invited me, and I didn’t want to let him down. Not with everything going on with him lately.
“I’m sorry.” Dad’s voice was totally unapologetic. “You don’t get to be disrespectful without consequences.” He looked down at his wristwatch. “I need to get going if I’m going to be out by a decent hour. You know how much I hate working on a Saturday.”
“We’re done.” Mom drew in a breath, pressing her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry about this, Sophia. You know we hate taking away your freedom.”
When had they ever taken away my freedom? And they decided to be actual parents now? When I actually have a life?
I wanted to say something snarky in response, but I didn’t want to risk adding to my sentencing.
“I’m trusting that you’ll stay home today while we’re gone,” she added, raising her eyebrows at me while Dad disappeared down the stairs.
“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go anyways.”
I’d opened the door wide open for her. What about Scott? she could ask. Edith? She wouldn’t know to ask about my newfound relationship with Walsh, but I just wanted her to say something.
Mom just looked relieved, adjusting her workout top and moving toward the stairs. “Oh, I left some pizza for you in the fridge in case you get hungry.” And she disappeared from view.
Shiba sat by my windowsill with me, keeping me company as the day passed into the next. Saturday rolled into Sunday, and then Sunday into Monday, and all the while, I sat at home. Doing nothing. I had to be the perfect child for my wishy-washy parents, displaying my best behavior so that maybe tomorrow, the Fourth of July, when I asked to go out, they would say yes.
Sure, it was a long shot, but it was my only shot. And I just needed to patiently wait to shoot it.
I sat cross-legged on my bed in the afternoon, a book propped between my knees. It was the one Walsh and I had sat in his car reading, and I took my time reading through the parts he’d commented on, trying to recall his exact words. It’d been two days since I left the house last, and two days since I’d heard from him.
The doorbell chimed, pulling me out of my Walsh-themed rabbit hole. I threw my legs over the side of my bed, tossing the book to the side. Shiba hopped down from the sill, following me out into the hall. She tried to weave in between my legs, nearly making me stumble down the stairs.
When I opened the door, Edith stood on the other side.
Her dark hair was twisted into a side braid, tight and professional, her green eyes wide and looking up to mine. “Your door was locked,” she said, sounding confused. “If you’re going to be locking your door, you’ve got to give me a key. You’re lucky it wasn’t raining.”
Seeing her in front of me, hearing her voice—albeit, a little snarky—took a heavy weight from my shoulders. “How did you know I was needing company?”
“When I’m not practicing volleyball, I’m practicing the art of reading minds.” She winked theatrically.
“Where have you been?” I demanded, shutting the door behind he
r. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw you.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, tipping her head. “I’ve been… around.”
“With Zach?”
She didn’t even have to answer—her small grin told it all. “Not all the time.”
“Boyfriends outdo girlfriends now?”
“Not my boyfriend.” She started toward the staircase, leaving me to shut the door and follow after her. I thought she’d say more, but she reached her hand out to me. “Come on, let me curl your hair to make up for my disappearance. It could use some TLC, no offense.”
We walked back into my bedroom while running my fingers over my head, feeling for any knots. “I haven’t been out of the house in a few days.”
Edith went over to my vanity and pulled out the curling iron, plugging it into the wall. She turned it to the middle setting before facing me. “Boys are a distraction,” she told me, voice calm and nonchalant.
“Oh, please. It’s summer. Prime time for distractions.”
“No, summer is for volleyball training. For volleyball dedication. Nothing but volleyball.”
In a way, I understood her dedication. How she felt about volleyball was exactly how I felt about my article.
I sat down at the chair and turned to face my reflection. Edith was right; my hair was crazy, a downright rat’s nest. I thought I’d brushed it the past few days, but I couldn’t remember.
Edith snagged a lock of my hair and wound it around the barrel, focused. “Why are you here by yourself, anyway? You said you haven’t left the house in two days?”
The sunlight filtering through my window caught along the lens of her glasses, reflecting in the mirror. “I’m grounded, actually.”
Now Edith looked surprised and I couldn’t blame her. The news was shocking if you knew my parents. “I don’t even know what to say. Look at me, speechless. You struck me speechless. Why are you grounded?”
“They’re getting a divorce.”
Her silence was long and obvious as she searched for what to say. The heat of the curls was uncomfortably warm on my neck. In the reflection, her shoulders slumped a little. “I’m sorry, Sophia.”
“Well, I’m not,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if it was the truth or not. “And when I said ‘sweet,’ they got mad.”
“You did not.” Edith, after moving the iron a safe distance away, smacked the back of my head. “Sophia! You were asking to get grounded!”
“Ouch! I wasn’t meaning to! But what was I supposed to say? I’m not like them, all theatrical and dramatic. And you know what, I am kind of glad they’re getting a divorce. I’m just ready for things to be different. Is that bad?”
Edith didn’t look me in the eye through the mirror; she just continued curling, no eye contact. “That is a little twisted. You could’ve at least shed a fake tear or two—you should know how to play their game by now.”
But I didn’t want to play their game. I didn’t want to play a game at all. I just wanted to go back to the way things were before they checked out.
My cell phone started to ring from my nightstand, the noise making me jerk straight. Not expecting the sudden movement, the hot iron brushed along the skin of my scalp. “Ow! Edith!”
“Well, don’t move!” Edith shouted back, pulling the barrel away.
The chirping noise continued to come from my phone, each ring twisting my stomach into tighter knots.
Edith already reached for it, scooping up the phone and pressing it to her ear. “Sophia Wallace’s phone. Oh, she’s right here, pretending not to be straining to hear every word you say.”
Now I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, one sec.” She offered the phone to me, batting her lashes. “Some guy named Walsh Hunter? He wants to talk to you. Should I tell him you’re busy?”
I took the cell from her before she said something else that he probably heard. Now he finally called me, after two days? “Hey.”
“She lives,” Walsh greeted lightly. “I was trying to play it cool and not blow up your phone, but I couldn’t hold out any longer. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Edith’s there. Does that mean you’re too busy to come with me to get a few last-minute things for tomorrow night?” He sounded hopeful. “Getty’s General Store was sold out of inflatable floaties—apparently everyone wants one for the Fourth of July—but they still have some in stock at the Greenville mall, at least according to their website. A long drive if you’re going by yourself.”
Psh, “long drive”? Greenville was only an hour roundtrip without traffic. Not that bad. “What kind of pool float are you wanting?”
“They’re the ones that fit two people. How cute would we be?”
Yeah, and Walsh probably wouldn’t be able to resist the photo opportunity. And as much as I hated to admit it, I could imagine the two of us on a pool float, coasting around the bay lazily. Me splashing at him. Walsh grinning, his eyes the same color as the water.
“I wish I could,” I sighed, disappointment welling. Disappointment at which part, though? The idea of missing the super fun pool float or missing out on spending time with Walsh. “I’m grounded.”
“Nerdy Sophie, grounded?” I could hear a smile in his voice. “What’d you do, read past your bedtime?”
“Ha-ha.” I wasn’t sure if he’d actually get it if he knew the real story, and I was too afraid he’d see me as a spoiled little kid for what truly went down. Would he agree with Edith, that my response was messed up? “I, uh, forgot to empty Shiba’s litter box.”
“Seriously?” Edith whispered, eyebrows pulled together. She didn’t look impressed. “Was that really the best you could come up with?”
“Jeez,” Walsh said from the other line. “Until when?”
I inhaled air through my teeth, my insides feeling like mush. “I’m grounded for the Fourth. That means no fun pool floaties.”
Walsh sighed dramatically on the other end of the phone, the sound theatrical and over-the-top. “I’m devastated, Sophie. Devastated. Shame on you for not cleaning her litter box.”
“Do you want to walk dogs with me on the fifth?” It didn’t feel weird asking him this time, not nearly as strange as it had originally. “Assuming they don’t try to extend my duration in prison.”
“I’ll check my schedule and let you know,” he said, then quickly added, “Oh, look at that. It’s clear. And I’ll bring better shoes this time.”
“I don’t know, I thought the boat shoes were a hit.”
“Yeah, a hit in dog poop.”
“If you two are going to flirt like this,” Edith said, leaning down to talk into the phone, “then should I go in the other room? We were trying to have girl-talk.”
I could hear Walsh laugh. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll leave you two to it, then. I’ll see you Wednesday then, Sophie?”
My lips twitched a little bit. “Wednesday it is. Bye.”
When the other line disconnected, I realized by looking in the mirror just how red my face was, how hot my skin felt. I pressed my palms to my cheeks, hoping to cool them down.
Edith gave me a knowing look, moving onto the last section of my hair. “Cute.”
I straightened my shoulders. “You know it’s not like that. We’re just pretending.”
“For who?” she asked innocently. “Who’s around to witness your flushed cheeks, hmm?”
There was no denying what she said. In the mirror, my red cheeks were completely obvious.
“So I’ve been working on my article,” I said, changing the subject at breakneck speed. “It sucks because I don’t have my original journal with any ideas, but I found a scrap notebook I could use. It’s coming along. I’ve got the working title, actually. The Curveball Truth Behind Bayview Baseball.”
Edith stopped moving with a lock of hair wrapped around the barrel.
I didn’t realize the silence between us was tense until I saw her expression in the mirror. It was pinched,
almost disbelieving. “What? Too long? I could get rid of the word ‘curveball.’”
“You’re not still writing the exposé…right?”
“What do you mean? You’ve known about this.” Heat started coming from the curler, little smoke squiggles wafting into the air. “Edith, my hair!”
She hurried to untangle the iron, yanking a few hairs in the process, and stepped around, looking directly in my eye. “You’re not using Walsh to get more information, are you?” she demanded, studying my expression. When I remained silent, her eyes widened. “Sophia!”
“It’s not like I’m spreading lies!” I threw my hands into the air. Half of my curls bounced around as I shook my head. “And I’m not using him. I wasn’t the one to suggest this fake dating nonsense. If you remember, this was all his idea. They’re cutting the newspaper, and if I don’t have a good article, I can kiss the internship at the Blade goodbye—kiss jumpstarting my journalism career goodbye. Kiss my dream goodbye. How would you feel if you had to give up volleyball?”
Edith’s anger seemed to dissipate slightly, hearing the distress in my voice. I didn’t want to look at her in the mirror, my anger forcing me into an arm-crossed pout, but when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Sophia, you are an amazing writer. I’ve read your stuff. Heck, your straw article changed the school board’s mind before. You don’t need to write anything mean.” She kicked the edge of my stool. “That’s not the kind of stuff you write, anyway.”
Her words left me feeling icky on the inside, all over. Edith wasn’t wrong. Undercover journalism wasn’t the kind of writing I did. Take-down articles weren’t my thing. Informative articles, maybe, or even personal ones, but never negative.
But Edith didn’t understand. “Recyclable straws won’t bring my class back.”
“Well, what does Walsh think of your article topic?”
My silence was answer enough.
“You haven’t told him,” she laughed, but it held zero humor. “Sophia, when he finds out, he’s—”