“Well, apparently I do.” My voice shakes, and hot tears burn my eyes. “Because Mom certainly won’t. And you’re over here acting like the world’s most spoiled brat when you could have died and other people could have died.”
Libby scoffs, but I keep talking over her, my voice rising. “And since we have a mother who lets you hang out with idiots who drink and drive and who doesn’t give a shit about where you go and what you do, who apparently doesn’t know one single thing about parenting, then yes. I do need to lecture you.” A tear escapes from my eye, and I swipe my hand across my face angrily. “And I need to stay home and put my whole life aside, next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, to make sure there’s someone around who can keep you from fucking up like this again. Because god knows Mom won’t.”
There is total silence in the car. My angry words hang in the air, and for one split-second I wish I could take them back. I expected Libby to snap back at me, or for my mom to say something. But instead it’s terribly, horribly quiet.
I let the tears slide down my face as I look out the window. But I make sure to press my lips together so no one can hear me cry.
My mom tucks Libby and Mae into bed when we get home, like they’re five years old again. I curl up in the armchair in the living room and listen to their muffled voices, even though I can’t tell what they’re saying. The three of them stay in there for a good twenty minutes, talking in low murmurs. It feels like I’m excluded from their club.
When my mom finally leaves the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind her, I reflexively pull my blanket up to my chin. My gaze follows her as she moves around the kitchen, placing dirty mugs into the sink and wiping crumbs off the table. Maybe she’s going to ignore me.
Maybe I deserve it.
But after a minute, she wipes her hands on her jeans and sighs, a long, slow exhale. She walks over and leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, eyes on my face.
I want to say something, but I’m not sure what to say. So I sit. And I wait.
When she speaks, her voice is strong, steady, and clear. “You’re smart and independent, Jo. You always have been and always will be. So please don’t pretend that this”—she gestures to the closed bedroom door behind her—“is why you’re staying.”
I look down at my lap.
She continues, “I know I let you three make your own decisions. I know I let you do most of the things you want to do. But it’s not because I don’t care about you. And you know that.” She rubs a hand across her face. “It’s because I trust you. When I was in high school, my parents never trusted me. I had a thousand rules—about what I could and couldn’t wear or say or do. When I had to be home and who I could hang out with and what clubs I could join and what grades I had to make. All of that. They never trusted me to know what was best for myself. And because of that, I never learned to think for myself, and I hated them, and I ended up doing every single thing they told me I couldn’t do. And as you know, that got me into some trouble.” She pauses for a moment, and the slightest hint of smile appears on her face. “A good bit of trouble, actually.”
She’s talking about getting pregnant with me when she was only a junior in high school. I want to say something, but I have a feeling she’s not finished.
She sighs again, and this time, her voice is tired. “So don’t think I don’t care about where you go or worry about where you are. I worry all the time. But I leave you guys free to make your own choices. And if that means making mistakes now and then—well, good. Because that’s how you learn.”
She straightens up from the wall and walks toward me. She leans down and kisses me on the head, and she smells like fresh mint and soap, and I have to hold my breath to stop myself from crying again.
“You need to go to bed, sweetie. You’ve got finals in the morning.”
I nod, and she walks toward her bedroom. At the doorway, she turns around again.
“And, Jo? I know you love your sisters, and I love that you watch out for them. But I know you, and I know that you didn’t choose Paintbrush over college because of them.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Then why did I?”
“I think maybe you’re not quite ready to leave.” She smiles, her small smile. “And that’s okay.”
She disappears into her bedroom, and I quietly sneak into my room and climb into my bed. I burrow under my quilt and listen to the soft breathing of my sisters, and I think about what my mom said.
Is she right? Am I just looking for an excuse to stay at Paintbrush? I think about the people here—Myra’s long messy braids and bossy voice, the grumpy grumblings of Ned and Bernie, the adorable Macpherson kids, the gurgling laugh of baby Lucy, my mom and sisters. I think about the beautiful mountains and my favorite hiking trails and the sunny days I spend farming and reading and selling at the farmer’s markets in town.
And then I think about college, somewhere distant and different, a generic green campus swarming with smiling students. Where I could read books and learn new things and, for once in my life, get a taste of something new.
And then I think about Mitchell. Mitchell. I haven’t thought about him since I dashed out of the Sanctuary. And I haven’t texted him because my phone is dead.
I hope he’s not worried. I hope he knows I’m okay.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mitchell
I’m pacing. I’ve been pacing. After Josie sprinted out the door and out of sight, I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve already walked the entire perimeter of Paintbrush, around the cabins and the common building and the outer fields. I walked it barefoot, the grass cool beneath my feet. I walked the whole thing once, then twice. Now I’m on my third lap. I keep my phone clutched in my hand, and I check my messages approximately every thirty seconds.
But Josie never calls.
I’m hit with a tiny twinge of annoyance. It’s been three whole hours, at least. Josie could have let me know what was going on. After all, she is my girlfriend.
She is my girlfriend, right? I guess we’ve never quite talked about it. These past few weeks, we just kind of . . . fell into our relationship. It didn’t feel quite like starting something new. It felt like opening something up again, something great. So I didn’t feel like I needed to officially ask her to be my girlfriend or anything. I felt like she just kind of was.
Now I’m worrying that my girlfriend doesn’t think she’s my girlfriend. And I’m worrying about Libby and about Josie’s family. And in the very back of my mind is my final tomorrow morning, which I have studied very, very little for. Needless to say, I’m not in the best of moods.
Which is why this is a very, very bad time for Joe Jagger to try to talk to me. Yet here he is, in all his disgusting fake-surfer boy glory, blond dreads bouncing up and down as he makes his way across the grass. Right toward me.
I quickly turn to make my escape, but Joe calls after me. “Mitchell! Dude!”
I reluctantly turn to see that he’s now jogging, a stupid cheerful grin on his face, like a brain-damaged puppy. I can already feel my fists clenching.
He skids to a stop in front of me. “Saw you pacing around out here, bro.”
He looks expectantly at me. He seems to think this statement merits some kind of answer. I just cross my arms.
He continues, undeterred, “Well, I thought since you’re up, and I’m up, this might be a good time for us to chat.”
“It’s really, really not.”
“Dude.” He raises his palms in the air in a shrug. “We gotta talk this out sometime, you know.”
My pulse accelerates, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “No, I don’t know. And I have to go.”
“Mitch.” His goofy California drawl now has an edge to it. “Just one minute of your time. I swear.”
“It’s Mitchell.” I shake my head. “And I can’t. Sorry.”
“I know it would make your Mom really happy if she thought—”
“Please, ple
ase, don’t talk to me about my mom. I do not need you to tell me what would or wouldn’t make my mom happy.” I stare at him, straight in the eyes. “Seriously. Drop it.”
I turn to go, but I only take one step before Joe grabs my upper arm, his grip tight and forceful.
So I turn around and punch him.
My fist lands right on his nose with a satisfying crunch, and Joe falls to his knees. I’ve never punched someone before, and I honestly didn’t know it would hurt this much. My hand is throbbing. But looking at Joe—hunched over on the ground and sputtering, blood dripping from his nose onto his stupid white linen shorts—it’s totally worth it.
I don’t see my mom running until she’s already reached us. She gasps, kneeling next to Joe to inspect his face.
“Oh god. Honey.” She pushes his hair out of his eyes, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“Mitchell.” She looks up at me. “I was watching from our cabin”—she gestures behind her—“and I couldn’t believe it.” For the first time since her dinner announcement, she looks angry at me. Really and actually angry. “What the hell were you thinking?”
My mom rubs Joe’s back while he gingerly raises his hand to his face. He prods at his nose and screeches in pain, and I wince. There really is a lot of blood.
I take a step backward. “I’m sorry.” I struggle with the words. “I just couldn’t . . . I’m having a bad night.”
And with that, I turn around and sprint away.
After another hour of pacing around in the back field, cradling my hand against my chest, I decide I need to go home. As the front porch creaks under my feet, I cross my fingers that my dad is asleep.
But no such luck. He’s waiting for me just inside the door. And from the look on his face, I can tell he’s been on the phone with my mom.
“Mitchell. Morrison.” He points to a kitchen chair, and obediently, I sit.
He reaches into the freezer, grabs a package of frozen vegetables, and then tosses it onto the table. The peas land with a splintering thud and skid toward me, leaving a wet streak across the wood.
I gingerly lay the frozen bag across my knuckles. The damp cold stings my swollen hand, and I shudder. My dad sits across from me, slowly and deliberately folding his hands. Finally, he stands, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Have you ever seen me hit someone, Mitchell?”
I sigh.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” he snaps.
My dad never snaps. He must really be mad.
“No,” I answer reluctantly.
“Have you ever seen your mother hit someone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen anyone here at Paintbrush hit another person? Or talk about hitting another person?” He’s pacing now. “Or engaged in any type of violence of any kind, in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.” The ice is still stinging, but at least my knuckles are feeling a little bit better.
“So why, Mitchell, did your mother just call to inform me that you punched Joe Jagger in the face?” His face is flushed, and his voice is quiet and a little scary. “Why would you think that was a good idea?”
I lean forward, all the way, until my forehead touches the table. “I don’t know, Dad.” My voice is muffled as I speak directly into the scratched wood. “It wasn’t a good idea, and I’m sorry.”
The room is silent. I lift my head to look at him and find him blinking at me. Clearly, he did not expect me to apologize.
Finally, he sinks into the chair across from me. “What happened, exactly?”
So I tell him. About Libby in the hospital, about how I’ve been pacing around the last few hours, and about the way Joe grabbed my arm. I even tell my dad about me and Josie. I know we promised not to tell anyone, but I can’t seem to make my mouth stop talking.
When I’m done, my dad stares at me. I realize that this is the most I’ve spoken to him in the past few weeks, and a pang of guilt hits me. I’ve probably shocked him into silence with the sound of my voice.
“Well.” He sits back down, rubbing his hand over his scruffy beard. “You’re going to have to apologize.”
“I know.”
“To Joe. And to your mom.”
“I know.”
“But right now,” he continues, “it sounds like you really just need to go to bed.”
“But Josie might call.” I hold up my phone.
In one swift motion, he leans across the table and snatches the phone from my hand.
“If something were really wrong, she would have called by now. No news is good news and all that.” He walks over and places my phone on the counter. “Go to bed. I’ll keep your phone out here, on loud. So you can hear if she calls, but you can’t keep checking it like a madman.”
“Dad—”
“Nope. You need to sleep.” He points toward my room. “So go sleep.”
I get up and slink off to my room. I’m too tired to fight him.
I’m about to close my bedroom door when I hear his voice again. “Mitchell?”
I crack the door open. “Yeah?”
“Do you really think you broke his nose?”
“I don’t know.” I consider this. “But it was definitely bleeding a lot.”
He presses his lips together, and I know he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Must have been quite a sight.”
I grin. “It really was.”
He shakes his head, and I close the door. Even though I’m still worried about Josie and mad at Joe and cradling my throbbing hand, I’m still smiling a little as I fall asleep.
I toss and turn for most of the night, and I’m up so early in the morning I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m buzzing with nervous energy. When I check my phone, I find a text from Josie that reads: Everything okay. See you in the morning. Which is good news, but not super informative.
I find myself killing time out in my truck, sipping on coffee and skimming through my chemistry textbook. I’m not really absorbing much, though. Mostly I’m staring out the windshield, watching the sky get lighter and waiting for Josie to appear.
When I finally see her, walking toward me in the morning light, banana in hand, wearing rolled up jeans and an old red flannel, I scramble out of the car. I can’t help it. I jog toward her, and when she sees me jogging, she breaks into a grin and starts jogging too. When we reach each other, she drops her backpack on the ground and wraps her arms around me, burying her face in my neck. I hug her so tight that I lift her off the ground, and she laughs.
“Hi,” she says.
I put her back down on solid ground and then pull away to look at her. “Hi.”
She looks around quickly and then reaches her hand up behind my head, pulling my mouth down to hers. She threads her fingers through my hair, and I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her up in the air.
Josie is so careful, normally, so contained, her movements tidy and slow. This morning she is all hands and lips and smiles, and my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest.
When I put her back on solid ground her face is slightly pink, and I have to resist the urge to press my face against hers, cheek to cheek, just so I can feel that warmth.
“Sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“For mauling you just now.”
I grab her backpack off the ground. “Don’t ever be sorry for that.”
She starts toward the truck, and I fall into step beside her. “I missed you.” She shakes her head. “Which is stupid, because I just saw you yesterday. But it felt like a long time.”
“I know.” I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “I divide my time into two now: Josie-time and Not-Josie time. Every Josie-time second goes by crazy fast. At the speed of sound. Or the speed of light. Whichever’s faster.”
“The speed of light. 299,792,458 meters per second.”
“That one. Nerd.” I grin, and she shoves my shoulder. “But every Not-Josie-time second goes by so, so slowly. An entire i
nfinity in every second.”
She grabs her backpack from me as we climb into the cab. “You’re such a poet, Mitchell Morrison.” She raises her eyebrows. “Even if your science could use a little brushing up.”
She fills me in on the way to school—Libby’s accident and her injuries and her trip to the hospital last night. Josie says she argued with her mom, too, but when I ask what about, she avoids the question.
I don’t want to leave her to go to class. Even though she’s chatting and laughing and smiling, there’s a layer of unease underneath it all. She seems nervous, a little on-edge. Like there’s something she’s avoiding talking to me about.
It doesn’t hit me until halfway through my third and last final. I’m conjugating the word for to try en Francais—essayer. Essaie, essaies, essaie, essayons, essayez, essaient—when it hits me: the meeting is tonight.
Myra’s specially mandated community meeting. Where my dad gets to decide whether or not my mom can stay. Where the fate of my mom’s relationship with Joe is decided. I can’t believe I almost forgot.
I have a hard time concentrating on the rest of the exam. Qu’est-ce que ta nourriture favori? What is your favorite food?
I can’t imagine my dad will let them stay. There’s no way. Not after last night’s debacle. Not after the way Joe grabbed me. Not after the way my mom has acted this past month.
I scrawl something quickly. My handwriting is practically unintelligible. Ma nourriture favori est les légumes. My favorite food is vegetables. One thousand percent not true, and I’m not even sure I spelled legumes right.
But I stand and shuffle my papers together, heaving my backpack onto my shoulder. I gingerly place my exam onto Madame Renee’s desk.
“Tu est fini?” She raises her eyebrows.
I nod. “Oui.”
“Well, then.” She shrugs. “Bonne chance, Mitchell.”
“Thanks,” I mutter lamely in English. I am already halfway out the door.
Josie keeps asking me questions. Normally, this wouldn’t bother me. But it’s really getting in the way of me kissing her.
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