Inconvenient Daughter

by Lauren J. Sharkey

  We were the solution to a problem—a last chance, a safety school, the store-brand version of procreation. The women whose wombs bore us didn't want us . . . and neither, really, did the woman we called Mom.

  * * *

  Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was going to an all-girls Catholic high school. Either way, as I approached the end of my sophomore year at Mercy, I found myself desperate for a boyfriend. I'd also fallen hard for Valentina's brother Nicolas.

  Valentina and her family moved to the United States from Uruguay when she was ten. Nicolas was two years older, and should have been a senior at Mineola High School, but was repeating his junior year just as Valentina and I were about to be juniors.

  The summer before Valentina and I officially became upperclassmen, Nicolas kissed me.

  I'd gotten up in the middle of the night during one of our sleepovers to get a glass of water. He was sitting at the kitchen table with no shirt on and asked if I wanted to "chill" with him. I went to sit across from him when he grabbed my arm and pulled me close, patting his thigh.

  I slid onto his lap, and began to blush, suddenly embarrassed to be wearing a SpongeBob T-shirt and matching shorts.

  "What's wrong? Are you scared?"

  "No," I lied. "Why would I be scared?"

  "I don't know," he chuckled. "Sometimes people get scared at night."

  "Not me."

  "So tell me, Rowan—what are you doing up so late?"

  "Nothing—just getting a glass of water."

  Without warning, he pressed his lips against mine. His tongue pushed through my lips as his hands squeezed my waist.

  "Wait," I sighed.

  "What's wrong?" he panted.

  He looked beautiful—his black hair was disheveled to reveal tiny patches of gray, like his father's. His eyes were warm, brown—kind. They seemed worried they'd gone too far, that I didn't feel the same, that I didn't want this too . . . but I did.

  "I should get back to bed."

  When I woke the next morning, there was a note under my pillow: X-Men Friday? with boxes next to the words yes, no, and maybe. I checked yes and slipped it under his door while Valentina showered.

  * * *

  On Sundays, Mom stayed in her room, catching up on her shows, while Dad screamed at the Jets a floor below. After Valentina's mom drove me home, I knocked on Mom's door to tell her I was back. She must have known something was amiss when I didn't immediately retreat to my room after telling her about my weekend.

  "What do you want, Rowan?" she asked, pausing the TV.

  "Mom, can I go on a date?"

  She considered the question carefully. "Why? Has someone asked you on a date?"

  I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Seriously, like I was going to fall for that.

  "No," I lied. "But if someone does, can I say yes?"

  "Honestly, Rowan—you're too young to date. You can start dating when you're sixteen."

  I felt faint for a moment.

  The cutoff for school registration on Long Island was usually in late November. This always left one or two December babies in each grade who should have been in the grade above. My birthday is November 5, which left me on the opposite end, usually the last to turn a year older.

  Sixteen was almost four months away.

  "Sixteen? But that's forever from now!"

  "Then that gives you plenty of time to find a nice boy to go out with."

  "Well, Valentina's brother sort of likes me—"

  "No," Mom said flatly. "He's too old for you."

  * * *

  Mom was furious when Mrs. Kirk caught me making out with Nicolas at the Broadway Mall Multiplex, and grounded me for a month—no phone, no TV, and no more sleeping over at Valentina's house. Two weeks into my punishment, Nicolas started dating a sophomore from Mineola High School.

  That's when I stopped telling Mom things.

  * * *

  The summer between sophomore and junior year was the first Mom hadn't scheduled. Her only rule was an hour of the assigned summer reading every morning when I woke up, and every night before going to sleep. Aidan's eighth grade teacher had labeled him a "bad test taker" and, as a result, he was enrolled in a more intensive Catholic High School Entrance Examination prep course at Chaminade. My days were my own—I had absolute freedom.

  Valentina and I both lived in Mineola and wanted out once I became officially ungrounded at the end of July. Mineola's Main Street was eight blocks south of Jericho Turnpike, where all the presidential streets began. It consisted of one deli that never seemed to be open, the Saint James Restaurant whose food sucked no matter how many times it switched owners, and a bakery with no tables. The rest of Mineola was an endless strip of nail salons, pharmacies, and banks separated by 7-Elevens, Dunkin' Donuts, and other places to get subpar coffee.

  On weekends, Valentina and I took turns hanging out with the various girls we ate lunch with at school. If we had money, we'd take the Long Island Rail Road to Oyster Bay to see Sophia, or to Huntington to hang out with Madison.

  Previously, I'd been under the misapprehension that anything north of Old Country Road was the North Shore, and everything south was the South Shore. It wasn't until I went to Mercy that I learned the North Shore, popularly known as the Gold Coast, was the collection of old-money towns bordering the Long Island Sound. The families who lived there belonged to yacht clubs, drove Bentleys, and threw their daughters cotillions and sweet sixteens. However, most Saturdays we were broke and ended up at the mall.

  Laura, the latest addition to our corner table in the cafeteria, was from Hicksville and, like us, wasn't beholden to the distinction of living on the North or South Shore. Our towns were somewhere between the two shores, and didn't reveal enough about ourselves to warrant any real judgment.

  Laura lived a mile south of the Broadway Mall, whose only real draw was the movie theater and the IKEA, which seemed to be preventing its demolition. Half the stores weren't even open, the security guards began kicking people out a half hour before closing, and the food court only had a Subway, an Arby's, and a McDonald's. Laura believed her mall was the superior mall. But as all Long Island natives know, there's only one mall worth going to, and that's the Roosevelt Field Mall.

  Every Long Island native will tell you the Roosevelt Field Mall ranks differently on the list of largest malls in the country. Most say it's number three, but last I checked, it was somewhere near tenth place. Either way, at a little more than two and a half miles from Valentina and me, and only a $1.75 bus ride for Laura, the Field was our preferred hangout. Not only could we choose from Auntie Anne's Pretzels, Häagen-Dazs, and Jamba Juice, but I could see Cole.

  Cole was my cousin Chris's best friend. Chris usually worked the closing shift at Journey's on Saturdays, and never said no when Valentina and I asked for a ride home, after making sure Laura got on the bus all right. Valentina would try on every type of sneaker they had while I flirted with Cole over the counter.

  One Saturday, on the way home, Valentina and I begged Chris and Cole to take us to a bar where they were meeting some people after they dropped us home.

  "Rowan," Chris scoffed, "you can't even drive. What are you going to do at a bar?"

  "Um, get drunk, obviously," I pouted.

  "Have you even had a drink before?"

  "No," I said. "The only ID I have is my school one."

  This seemed hilarious to Cole and Chris, and it took them a few minutes to stop laughing.

  "Tell you what," Chris said, still laughing. "Cole here will hook you guys up with the same guy who did our IDs, and if you can keep a 40 down, you can come to the bar with us."

  "You're on!"

  * * *

  Cole and I finally kissed the weekend after the SATs. It happened in the stock room of the Journey's where he and Chris earned their weed money. Even though I was sixteen, at nineteen with green hair and a Donnie Darko hoodie, Cole wasn't who Mom had in mind when it came to dating. He towered above me at six feet and one
inch, and had eyes a deep shade of evergreen. They constantly had dark circles beneath them, like he never got enough sleep. The wallet at the end of the chain hanging from his jeans held our fake IDs.

  "You just missed your cousin," he said as I entered the store, high-fiving me.

  "Where is he? It's almost nine."

  "Can't get here soon enough," he said, lowering the gate.

  "He's coming back, right? I told my mom I'd get a ride with him."

  "Relax," he laughed, "he just went to smoke a bowl real quick."

  "Cool." I put my hands in my pockets and walked the perimeter.

  "So," he whispered, "you want to see them?"

  "Yeah!" I said excitedly. I met him by the register where he slid two IDs across the counter.

  "They look nothing like us!" I screamed.

  "Shhh, not so loud," he hissed.

  "Oh shit, sorry," I said, lowering my voice, looking toward the stock room. "Is someone back there?"

  "No, but I don't need one of the rent-a-cops walking by and catching a peek at them."

  "Are you sure these are going to work?"

  "Mine does," he shrugged. "Why do you even need one anyway?"

  "I don't know. Valentina and I just want to try it, that's all."

  "You're never going to get into a bar with one of those," he laughed.

  "We're not going to a bar." It was my turn to laugh. "We just want to go to the liquor store and get some Zima or something. We've never been drunk before."

  "Ha! Well, you're definitely not going to get drunk on Zima."

  "Then what would you suggest?"

  "I'll tell you when you're older," he chuckled.

  I put the IDs in my pocket and strolled around to the other side of the register. "Hey, can I see the back?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  I followed him through the stock room and down the aisle of various Sketchers, Converse, and Nike boxes that reached to the ceiling.

  "That's a whole lot of sneakers."

  "Yeah."

  "How's Chris going to get in if the gate's closed?"

  "He'll call."

  At the very back of the stock room was a refrigerator next to an emergency exit, and a small table covered in condiment packets shoved in a corner. I brushed them to the side to make room and sat on top, my feet swinging.

  "What should we do until he gets back?"

  Cole looked at my chest and I took a deep breath like I'd seen girls in the movies do to make themselves look sexier—he noticed and moved closer.

  "Do you . . . want to make out?"

  "Okay."

  I didn't understand why I was nervous. Nicolas and I had made out three times, and I even let him feel under my bra, but this was different.

  I wasn't worried about what would happen if Chris found out. It didn't occur to me this would have consequences on what could have been a lifelong friendship. I was fifteen, and wasn't concerned about what the kiss would mean past this moment. I was simply afraid he would change his mind and walk away.

  He placed his hands on my shoulders and began tracing the length of my arms with his fingertips before pulling my hands upward so we were palm to palm. Fingers intertwined, he leaned forward, and I closed my eyes.

  Cole kissed me with care and precision—as though he had the instructions Nicolas didn't. Suddenly, I understood desire.

  I broke the hold and clenched my fists around his hoodie, desperately attempting to get a grip on anything that would bring him closer. His hands seamlessly relocated to my jeans' back pockets, pulling me in. We gasped for air between kisses, afraid to stop even for a moment—as if we'd been waiting our entire lives for this kiss, and weren't sure we'd be here again. And then it was over.

  Cole ran to let Chris in. They dropped me at the house on Elderberry and went off to do whatever it is nineteen-year-old boys do on Friday nights after the mall closes.

  * * *

  Before we lived in the house on Elderberry, we called the Tudor on Weybridge home. Mom used to load me into the stroller and push me down the three-quarters of a mile to the mall. Once there, we'd go up and down the storefronts before stopping at the food court where we'd share a Coke, a pretzel, and a hot dog.

  Now the only reason I went to the mall with her was because she always bought me something.

  Mom and I were walking past Delia's at the start of junior year when I saw the gown—strapless, red, with a sprinkling of gems along the sweetheart neckline, and just enough poof to make a girl feel like a princess and still be able to get through the doorway.

  "Mom," I called out.

  She took a few steps backward. "Very nice. Where are you going to wear it?"

  "Nowhere, I guess." I had been sixteen for a month, but had no one to ask to the Sadie Hawkins Dance at the end of March, and senior prom was a year away.

  "Why don't you try it on?"

  "What? No, let's go!"

  "Just come in and try it on," she said, halfway into the store, me trailing behind her.

  Mom was already at the counter by the time I bobbed and weaved my way through groups of giggling girls looking to spend their allowance, and college students who hadn't quite outgrown clothing that shed glitter.

  When it came to shopping, Mom's drink of choice was shoes. She could spend hours in Nine West, Steve Madden, and Aldo. But with clothes she was different. If we were on a mission for something specific—Bermuda shorts for a cruise, a light denim shirt dress for summer—we were in and out. Yet, no matter how many bags we had or how long we'd been at the mall, she never rushed me or said no to any of the stores I wanted to go to. More than that, she always managed to scrounge together a few dollars so I had something to carry up to my room and hide from Dad when we got home.

  The cashier—whose name tag read Chelsea and was covered in Lisa Frank stickers—had five different bottles of nail polish open, and was fanning her right hand, while trying to balance the cordless between her cheek and left shoulder. Mom constantly gave people the benefit of the doubt and waited to be acknowledged.

  Chelsea continued to ignore us, and laughed loudly at whatever the person on the other end was saying.

  "Excuse me," Mom finally said.

  "Um," Chelsea said, moving the speaker away from her mouth, "yeah?"

  "We'd like to try on the dress in the window."

  "It's over there," she pointed, and returned to her conversation. "Yeah, I'm at work. I don't know."

  "Excuse me," Mom said firmly. It was a tone I knew well, and I felt sorry for Chelsea. She was in trouble and didn't even know it.

  "Yeah?"

  "We're going to need help finding a size."

  "I'm going to have to call you back," Chelsea huffed. The phone beeped as she pressed the red button and set it down on the counter. "All the sizes are on the tags. Anything else?"

  Mom's right leg stiffened as her left leg snapped outward and she crossed her arms—her fighting stance. "Is there a manager who can help us?"

  The word "manager" reminded Chelsea she wasn't in her bedroom talking to her own mother, but was actually at work, in a store, and was required to help people. Chelsea nearly leaped over the counter and apologized again and again as Mom smiled and assured her it was okay. It was definitely not okay.

  For the finishing touch, Chelsea unlocked the large fitting room at the end of the hall and hung the dress on the back of the door. "Just give a shout if you need anything."

  Mom thanked her and turned to me. "Do you want me to come in with you?"

  "No, I got it," I said, and closed the door.

  "Come out and let me see you," Mom said, knocking on the fitting room door when I didn't immediately emerge.

  "Give me a minute!"

  "Excuse me?" There's that tone again.

  "I mean, just wait a second. I can't get the thing into the other thing."

  The doorknob began to jiggle and I immediately threw my body against it. "Mom!"

  "What?" she laughed. "You think I don't know e
very inch of you by now?"

  "Fine," I said, retreating.

  She stepped into the room and motioned for me to turn so she could fasten the clasp at the top of the zipper. Then she had me stand in front of the mirror. "Rowan," she sighed.

  I knew she wanted to touch me, but she held back. She just stood there and smiled—I wondered if we were seeing the same thing.

  I wasn't disappointed or upset when we left empty-handed. I didn't have anywhere to wear it.

  * * *

  My favorite thing to do after coming home from Mercy was taking off my Oxfords. Once I kicked them onto the back deck, I removed my knee-highs, tossed them over the bannister, and sprayed them with Lysol. I'd drop my backpack onto the mat and rub my sweaty feet on the memory foam rug meant to catch dirt.

  My feet would squeak as I sped up the hardwood stairs, and I'd roll my eyes when Mom called out, "Watch those doors, Rowan Joy!"

  That day, I did kick my shoes onto the deck. I did toss the knee-highs over the railing. I did spray them and I did squeak up the stairs, but I didn't slam the door. Instead, I was frozen in the doorway.

  The bag was under my desk—perfectly white, with Delia's written across in silver foil. I got down on my hands and knees, grabbed the bag, and placed it on my desk. I slowly untied the knot, and opened the bag.

  "You'll find somewhere to wear it to, and someone to wear it for," Mom said behind me.

  I came to my feet and gave her a hug—a real hug—hoping the intensity of our embrace would temporarily fuse us together so she could feel my love and know it was real. Despite having no occasion and no date, she knew it wouldn't always be that way. She believed I was a worthy investment—that someone else would see my value. With this dress, she said, someone—someday—would want me.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  I can't hear Nurse murmuring my weight over the sound of Dr. Mueller being paged over the loudspeaker. Before I can ask, Nurse has already moved to the next line and raised the height rod.