Based on the evidence of how he smiles at me, the concern he showed when I was upset, and how he was willing to cut class for the very first time in his Hamster Boy life to make me feel better and play Alfred to my Batman, I think there’s just as good a probability of Noah asking me as random AN Other—assuming the data dump doesn’t happen anytime soon. So based on that, here’s how it looks:
Well, that’s interesting. The numbers tell me Noah is a better bet. Which is really strange because I’ve been dreaming about Jamie asking me for so long. Weird.
Still, there’s the HUGE variable that must be considered—namely, if the hackers decide to include my diary in their next document dump. If that happens, then how would it affect the likelihood of Jamie Moss asking me to prom? I mean, he’d inevitably see the previous probability trees I created on this very subject. UGH!!!!!!!!!! I want the ground to open up and swallow me just thinking about it.
It could reinforce his opinion that “she totally wants me.” But if I’m not the she in question, I’m doomed to a life of total and complete mortification, forever. As for Noah, he might think … I can’t even.
The biggest irony? I’m not sure what I think or I feel. I’ve always thought of myself as a logical person, but I don’t know if numbers and logic can help me figure this stuff out anymore. That worked before, when I thought I could rely on my dad to be the person I thought he was. He’s the guy who told me: “Logic never lies.” He’s also the guy who tells me I can achieve anything I want to in life if I just work hard enough, but then agrees to offer a woman in his company less for doing the same job as a man.
Logic might not lie, but people do. Even the ones you love.
Mom hasn’t exactly been a ray of sunshine lately, but she looks particularly grim when she finally pulls up to the front of school. I feel like I’ve been waiting forever. I’m barely in the passenger seat before she launches in on me.
“I’m going to ask you a question, Samantha Wallach, and I want you to answer me very carefully,” Mom says as she pulls away from the curb with a very uncharacteristic screeching of tires.
Uh-oh. This can’t be good. Use of one’s full name by a grim-faced parent means trouble. Add the sudden fondness for the gas pedal and we’re talking big trouble.
Maybe I should have walked home when I had the chance.
“Did you borrow my silver sweater without asking me? The one you assured me previously you did not borrow, and that I accused Maria of washing and shrinking?”
Busted. Double down on the lie, or fess up?
The few seconds I take to think about it is enough of an answer for Mom.
“Don’t bother. I have my answer. I know you lied about it, and I also know you went to that concert your father and I specifically told you was a no-go without an adult chaperone.”
I grip the door handle, trying to prevent full-on panic. “What do you mean, you know?”
Mom slams on the brakes at the red light so hard that my head almost hits the dash, even though I’m wearing my seat belt.
“I mean that, thanks to the hackers, I’ve had the opportunity to peruse your diary. And let me tell you, it made eye-opening reading.”
I feel sick to my stomach. “They posted my diary online? And you read it? It’s private!”
“Yes, I did. And I know that you lied to us.”
“How could you read my diary? That’s so wrong, Mom! Who do you think you are, the NSA?”
“It’s not private anymore, Samantha,” Mom retorts. “Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not trying to change the subject, Mom, I’m trying to find out if I’m ever going to be able to face going back to school in this lifetime. How could you do that? You had no right to read it! I can’t believe they actually posted my diary. So, like, anyone can read it?”
Please say no. Please say this is all just a really bad prank you and Dad are playing on me for some reality show and the host is about to pop out from the backseat and say, “AHAHAHAHA, just kidding! Aren’t your parents such jokesters?”
No such luck.
“Not just your diary. Our entire private life is an open book,” Mom says, acid lacing every word. “Why did I ever give up my Filofax?”
I don’t know what a Filofax is, or why Mom misses hers. I just keep hearing Our entire private life is an open book, and feel acid in the back of my throat. “Stop the car, I’m going to throw up,” I say urgently.
“I don’t have time for your drama right now, Sammy,” Mom snaps.
“I mean it, Mom!”
She glances over, sees me gagging, and pulls into the right lane, cutting off a landscaper’s truck and narrowly avoiding hitting it. The driver leans on the horn, and Mom tells him where he can go as she hits the curb and stops, flicking on her blinkers.
“Quick, outside,” she says.
I manage to fling the door open and throw up a granola bar and bile onto the sidewalk.
But as I lean over, panting, feeling my head and stomach spinning in different directions, I know that this feeling of relief is only temporary.
The worst is yet to come.
Apparently puking convinces Mom that I’m not simply being a drama queen and she doesn’t just lay off for the rest of the ride home, she actually shows concern for my health and well-being, putting a hand on my forehead and neck to check if I have a fever (according to the hand-mometer my temperature reads normal) and pouring me a glass of regular ginger ale (not diet, because I need to replace my sugar) when we get home. But once she’s determined that my stomach has settled and I’ve got a bit of color in my cheeks, it’s back to the lecturing.
She doesn’t realize that even though I’m not trembling anymore, I’m still reeling from anxiety. My journal is online. Private thoughts no one was ever supposed to see. Anyone with an Internet connection can look straight into my brain.
I think I’m going to throw up again.
Mom sits down in the chair opposite from where I’m lying on the sofa and looks me in the eye.
“So, Samantha. You’ve been lying to us. To me.”
I swallow the bile that’s rising again in my throat. What can I say? There’s no use pretending I didn’t. Besides, my face, which I can feel flushing, provides the icing on the proof cake.
“Yeah, and the only reason you know that is because you read my private journal. You violated my Fourth Amendment protections against unreasonable search and seizure.”
“I didn’t,” Mom points out. “The hackers did. I just read what they posted.”
“Which you told us not to do,” I reply, feeling vindicated anyway.
“You can try playing the lawyer, Samantha, but it doesn’t change the fact that you lied to your parents. And that has consequences.”
I realize that even though I’m mad about Mom invading my privacy, she’s not going to be the only one, and at this point, maybe being apologetic is the wiser strategy.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry you lied, or sorry you got caught?” Mom asks.
Of course I’m sorry I got caught. If it wasn’t for those hacker jerks, I wouldn’t have been. Did they not realize they were ruining my life?
“What’s the difference?” I ask. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“There’s a big difference, Sammy. I know you wouldn’t lie thinking you’d get caught. You’re too smart for that.”
Is it a sign of how messed up and insecure I am that I’m happy Mom’s telling me I’m smart when she’s in the middle of lecturing me for lying?
“You would have gotten away with it if not for this hacking nightmare,” Mom says, her shoulders slumped as if from the burden of contemplating it. I know how she feels. “But you didn’t just lie about going to the concert. That would have been bad enough. You also lied about borrowing—and ruining—my sweater.”
“I know.”
“Do you realize I accused Maria? That innocent hardworking woman who has been cleaning up your messes for over five years? A
nd you knew all along that you were the one who had done it and you let her take the blame?” Mom’s voice is rising in pitch and volume, and so are my feelings of guilt. “What if I’d fired her?”
“You would have fired Maria over a sweater?”
“Would you have told the truth if I had?”
Would I have? It would have meant owning up to the bigger lie. Would I have done it to save Maria’s job?
The look on my face must give me away.
“You’re not sorry for lying, Sammy. Not yet. Being sorry means feeling remorse,” Mom says. “And then there’s the trust issue. How are we supposed to trust you from now on?”
“I’ve been totally trustworthy my entire life until now,” I protest. “So now, because of one screwup, you’re never going to trust me again?”
“Exactly right,” Mom says, nodding. “I’m afraid to break it to you, Sammy, but that’s how trust works. It takes a long time to build it and not a lot to destroy it. That’s why you’re grounded.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Until after the SAT. And you’re going to have to pay for a new sweater.”
She’s joking, right? I can’t even imagine how much that sweater cost. But even worse …
“You’re not serious. What about prom?“
Assuming I have a date, that is. And assuming I can ever show my face at school again.
“Including prom.”
Unreal. It can’t be happening.
“Prom’s the only thing I’ve got to look forward to. I might as well just die now.” Which doesn’t sound like a terrible idea when you think about it. I won’t have to go to school tomorrow. Or ever again.
Mom takes a deep unsteady breath.
Smart move, Sammy. You just pushed her into ballistic mode.
“Death isn’t a joking matter, Samantha,” she snaps. Her hand is shaking on the arm of the chair. “And if you were looking forward to prom so much, maybe you should have thought twice before breaking the rules.”
“You know why I decided to break the rules?” I tell Mom as I get off the sofa, fueled by anger just as big as hers. “Because you’re so irrational and unfair!”
Maybe it’s childish, but I stomp up the stairs, trying to make scuff marks on the hardwood floor because I know that will drive my parents crazy. But so what? They’re driving me crazy. You try so hard to be a good kid all your life, and then do one thing wrong and all of a sudden you’re the devil’s spawn, grounded until after the SAT and banned from prom.
I can’t even text or email my friends until Dad gets home with the security expert later tonight. They’re too busy cleaning up the mess at the office to worry about my lack of communication devices. So I don’t know yet—did Rosa and Margo read my journal, too? Do they hate me for things I wrote? Do they hate each other?
Even though I’m afraid of what I’d find, it’s just making things worse that I can’t go online to assess the damage from having the contents of my brain cyber-spilled.
RJ comes into my room two minutes after I throw myself on the bed to sulk, Scruffles at his heels.
“I can’t believe you’re grounded for so long,” he says.
As if I needed reminding.
“Leave. Now.”
Scruffles’ tail stops wagging at my harsh tone.
“Not you, Scruffulicious,” I croon. “You can stay.”
My goofy voice convinces Scruffles it’s safe to jump on the bed and curl up.
“What did you do, rob a bank?” RJ asks.
“If I robbed a bank, I’d be sitting on a beach sipping virgin coladas, not stuck in my room answering your stupid questions.”
RJ plunks down next to Scruffles. “Or you’d be in jail.”
“Details. By the way, I told you to leave, not sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“I don’t think it’s fair that Mom read your diary when they made us promise not to read anything.”
I sit up to make sure the pillow didn’t impede my hearing. “Seriously? You don’t think it’s fair?”
“Do you?” he asks.
“Of course not! But I didn’t think you’d care.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” RJ looks confused and … offended even?
“I don’t know. If you want to know the truth, sometimes I get the impression that you like when I get in trouble.”
RJ buries his face in Scruffles’ coat. His back heaves. He’s not … crying, is he?
But then he lifts his head suddenly and his face is flushed red, and he’s … grinning?
“If you want to know the truth, yeah, sometimes I do love it when you get in trouble,” he confesses. “It’s fun to see Perfect Big Sister fall off her pedestal once in a while.”
“Perfect Big Sister!” I snort. “Who’s that? A sibling I don’t know about?”
“Oh, come on, Sammy. You always get good grades. You’ve been on honor roll since you were, like, in nursery school.”
“Nursery school? Puh-leeze. I was on honor roll in the womb, bro.”
“Yeah … and I’m the loser.”
He’s not joking anymore. He’s serious.
“RJ, you are so not the loser,” I tell him. “Mom and Dad worship the ground you walk on.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, that’s you, Sammy. Me? I’m the one they worry there’s something wrong with because I don’t get good grades.”
How is it that I’ve lived in the same house with my brother for all these years, sleeping in the room next door, but I never realized that he felt this way? I want to hug him, but I’m pretty sure it would freak him out.
I give his shoulder a gentle pat instead.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, RJ,” I tell him. And then, deciding that things are getting a little too mushy, I add, “Well, except for the fact that you’re my little brother and a total pain in the butt.”
“There’d be something wrong with me if I wasn’t a pain in your butt,” he says. “It’s in my job description.”
“Maybe you have a point,” I admit.
We sit in a rare, companionable silence for a few minutes, taking turns stroking Scruffles’ silky ears.
“So don’t you think it’s unfair?” RJ says. “Mom and Dad punishing you for something they found out by reading the stuff they made us promise not to read?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s pretty hypocritical.”
“Totally hypocritical,” he agrees.
But you lied. You went to the concert. You borrowed Mom’s sweater without asking and shrank it.
Is this what feeling remorse is about? Guilt creeping up and surprising you when you least expect it, and making you realize that you’re kind of responsible for what happened in the first place, even if your parents did say one thing, then do another?
“I … Well, even though it’s hypocritical, the fact is, I did lie to them,” I admit. “I went to the concert when they said I couldn’t.”
“I guess,” RJ says. “Okay, so you did something wrong. But they’re wrong, too—and aren’t they the ones who always say, ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right’?”
When did my little brother get to be so smart?
“You know something, RJ? I’ve been underestimating you,” I admit.
“You’re not alone.” He sighs. “Pretty much everyone does.”
“Mom and Dad don’t,” I tell him.
“Trust me, they do,” he says, giving Scruffles one last scratch behind the ears and getting up from the bed. “I should know.”
He heads to the door and stops when he gets there. “Good luck when Dad comes home.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Although right now, being yelled at by Dad is the least of my worries.” Then I throw myself back on my bed and bury my face in Scruffles’ neck.
I know Dad’s home because (a) I hear the garage door and (b) Scruffles leaps off my bed with a whine of excitement and runs downstairs, tail wagging, to greet the guy who brings home the bacon—or in the dog’s case, the Beggin�
� Strips. I’m like a condemned prisoner in my cell, waiting to hear his footsteps on the stairs so I can get my You are such a disappointment of a daughter lecture over with. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. I try to be productive and study, but it’s hard to focus with the sword of Damocles hanging over your head. Maybe he’s dragging this out just to torture me.
But then I realize he’s probably showing the cyber-security guy who’s going to look at our home network what’s what. I hope this means I’ll get my phone back and be able to use my laptop again. I have to know what is going on.
Or do I?
When Dad finally knocks on the doorframe and comes into my room, it’s almost a relief because at least I don’t have to anticipate the sermon anymore. My dad is here and ready to berate. He’s also carrying my cell phone, which means I must be getting it back.
“I can’t tell you how disappointed we are in you, Samantha,” he says, going for the knife in the heart straight away. “We’ve always trusted you implicitly, Mom and me. To find that you so blatantly abused our trust like this …”
Dad shakes his head, looking at me sadly. “It almost makes me feel like I don’t know you anymore.”
He achieves his goal, which is to make me feel even more awful than I do. I have to hand it to Dad; he’s a master at laying on the guilt. But in the back of my mind, a quiet voice speaks. It says: “Hypocrite.”
It’s that voice that gives me the courage to go straight back on the attack instead of taking my lecture meekly.
I steel myself and say, “You know what, Dad? After reading some of the stuff you wrote in those emails, I feel like I don’t know you anymore, either. I can’t believe my own dad makes racist jokes and tolerates sexism.”
The seconds that follow are surreal; it’s as if time has slowed, because every small movement of Dad’s face is magnified. The widening, then narrowing, of his eyes, the dropping of his lower lip, then the tightening of his mouth into a thin, angry line, the exhale, then sudden inhale of breath.
In Case You Missed It Page 9