Two Roads

by L. M. Augustine

  We’re silent for a long while after that, and I let out a breath, hating myself all the more for what I said. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, meaning it. I love them. I really do. But after everything, it’s hard not to hate them too. “What are you getting for lunch?” I say to change the subject, pulling out my menu.

  Both of them just stare at me, perplexed and heartbroken and so, so disappointed. And I hate it. I hate their disappointment. I know how miserable they make me and they made Ben and yet, I still cling to this hope that if I just try hard enough, if I just show them how much I love poetry, maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to impress them. Maybe I’ll change their mind. Maybe they’ll appreciate me. Maybe they’ll even accept me.

  But they don’t, and every single time, my heart breaks with theirs.

  I tried this plan all of freshman year. They hated that I was going to a non-Ivy League or engineering-based school, but they paid for me anyway, so I worked my ass off to get all A’s and B’s and show them that I can be successful too. Even after all the wrong they caused Ben and me, I still tried to win over their approval like a complete fucking idiot. But it’s no surprise that when I came home for the summer with the stellar grades, smiling and ready for them to finally accept me, they just shook their heads and told me flat-out that they’re wasting their time, energy, and money on me and that I was worse than Ben.

  So I’ve officially given up. I’ve stopped trying. I let myself fail my classes time and time again just to prove a point. I tell myself I’m doing it for Ben, to send my parents a message that controlling my life like they did with his was what caused all of this, but I know in my heart I’m doing this for me. Because I am selfish. Because I am scared.

  A part of me feels almost guilty about it, with the threat of academic probation looming, and I hate that after everything, I still want my parents to notice me. I hate that I keep hoping things will change, because they never do. No matter what I do, whether I fail or excel, I am always going to be their disappointment of a daughter. I am always going to be the one who was always too afraid to follow in Ben’s footsteps.

  “Well,” my dad finally says. “It looks like we need to talk some sense into you.” He opens his mouth to say more, probably to lecture me for the next hour about what a hopeless waste of his money I am even though I already got that talk six months ago to open my sophomore year, when Mom puts a hand on his arm.

  “Walter,” she says, piercing brown eyes trained on me. “Don’t.”

  I think she thinks she’s helping, when really, she is doing absolutely nothing. Dad starts to argue, but then he looks at her, sighs once again, and gives in. With a grunt he goes back to picking at the piece of bread on his plate.

  The waitress comes by then, momentarily saving me from the hell that is this conversation, takes our orders, and disappears into the kitchen.

  “So Cali,” Mom says quietly, but the sorrow in her voice couldn’t be more obvious. “Let’s talk about something else for a while. We’ll get back to… that… in the future. As you know, your father and I are going to be in town for the next few days, so we have plenty of time to chat.”

  She says “chat” like it’s something we both want to do, like we’re just normal people making small talk about life or whatever, and she’s not trying to mold me into a cut-out, younger version of herself, when becoming her is the last thing I want to do. I mean, Ben already tried it, and look where it got him.

  “Whatever you like, Mom,” I mutter and chug more water. I already know I’m going to need it.

  She forces a smile. “All right,” she says. “So, tell us, are you single?”

  I stare at her, unblinking. I could laugh. Or groan. The other perpetual question for my parents: boys. They want me to marry a handsome and smart and perfect-as-them boy the instant I graduate, or at least be in a committed relationship to one. I never am, though, but I don’t mind it. It’s not like I’m missing out when all of my options would be personality-less losers. Kind of like Logan, I think, proud of myself for finding yet another place to insult him.

  Anyway, of course I don’t have a boyfriend to tell Mom about, especially not one up to her standards, and we both know it. I did, however, brag to some random girls last night about this fantastic, no-strings-attached relationship I’m not actually in--a tidbit I’d rather not share with her.

  So I watch her closely, trying to read her expression, but I can’t tell what she’s thinking this time. She just keeps staring back at me, her eyebrows narrowing. “No,” I finally say. “No, I do not have a boyfriend yet.”

  “Good!” she says in a voice that sounds way too pleased to be hers.

  I stop. Frown. Consider whether my mother was abducted by aliens and this is an imposter sitting in front of me. Realize there is no way any alien would put himself through the torture of abducting her. Then, I say “Good?” This is coming from the same mother who wrote a letter to our local representative asking about the legality of pre-arranged marriage, because she’d met this perfect guy for me at WalMart when I was twelve. She never got a response from the rep, thank god. “Huh?” I start to say. “I thought--”

  “Never mind what you thought,” Mom says with a wave of her hand. “I have some good news.”

  My heart sinks. Aaaaand here’s the kicker.

  “Yes Mom?”

  Mom looks all too giddy. She beams at me and holds her hands to her chest like she’s about to explode from excitement. This only means bad things for me, as usual. Then, she says, “I found you a date!”

  Of course she did.

  I find myself rolling my eyes. This is not the first time my parents have tried to set me up on a blind date. It is also not the fifth time. I think we’ve gone through at least seven dates over the years--Ned, George, Jack, Carl, Bernie, Brian, and Jeannette, the last one just to see if I’m lesbian.

  “Who is it, Mom?” I mutter, running through potential excuses not to go in my head.

  “I can’t say,” Mom says. “But he’s perfect for you!” Translation: he’s just another cookie-cutter, incredibly boring barely-male.

  “When is this date, Mom?” I say just to appease her.

  “On Friday at noon,” she says, still grinning. “You’ll meet him here. I was just talking with his parents while we were waiting for you. They’re really lovely people and had great things to say about him, so we set up a date. I think you’ll really like this one.”

  “Oh,” I say, absently picking at my bread. “Yeah. I can’t do then. Sorry to disappoint.”

  She stops then. Narrows her eyes. “Why not?” Dammit. She may be a bad mother, but she sure as hell knows when I’m lying.

  “Um.” I bite my lip. “I have a tennis match?”

  My dad laughs in annoyance. “You’re as awful a liar as your mother. And we all know you haven’t done any sports since fourth grade, especially not one that involves more than five seconds of physical effort like tennis does.”

  I grimace. Still not a boy, Dad.

  “Honey,” my mom interrupts once again. This whole conversation is like a bad therapy session. “Please, just give this one a chance. I know you don’t think so, but I want you to be happy, and I bet this boy could make you happy.”

  “Who says I need a boyfriend to be happy?” I interject.

  Mom sighs. “Sweetie, c’mon. Just try it.”

  “Yeah,” my dad says again. “And you’ll like him. Apparently, he’s a fan of poetry too.”

  I sigh. Obviously they’re lying. Again. They’ll do anything to get me on a date, and they’d never knowingly set me up with someone interested in “something as crotchety as poetry.” They have no morals when it comes to getting what they want, so there is no way they’d start now.

  “Why? Why do you always have to control my life?” I say to neither of them in particular.

  “We aren’t controlling your life,” Dad says. “We’re tryi--”

  “--trying to help,” I shoot back. “Yeah. I got it. But you
aren’t helping.”

  Mom puts her hand back on my arm, running a finger along my wrist. “Oh, Cali,” she whispers, her brown eyes like putty in mine, and goddammit is she good at the puppy face. “Please. Just this one last time.”

  I shake my head, laugh to myself, because I’m really considering this. I’m really considering going out on another one of my parents’ obviously awful setup dates just to make them happy, even when all they’ve managed to do for me is make me hate everyone, including myself.

  “If I go on this date,” I say, “will you promise to never set me up on one again?”

  “Yes!” my mom says gleefully, her smile returning in a hurry, although I’m convinced she’s lying. “Yes yes yes! You won’t regret this, honey.” Somehow, I already feel like I will. “Thank you for giving it a chance!” she adds. Then, she does something she hasn’t done in four years.

  She reaches out and hugs me.

  “I love you, Cali,” she whispers. And I just sit there, frozen in my chair, not hugging back, too shocked to know how to respond.

  I love you, too, Mom, I want to say.

  But I can’t.

  ~

  She never wanted to feel like this,

  She never wanted to be broken,

  She never wanted to be alone.

  She never got what she wanted.

  ~

  SEVERAL minutes later, as soon as our conversation has safely devolved back into small talk about how college is going, I make up some half-assed excuse about my roommate needing me and get the hell out of there. I can only survive talking with my parents for so long before self-destructing, or possibly bursting into flames. They’re still in town for a few days, anyway; they have a business meeting here, and then it’s back to Silicon Valley and calling me at midnight to make sure I’m home in bed and not partying for them.

  I sigh. Our relationship hasn’t always been like this, amazingly enough. I used to like the idea of working for my parents, of going off and inventing random things and feeling a sense of pride and worth and accomplishment. My parents used to be supportive of me, too. They used to smile and squeeze my hand and tell me that I could do it, that I could be like them, that I was destined for greatness. It never even mattered that they were trying to control my whole life, because I was happy, because I had my brother and my poems and a crush on Logan Waters (not one of my better moments), and I was happy. Really really happy. Back then, before everything went to hell, Ben had already started working at their engineering company and we all thought the business was going to be a family thing--something we could do together, something Ben and I could soon run all by ourselves, and someday, something our children and children’s children could work at as well. It was a nice idea, honestly. My parents always had nice ideas. But after what happened with Ben, after what they did to Ben, I know I can’t turn out like that. I can’t become an engineer. I can’t become my parents’ picturesque little daughter. I can’t have anything to do with them. So I fail. I spend time pretending to have sex with guys and insulting whoever crosses my path. I destroy myself from the ground up, because it makes me forget about everything else--because it’s the only way to get at the pain.

  My whole life my parents have been trying to get me to turn out just like them. Everything from my name to my constant visits to their workplace to my tutors and advanced summer courses that didn’t do shit was and is part of their master plan. The only choice of my own I’ve ever made was where to go to college--a non-Ivy league school, it ended up to be, because there was no way I’d ever a) get accepted into one and b) survive one. To my parents, I might as well have told them I murdered Steve Jobs. It took them a while to get over it, a lot of screaming and fighting and threatening to cut me off the second I turn twenty-one until finally, finally, they let me make my own decision about college. They gave up. But they still haven’t given up on getting me to graduate and marry off and work for them like a good little girl, even after everything this family has been through. My needs aren’t a factor for them anymore, just like Ben’s needs weren’t, and that sure as hell didn’t get him far. Now his name is forbidden in this family, and they act as if he never existed, like I am and have always been their only child, like Ben was a failed experiment and I am Test Subject #2, and I fucking hate it.

  I pull my car into the parking lot by my apartment a few minutes later, step out, and shut the door, trying to brush away all thoughts of my parents. A few Williams University students, me included, live in this apartment complex off campus--it’s a five story building, all made of red bricks with windows on every side and a white-painted roof at the top.

  Before I enter the building, I glance at the apartment farthest to the left on the first floor, knowing that Logan sleeps right there, and I scowl. He just had to choose the same apartment complex as me to live in. When I turn away, I remind myself that it would not be too hard to egg his window from here should that need ever arise. And knowing me, I’m certain it will.

  Once inside, I pass a few snack and soda machines and jog up several flights of old, carpeted stairs until I reach my room. There are ten rooms on every floor in the building and mine is at the top. I swear the universe is out to get me.

  The door to my room is left ajar and heavy rock music emanates from within, pulsing against the wall, my skin, my heart. I step inside and close and lock the door behind me. I know my roommate Ruby well enough to realize this music is hers.

  “You’re home!” shouts a groggy, obviously drunk voice from somewhere within the apartment. I drop off my bag on the ground. Our place is small and four-paneled, with dirty white walls, two twin beds on either side of the room, a TV, a somehow even tinier bathroom, a moth-eaten chair thrust off to the side, and a window next to my bed that gives me a gorgeous view of the drivers honking furiously at each other somewhere below.

  “Ruby?” I call and walk toward our bedroom where I find her lying on the chair, a huge smile on her face. Her dark t-shirt is pulled halfway up, revealing a sliver of pale stomach. Her face is flushed and her hair looks a mess, but she seems way too pleased with herself to have just woken up.

  “Cali!” she exclaims when she sees me, clutching an empty beer bottle in her hand.

  I roll my eyes. Ruby getting drunk.

  Of course.

  “You look well,” I say, smiling a little and picking up one of her old shirts off the floor. Somehow, I’m the one who does the cleaning around here. Then I turn back to my bed… and lay eyes on a guy.

  I freeze and straighten up. Holy shit. There’s a guy here.

  With no shirt.

  And abs like no tomorrow.

  “Oh, sorry,” I begin to blurt out, almost bumping into him. “I--”

  “No worries,” he says, giving me an easy smile, and then, with much effort, I lift my gaze from his six pack and focus instead on his face. And now I’m really reeling, because I realize this is Jaden in front of me. Like, Logan’s roommate kind of Jaden. The Jaden I despise. What is he doing here? And I always knew he was too good-looking to be hanging out with Logan, but how the hell did I not realize he’s this freaking hot? He grabs a t-shirt off of Ruby’s bed and pulls it on over his head, an act that really shouldn’t disappoint me as much as it does. “We were just finishing up,” he says smoothly, watching me like he’s waiting for me to pounce.

  I realize what he means by “finishing up” the second I notice how they look. You know the drill: they’re both red-faced and blushing, hair disheveled and messy, sheets in disarray, condom wrapper littering the floor.

  And then I freeze.

  Ruby seriously hooked up with my arch nemesis’ best friend. In the time I was with my parents, no less.

  Yeah, we’re going to have a long talk after this.

  “Yeah we were!” Ruby exclaims from her chair, raises her empty bottle, and winks not-very-subtly at Jaden while simultaneously making finger guns at him. I bite back a laugh and instead shoot her an annoyed look.

  Ruby
pretends to ignore me, but I can see her lips twitch into a hint of a smile. She’s enjoying this, enjoying torturing me, I realize. That goddamn bastard. She’s lucky I like her.

  Ruby is the total punk-rock girl. She has pink highlights in her dark hair, wears long black boots, smoky eyeliner, and constantly gets drunk to loud rock music. She also has the best sense of humor I’ve ever known in a person. Her loud, hawk-like laugh never fails to make people uncomfortable, however. But honestly, I kind of admire Ruby. Weird as she may be, she’s found a way to be totally comfortable with who she is, no pretending involved, something I wish I could find a way to do.

  Jaden continues talking to me as he heads toward the door, eyeing me suspiciously. I think they’re both surprised I haven’t gone on a murderous rampage over their sexytimes, which I also think was their main goal here besides, you know, hooking up. But what they don’t seem to realize is that I save all of my rage for one Logan Waters. “She is quite the catch,” Jaden says, watching Ruby and shaking his head, smiling.

  “She sure is.” I’m barely able to keep from looking at him, though. Talk about tall, dark, and handsome. I barely even feel guilty about finding him, the best friend of the kid I hate more than anything in the world, attractive. That says a lot about how hot he is.

  “So,” I say, turning to face him. Jaden towers over me, a little over six feet tall, with a clean-shaven face, a thick jaw, and sexy brown eyes. And let’s not forget those abs, because seriously they are gorgeous. Did I mention he has gorgeous abs? “It seems you’ve been busy.”

  “You could say that,” he says after a minute.

  Oh you sure can.