gotten about how bad an influence Jared is are starting to nibble away at my confidence in our relationship.
I love Jared, but I don’t want to cause my mom any more stress. I don’t want to make her sicker. I don’t want to lose her. She’s my mother. I grasp at any hope and start to wonder: since stress makes people sicker, will breaking up with Jared help her get better? Is this a choice between my mom’s life and my boyfriend’s heart?
All my agonizing comes down to a single, almost unconscious decision. Jared and I are at the mall on a Saturday morning. Neither of us wants to be there, but it’s ninety degrees outside and his mom’s AC died. Among the food court, the piped-in soft rock and the generic clothing stores, we can breathe. Yet it’s a stupid way to spend the day, and we both know it.
“Can we go back to my house, please? I hate the mall, and we can go swimming.” I cross my arms, but Jared ignores me. Again. He shuffles toward the arcade, and I kick the railing in frustration. “If you don’t want to come over, just say it already.”
“Fine.” He spins around, his arms raised in defeat. “I don’t want to go to your house, okay? I can’t stand the way your parents talk down to me.”
“They don’t—”
“Yes, they do. They hate me, and I don’t want to deal with them.”
People scurry by, sucking on soft drinks with amused expressions. My cheeks flame, and I suspect it’s because deep down, I know Jared isn’t entirely wrong. “That’s not true.”
Jared pushes his hair out of his face. “Are you kidding? Christ, Claire, I can’t believe you’re defending them. I thought you were better than that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” His shoulders slump and he turns his back on me.
I feel funny, like my brain’s been injected with Novocain. Maybe it’s stress or self-doubt, or maybe it’s simply the irrational urge to protect my mom, but whatever it is, I can’t stop the words from dribbling out. “You know, if that’s the way you’re going to be, if that’s what you think of me, then maybe we need to back off for a bit.”
That stops him walking away. “What?”
“Maybe my parents were right, and we shouldn’t hang around together so much. We should take some time apart.”
“I can’t believe you think that.” Those blue eyes of his go dead gray. “You’re going to pick them over me?”
I close the distance between us, dropping my voice so the gawkers in the food court won’t hear us. I feel as though I’m having some kind of out-of-body experience, like I’m watching myself have this conversation because I sure can’t be doing it for real. My heart pounds against my chest, trying to beat the seriousness of what I’m doing into my head. And yet my mouth plunges forward. I’m sick of walking this tightrope between family and Jared, and my mom needs me. She must need me more than Jared does. Besides, after all she’s ever done for me, how can I not do this one thing for her? Sitting through ten years of piano recitals is reason enough that I owe her.
“I’m not picking anyone. I just can’t deal with you bad-mouthing them right now. My mom’s sick, and—”
“And I’m supposed to be okay with the way they treat me because of that?”
“That’s not it....” I swallow, but a lump in my throat gets in my way. “She’s my mom.”
“And I’m nothing?”
“Stress is bad for her.”
“Right, and I stress her out because I’m not good enough for you. I get it.”
The greasy food court stench makes my stomach roll. “No, you don’t. I....” Jared gives me a second, but I can’t collect my thoughts. I have too many, and I’m still in shock over what I’ve done.
“Yeah, I do. Your parents are a couple of stuck-up assholes, I’m a loser and you care more about appeasing their snobbishness than you do about hurting me. That’s fine. Believe me, I get it.”
He storms off, and I have to call Kristen to get a ride home. When I explain to her what happened, she swears I made the right move. But then why doesn’t it feel right? Why do I feel slimy and evil, like I just condemned a million puppies to death? Why is there this hole inside my chest?
Within hours, I’m wishing I could take it all back because I feel worse than ever. Jared has a temper, but he usually cools off quickly. It never crosses my mind that this time I might have wounded him too badly for it to blow over.
But when I call him, he doesn’t answer. So I leave messages. I text him. He never responds. I cry until I puke. A week later, I hear through the gossip mill that Jared’s taken off to spend the rest of his summer with his sister in New York City. I remember what he told me about his father—how when he’d get angry, he’d run away. But I can’t believe Jared would act like his father, the man he loathes for running out on him and his mother. And yet...
I try to forget, but everything seems to remind me of him. Even the new Miata my parents buy me for my birthday can’t distract me. What good is a car when I don’t have Jared to ride around with in it? So I give my mom rides instead. I throw my heart into making up for all the quality mother-daughter time I lost out on when I was with Jared, but this only convinces my mom that she won. She harps on why Jared was so bad for me, and even though she means well, each time she does it’s like she’s digging her nails into my heart.
“Have you heard from him?” she asks constantly. My parents want to make sure I haven’t relapsed.
But I can say truthfully that I haven’t. Jared could have died for all I knew.
Then, six months later, rumors spread around my school that some guy from the public high school has befriended the lead guitarist of Purple Waters, the “it” band du jour. With some digging, I discover the guy in question is Jared. But I dismiss those rumors as wishful thinking until I hear about the tour invitation and the recording contract, and then I go online and discover it’s all true.
“I just want you to be happy,” my mom says as I wander around the house, dazed and glum over the news.
But how can I be happy when everyone is conspiring to make me miserable?
She has information about colleges spread across the table—Yale, Cornell, Vassar and small liberal arts schools I’ve never heard of. “We need to think about your future. You’re more like me than you think. I also had a thing for bad boys and was too prone to dream when I was your age.”
I think she’s wrong, but I don’t say it because I want her to believe I’m not so bad. But I’m furious at her. And my dad. Furious that they misjudged Jared’s talent yet were so right about him being bad for me. Furious that their dreams for me interfered with my dreams for myself.
Then even more furious at myself for being angry with them in the first place because being angry with my mom is the cruelest, most terrible thing I can be. More proof that I’m the bad daughter.
“Claire?” She reaches for my wrist, and her hand feels too light. Like paper. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing,”
