Access
Paisley Grove
I’ve been staring at the message board. The light from my monitor engulfs my face like the glare of headlights. I’ve read the address over and over. It’s now mapped in my brain. My nerves are wrecked. Ever since the ride home, I’ve been contemplating whether I should go to the party or not. It’s seven o’clock at night. My mom is wrapping up a talk about corporate cyber security in Toronto. My dad, who should be home by now, called to say he’ll be flying to Toronto for a late dinner with my mom and asked if I wanted to join them.
“No.” The word came out of my mouth before I realized I was saying it.
My father paused. I’m sure he thought I’d say yes. Usually, I would go with him. Since my parents travel for work so much, joining each other on the road for dinner and sometimes staying overnight to have breakfast in the morning is one way we spend time together as a family.
“That’s right—you graduate tomorrow. We’ll be back in time for you to rest up, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.
“Nah, I’m just going to stay in tonight. I’m tired.” I’m not tired, actually. I’m wired and bouncing off the walls.
He snorts a chuckle. “You know your brilliant brain can take a break from working on your latest and greatest app.”
My chuckle is faint. I hear the pride in my dad’s voice, and it makes me happy to know that he so easily recognizes my talent. And that’s why I hate lying to him. “No. I’m not working tonight. Just resting.”
“Oh… are you feeling well, sweetheart? I can have Dr. Hammerstone stop by and give you a quick checkup.”
I close my eyes and massage my left temple. “I’m not sick, Dad. It was just a long day, and tomorrow’s graduation day. I’m a covaledictorian. I think I need to take some time to reflect on my future and be well rested for the ceremony. I’m sitting on the stage. That’s nerve-racking too.” The last part is the truth.
“That’s thoughtful, honey, and very mature of you,” my dad says.
Tears collect in my eyes as the corners of my mouth turn downward. I hate deceiving him. I love him so much, and he’s such a great dad that he deserves nothing less than the truth. I want so desperately to say, “You know what, Dad? I’ll fly to Toronto and have dinner with you and Mom. It’ll be fun.” But I can’t. I want to see Hercules in a setting beyond our school’s campus more than I want to be honest with my parents.
* * *
I’m too discombobulatedto remember exactly how I ended my call with my dad. I think I told him I’ll see him at breakfast. Max is flying in from Palo Alto to attend my graduation ceremony. He should arrive first thing in the morning. I’m excited about seeing him. As I read the address of the party once again and think about Max, I can hear him telling me to find a better way to get what I want. But I resist taking phantom Max’s advice and program a two-minute loop into the security camera for the east wing exit. The loop starts at ten o’clock and lasts for three minutes. If it’s any longer than that, I risk having someone discover the changes I made to the security system. I also program a return three-minute loop for one in the morning. That means I have to be home before the one-o’clock bell tolls.
I have an hour and a half until go time. My mind is firmly made up, which is why I spring to my feet and take off my shirt as I hightail it to the closet. First, I put on a little black dress. I swish this way and that in the floor mirror framed in glossy ornate wood, which used to belong to my grandmother. The two rolls on each side of my back make me take the dress off and try on a red silk kimono-style dress. I study myself wrapped in the shiny fabric and then burst into laughter. What a hideous sight.
I tug the dress off, narrowly avoiding ripping it. It’s time to take a good long look at myself in the mirror. During my last annual checkup, I learned that I put on twenty-three extra pounds, and now I’m thirty-nine pounds overweight. I bet Greenly doesn’t look in the mirror and see loads of problems with her face and body. She’s thin, sort of a waif, and I guess guys like Hercules prefer that in a girl. Her face is also perfectly symmetrical, and she’s classically pretty like those girls in cosmetic commercials and ads. Whenever boys pass her, the bold ones flirt and the shy ones blush. Me? I’m just bloated, I guess. My thighs are three times larger than Greenly’s and my mom’s. I’m prone to acne breakouts depending on how stressed I am. And I have a gut. Treasure says I don’t, but I’m staring at it right now, and yes, it’s a gut.
When it comes to genetics, my looks should dwarf Greenly’s. Sometimes I wonder how in the world I can be Heartly Rose’s daughter. With her long legs and unmatched beauty, my mom paid for her first two years at MIT by working as a world-renowned supermodel. It took less than a year for her to become the “it” girl that all the big fashion houses wanted to work with. Thirty years later, the Heartly Rose of yesteryear can still land on the cover of top beauty mags. That’s because my mom is also just as brainy as I am. While juggling school and modeling, she used her hobby of coding to create an app to help achieve work and academic balance. Out of the brain of a beauty came M.O.DEL. Her next step was to peddle her new software to designers and fashion editors. She showed them how much money they could save and how timeless and reliable their favorite models could be when they hired them from the M.O.DEL directory. All designers had to do was upload a clear picture of the front and back of their designs into a project box and then add their patterns. Once the necessary uploads were completed, the complex code was executed, and the virtual fashion model would be wearing the designs, posing and selling the products to perfection. Back in 2023, my mom’s app came up on my grandfather’s radar. She was only twenty when she brokered a deal and signed a contract with him. According to the story, which my parents and Uncle Leo often retell at dinner parties, Grandfather was so impressed by the beautiful and brilliant Heartly Rose that he arranged a celebration dinner at his house in Norfolk County and invited her. Little did my mom know that she’d walked into a setup. And it worked. My dad and uncle Leo both sought to win her affections. My mom admits that she chose my dad at first sight even though he pandered to her the least. My dad says he didn’t have to try so hard because he knew she was his from their first hello and handshake.
“I felt our chemistry shoot up my arm and into my heart,” my dad says.
Blushing, my mom always replies, “So did I.”
Then they’d kiss, careful to make their lip-lock suitable in their daughter’s presence.
“I bet your mom and dad fuck like porn stars,” Treasure once said.
“Ugh,” I said, sticking my tongue out like her observation had made my mouth sour. “Stop saying that.”
Anyway, my parents got married five years after they met. Two years later, they had Max, and eight years later, when my mom was thirty-five and my father was thirty-nine, they had me. With one look at Max, it’s clear that even though he favors our father, genetics have also graced him with Heartly’s best physical features. He’s tall, graceful, and has a confident gait. The girl staring back at me in the mirror inherited her mother’s brains more than her brawn.
After trying on six more outfits, I decide to go with a pair of black skinny jeans that make me look ten pounds lighter and a white off-the-shoulder blouse. I dash to the bathroom to put on a light layer of red lipstick and fluff my thick locks, which I definitely got from Heartly. Running out of time, I race back to my closet and slip on a pair of ankle boots and a black moto jacket because it can get a bit nippy at night for this California girl.
It’s now 9:59 p.m. I hurry up and zip a few things into my jacket pockets—my keys and cellphone, the thin wallet that contains my ID, the one credit card my parents allow me to keep, and forty dollars just in case I need emergency cash. Then I walk quickly, making sure no one sees me, to the west-facing exit. Slipping out is as easy as I thought it would be. It’s dark out in the garden on the side of the house. I lengthen my steps, unable to reach the gate that opens to our private alley fast enough. A quick glance toward the spray of moonlight reveals tiny lights twinkling throughout the cherry trees in the garden. The gardener removes the lights from the foliage when the trees flower in the spring. When I make it to the gate, I realize I won’t be around next year to enjoy the bloom. It’s the only time of year my mom and I sit in the garden together. She sips coffee and I drink lemon chiffon tea as we talk about personal stuff, like how much she misses her mom, who died before I was born.
As I jog through the darkness, I picture my mom’s face lighting up whenever she remembers my grandma. The happy memory helps sop up the creepy and dangerous feeling that goes with running through an alley at night. Finally, I reach the gate. There’s so much activity on the sidewalk that I relax a bit as I use my key to unlock the gate and then close it behind me.
Standing on the sidewalk, watching people pass, I’m aware that it’s not too late to go back inside, drink a cup of tea with milk, and curl up in bed. But just thinking about another uneventful night makes me hasten my steps, and I'm off.
* * *
The venue isn’tthat far from where I live. The short distance doesn’t give me much time to change my mind. It feels exhilarating to be outside, walking alone under the cover of night. I haven’t been able to do this since Treasure’s fake kidnapping. The pungent odor of stale trash, smoke from the subway system, fried food, coffee shops, rat piss, and other variables doesn’t make me wrinkle my nose as much as it did when I first arrived in the city. I’m not sure if being immune to the exotic scent is a good or bad thing.
