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“You’ve lost it,” I say a little too loudly; the surly postal worker gives me a look. I turn around and smack Sean, because we both know it was his fault.
Finally it’s our turn and of course the mean lady is the one who helps us. She says a total of five words through the whole painful transaction. When we’re finished, we grab hands and rush away from the counter. Sean heads toward the IN door instead of the OUT; I yank him in the right direction.
“Can you actually read?” I joke as we step outside.
I’m watching Sean laugh instead of looking where I’m going when I almost bump into someone.
“Elizabeth Violet Best!” a voice hisses.
And that voice belongs to my mother.
I’m completely quiet the entire ride home, and for the duration of the twenty-minute “conversation” I have with Mom once we arrive. When it’s nearly over, when I’m ready to just hear my punishment and go hide in my room, Mom notices that I’m not wearing the necklace. She screams at Ella and Betsey to come to the living room, then tells all three of us that we’re grounded.
“What did we do?” Ella asks, looking her most innocent.
Mom narrows her eyes at her. “You three live one life; if Lizzie’s stepping out of line, you all know about it. You’re accomplices.”
“That’s crap,” Betsey says.
“I see you’re wearing the necklace when Lizzie should be,” Mom counters. Betsey shuts up. For some reason—maybe it’s because we all want to believe we’re on the brink of something with Petra and want to see how it plays out—none of us mentions that we know about Mom’s secret life.
“So, what does that mean, exactly?” Ella asks in true Ella style. She wants ground rules.
Mom looks at Betsey, “First, it means that you will quit your job. There’s no reason for it other than an opportunity to socialize and make spending money for clothes and music, which you will not be purchasing anytime soon.” Betsey’s shoulders slump. “You’ll continue with night class,” Mom says.
My stomach seizes up the second before she narrows her eyes at me.
“And Lizzie, here’s what being grounded means to you,” she says. I brace myself for losing the car, being forced to take the bus. What she says next never enters my mind. “Ella is taking school full-day.”
“What?” I shout. “You’re not letting me go to school?”
“Oh my god,” Ella groans. Now she has to go back to cheer practice with Morgan, the boyfriend thief.
“That’s right,” Mom says, crossing her arms over her chest, almost like she’s proud that she’s hit a nerve. “Until after Thanksgiving holiday, Lizzie is completely housebound. If I catch her out of the house, the time is extended.”
At this point, she’s not even looking at me. Everyone’s quiet, wondering if there’ll be more or if that’s the end of it. Finally, after seemingly millions of ticks of the clock, Betsey asks, “Can we go?”
Mom nods. We three move toward the doorway, but before we’re in the clear, she speaks again.
“Oh, and I’m taking your cell phone, too.”
I’ve never been angrier in my life: I feel like I could scream down buildings or throw a car or cause a tornado if I was allowed out of the house. I know Ella and Betsey are just as mad as I am, and it’s probably making me madder. I can feel their rage mixing with mine and turning all three of us black inside.
As much as I’ve deceived Mom, it’s nothing compared to what she’s doing to us. I pace like a lion in a cage, and consider confronting her with what I know. Then I realize that doing so right now will only make it worse. I’m trapped in the house: She can easily lie to me and extend my punishment. And this weekend, Betsey will talk to Petra. So instead of saying anything, I vow to find out what’s going on once and for all.
I decide that it’s time to take back my life.
twenty-two
The second day of my punishment, Mom moves my computer to the kitchen island. She announces that she’ll be changing the password daily, and I can only use it for two hours for homework when she’s there to supervise my online time. Three-plus weeks of my prison sentence ahead of me, when she actually looks over my shoulder as I Google a vocabulary word, I shove back and tell her that I’m boycotting homeschool.
“It’s not like it matters,” I say. “Ella’s the one getting the real grades.”
“That’s your choice,” Mom says, talking to me from the entryway as I storm up the stairs. “But for every assignment you fail to complete for homeschool, you add another half day to your punishment.”
I continue up the stairs and slam my bedroom door so hard it rocks the house. But later, I finish the assignment. I may be fraught with lava-hot fury right now, but I’m not a moron.
