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Outside, it’s a pretty fall day, a little hazy, but the sun’s managing to peek through. I inhale the ocean air as I walk across the cobblestone driveway, looking up at the hundred-foot pines that surround the property. With the imposing trees and an iron gate, you’d think a celebrity lived here… until you saw our car. Apparently top on the list of “safest cars for teens,” the sensible gray sedan is only just slightly better than the bus.
“Stupid old-lady car,” I mutter as I climb in and buckle up.
When I turn the key, I’m simultaneously blasted by heat and music; quickly I turn down the blower and flip to the alt rock station. I can’t help but laugh at Betsey’s taste: She may dress like someone who lives for jam bands, but her real musical love is country. I think back to Florida, when our neighbor Nina babysat us sometimes in the afternoons so Mom could run errands without dragging along three toddlers. We’d sit out by Nina’s pool listening to Reba McEntire, sipping sugary drinks we weren’t allowed to have at home.
“Now, don’t tell your mama, you hear?” Nina would say in her Southern accent. Practically drooling at the sight of juice boxes, we’d nod our little heads and swear on our baby dolls never to tell. Nina would sing along with Reba at the top of her lungs while Bet did backup vocals and silly dances, and I’d laugh to the point of a potty emergency.
Betsey never outgrew her affinity for country music and it’s one of the things that I love about her, because it’s one of the ways she’s different.
Still not used to the driveway—our old house was on a regular street—I do an Austin Powers maneuver to get the car turned in the right direction. Then I hold my breath as I drive up, hugging the right, since there’s a drop-off on the left.
I wait for the gate to inch open, tossing my hair off my shoulders and finally taking a breath. For another morning, I’m safe from death by driveway. Despite my hideous sweater, I have sleek, straight hair. And now, for a few hours at least, I’m out of the house. I smile for no one to see, because these things are worth smiling about.
Two hours later, instinctively, I touch the necklace around my neck. My heart rate is up: I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. I try to calm myself as I picture the alert sounding on my mom’s phone, it dragging her from whatever she’s doing so she can check the GPS blip and make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. Back in Florida when we were little, the necklace used to make me feel protected. Now, sitting here in trig, panicking because I don’t know the answers, it feels invasive. Not only do I have my own stress to worry about, but I have her stress to worry about, too.
“It’s a killer, isn’t it?” the guy across the aisle whispers, nodding down at the quiz. He’s got unfortunate acne that distracts from an otherwise solid-looking face.
“The worst,” I whisper back before our teacher gives us a look and we’re forced to focus. But when I do, I realize once again how little I know.
I studied; I really did. Ella is much better at math, and after the requisite teasing, she helped me the past three nights. But it’s too much. Going through the problems, I feel like I’m trying to read Mandarin while blindfolded. Sure, Woodbury is tougher than South was last year, but it’s not like I’m an idiot. And yet, we’re only a couple weeks into the school year and already, without a doubt, I can honestly say that…
I. Hate. Triangles.
And granted, I’m freaking out right now about a quiz on the first three chapters of the book, so I don’t know a lot about it, but it seems to me that triangles are the very essence of trigonometry.
I spend fifty minutes suffering through the most painful academic experience of my life. Even before the bell rings, I am chastising myself for being so stupid. So flawed. Even though my mom’s not my DNA donor, I was grown in her womb; her smartness should’ve rubbed off on me somehow.
How can I just not get math?
I jump at the bell, then reluctantly hand in my quiz. I jump again when my phone vibrates in my pocket; I haven’t even made it to the classroom door yet. I don’t check the caller ID; I know who it is.
“Hi.”
“Lizzie, it’s Mom,” she says, trying to sound calm when I know her well enough to know that she’s not.
“I know,” I say, weaving around two girls blocking the door. “Hi.”
Pause. “Your heart rate just shot up: What happened? You were in math class, right? Is everything okay?” The way her voice sounds right now reminds me of the time in middle school when she forgot there was a museum field trip and the tracker showed me across town during school hours.
“Geez, calm down,” I say. “I’m fine. It was just a quiz.”
Silence.
“Did you fail?” she asks quietly, saying “fail” like some people say “cancer.” I hear her take a breath and hold it on the other end of the line and I can almost see the thoughts running through her brain. Mom places an incredibly high value on doing well in school.
“How should I know?” I say. “I only just handed it in. I won’t get—”
“Lizzie, you know.”
Pause.
“Yes.”
She lets out her breath like a popped tire. “I’m going to come home for a few minutes after Bet’s done with night class. We’ll have a family meeting to discuss this.”
“But, Mom, I—”
