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Swim—as if it were that simple.
Yeah, I wanted to say, sure. Your eyes tranquilized me, but my little nine-year-old brain was supposed to be cognizant enough to see the wave coming (from the eyes in the back of my head I didn’t know I had). Right.
I stared daggers at him. It was Ethan who ran to my side and saved me. He grabbed my hand and asked if I was okay, then offered me some of his sports drink and Swedish Fish. And I never forgot it.
It was the first and last time Carson Brooks would ensnare me.
With the memory of that day fresh in my mind, I headed to my desk, marveling at how our rivalry only grew from there. Grabbing my laptop, I carried it over to my bed, where I propped myself up against my upholstered headboard with a bunch of pillows and stretched my legs out in front of me.
I booted my computer and clicked on the link in my favorites—the only link worth saving—and the website for Duke University loaded. I let my gaze scan the screen, scrolling through the pictures with a yearning so deep it hurt. By the time I was finished, my head ached, and my mood had darkened perceptibly.
Where was my acceptance letter?
I had called last week, and sure enough, the woman in admissions had ensured me they had begun sending them out.
I dropped my head in my hands, pressing my palms into my eyes. I’d get in, I told myself. I had to.
Shake it off.
Opening the folder Mrs. Parks gave us, I removed the contents, surprised to find more than the sheets she had gone over in her office. There was a lot of valuable information inside—lists of supplies they’d need, pictures from last year’s program to give them an idea on how much food the families received, what the tree looked like upon completion, and suggested lists of items to buy.
A plan began to form in my head as I laid everything out around me, then opened a spreadsheet on my laptop. I could divvy up the tasks. That way, Carson could take on a few things, and I’d do the rest. There was no need for us to work on it together when we could easily divide and conquer. Why take three weeks to complete the tasks when I could probably finish most of it myself in a few days if I put my mind to it?
I compiled a master list of supplies in my spreadsheet, then divided them up and labeled one file “Mia” and the other “Carson.” Once he gave me his share of goods, I’d gather them all together and make the boxes. In the meantime, I could probably manage the Angel Tree myself. No need for him to help with all of it. He’d be busy with the swim team, anyway. Then we could each deliver our own boxes with little interaction. Easy.
I sighed contentedly and closed my eyes, sinking into the plush headboard. It had been a stressful day. Maybe if I just rested for a minute before my parents got home, before I needed to meet with Carson…
I drifted to sleep, awakening sometime later to the sound of the front door slamming. I became alert immediately, tensing as I stared out into the hallway, waiting.
And there it was, only a moment later my mother’s voice cut through the air like the starting bell in a boxing ring. “This is your fault,” she snarled.
I didn’t need to be down there to know who she was speaking to.
“Oh, of course, it’s my fault. Everything’s my fault!” Dad yelled.
Round one, let the games begin.
???
My stomach twisted with dread. The moment I heard the sound of my name—something about me “acting out”—I knew this particular argument was about me.
Fantastic.
As if their fighting weren’t awful enough, being the root of it was even worse.
I headed downstairs, despite everything inside me screaming to ignore them, to put my headphones on and drown them out with something loud
and upbeat. But it was time for me to head over to the Brooks’ house, which meant I needed to face the music if I wanted to see Ethan and have a quiet dinner before meeting Carson.
My feet hit the landing, and I stood to the side of where they faced-off like two bulldogs. It took them a whole two minutes and me clearing my throat for them to even realize I was there. During moments like these, it was hard to reconcile them to the loving couple I remember from when I was younger. The one who took me on family vacations, swam with me at the beach, and planned family barbecues.
My mother turned to me and visibly deflated. I noticed the flicker of remorse in her eyes and the way my father snapped his mouth shut and stared at the ground, ashamed. They hated when I caught them in the middle of a fight, which both annoyed and amused me because I wanted to ask them if they thought I was deaf—I would have to be to miss their sparring.
“Your eye,” my mother said. Her gaze flickered over my face.
My father shot her a disgusted look, then said, “Mrs. Parks told us you tried to strangle Carson Brooks. Is that true?”
Yikes. When they put it that way. . .
