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But they weighed heavily in my hand. They probably weren’t that heavy in reality, but simply touching the stupid things made me feel weak. Harry’s voice, so determined and firm, echoed in my ear, recalling a conversation once upon a time.If it’s something you want, don’t let anyone talk you out of it.
“You can open them,” I told Mom, holding them back to her, not even shuffling through them. Whatever their contents possessed in no way enticed me. “You’re more excited to find out than I am.”
Mom didn’t immediately break into the envelopes like I expected her to, though. Instead, she merely looked at them, tracing her finger along the edges. In my head, I chanted over and overWalk away, walk away,hoping she’d be able to hear me. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. I really wasn’t in the mood for anything.
I could hear her lips part, and it was another second before she spoke. “You are my doll, you know.”
Thatgot me looking at her uneasily. “Uh, what?”
“What you said to your father. That you weren’t a doll.” She didn’t lift her eyes from the college envelopes. “Well, I used to think of you as my little doll, did you know that? When you were young. For the longest time, it was just you. Took us so long to get pregnant again after you—we thought it would be just you. When you were a baby, I could dress you how I wanted to, style your hair how I wanted. You always had so much hair.” She smiled a bit at that, recalling a memory. “I always thought of you as my little doll.”
I could remember Mom always styling my hair, always laying out an outfit. When I was younger, I didn’t mind. I used to like it. When had I gone from enjoying the attention to wishing she’d just give me space?
“There comes a point when every teenager needs room to breathe,” she went on. “And I wasn’t ready to give you yours.”
“You would never be ready,” I said, feeling the stubborn anger bubble up, like a toddler stomping their feet. Instead, I turned my gaze away, staring at the wall. “You would pick out the names of my children if I let you.”
Mom sat down on my bed then, and I heard her slide something along the floor. She was quiet for a while, long enough to make me feel uncomfortable in her presence. “If you love something, you’re supposed to let it be free, right?” She shook her head. “I didn’t get that. Not until you made me realize I held you too tight.”
She leaned down to grab something from the floor. There was a rustling sound, and she brought it to rest on the bed without a word.
The Stella bag. I stared at the black Stella bag, Mom’s hand still wrapped around the straps, the zipper half undone. Even from here, I could see where I’d hastily stuffed the wig into it Friday night.
I stiffened before I quickly forced my body to relax, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. “What’s that?”
“Let’s skip that part, shall we?” Her old stern expression flitted across her face before she reached for the zipper, opening it all the way. Her fingers slipped in, and she gently pulled out the black wig, careful not to let the strands catch on the zipper’s teeth. She held it almost reverently, as if this weren’t the same wig I’d worn when she nearly breathed fire last weekend. “Why do you wear this?”
“I like being someone else.” I watched Mom stroke her fingers through the strands. “I like being who I want.”
There seemed to be something else she wanted to say; I could see it in her eyes. I could see the gears in her brain whirring, her analytical mind working it out. Ultimately, the intensity passed, and she held the wig to me. “Can you put it on?”
Put it on. Me. In front of her. This whole moment felt so wrong. Maybe I’d fallen asleep and dreamed Mom coming into my room because this didn’t feel like real life. I couldn’t even figure out where this new version of her came from. Maybe it was the idea of her losing me, the idea of me pushing her away completely, that scared her.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t deny her request.
Slowly, I took the wig from her, my fingers slightly unsteady. I didn’t bother pulling out the wig cap or braiding my hair back. Instead, I quickly grabbed the tie off my wrist and put my hair back into a tight, low bun, then layered Stella over top. The wig fit awkwardly, of course, and probably looked horrible since I didn’t have a mirror to style it, but Mom’s eyes immediately widened at the sight.
She reached out and gently adjusted the wig so that my bangs sat correctly on my forehead, smoothing everything down. It reminded me of all the times Margot helped me get ready for a night out, all the times she smoothed my hair, coated mascara on my lashes. It was a gentle touch that oozed tenderness.
“Destelle,” she said, but the word was low.
“Stella,” I corrected her, and then tensed, because correcting Mom wasn’t a thing I did. She didn’t yell, though. She just blinked. “When…I wear the wig…I go by Stella.”
Dad stepped into the doorway then, slipping his hands into his dress pants pockets, crossbody case resting at his hip. “I’m home,” he told us gently, and I watched as his eyes roamed warily over me. They fell to the wig, of course, lingering there. “You look good with bangs, Destelle.”
“It’s Stella,” Mom corrected him, and even though she sounded a bit mocking, it still felt nice to hear her say it. Like a crushing weight had been rolled away.
“Stella.” Dad ventured into the room, his one hand falling to his bag. “I got an email today.”
I was sure Dad got a lot of emails today, but I couldn’t figure out which one would have to do with me.
Dad exchanged a look with Mom, one I couldn’t read. He pulled a piece of paper from his bag, a trifolded sheet, and offered it out to me. “I think you’ll like this one.”
I stared at the paper before accepting it. What on earth could possibly be on an email tohimthatIwould like? With a frown, I brushed the Stella hair back over my shoulder as I unfolded the edges.
And froze. Solid. Like a block of ice. I recognized the insignia in the top corner first, the name scripted in a scrawl I’d memorized.Ashton College.
Ashton. Yes, it was an online college, but it also was so much more. The name I’d associated with endless freedom, endless opportunities.
