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It was weird to be in a sort of limbo, not knowing whether I still had a boyfriend or not. Harry hadn’t called, hadn’t texted—then again, I hadn’t either. We were giving each other radio silence.
On Sunday night, after a full twenty-four hours without speaking to him, I turned my phone into Mom an hour before curfew. The temptation to sit by my cell and stare obsessively was too hard to fight.
Granted, Mom was all too eager about that. When we’d gotten home from the country club Saturday night, my parents had gone on the offense.
“I mean,really, Destelle.” Mom had scoffed, unbuttoning her jacket with flourish once we stepped over the threshold. “He has a tattoo! On hisneck! You don’t see any of the other men at the country clubs with neck tattoos, do you? Of course not. They’re not professional.”
“I don’t love that you kept him a secret from us,” Dad had added. “Why would you do that?”
“Because she wants a taste of the dark side,” Mom had told him. “What’s next, you’re going to dye your hair and start wearing ripped jeans too?”
If she only knew.
And then, of course, she had to add, “I get it, Destelle. Bad boys seem interesting. But your father and I have seen enough of them to know they’re nothing but trouble.”
“Just because he’s in a band doesn’t make him a bad boy,” I’d said, reaching my boiling point.
Jamie had helpfully added, “No, the tattoos help.”
We’d all turned to my brother, who looked at us with bored eyes. Nellie had already hurried upstairs to her room by that point, too chicken to be around any sort of conflict. I didn’t blame her.
I’d never have talked back to my parents before, but Stella had given me as much freedom as she could. When it was time to take the wig off, I’d never thought twice about trying to push the envelope with Mom and Dad. Lately, though, Stella and Destelle seemed to merge, their thoughts jumbling together more often than not. It made me feel that maybe, just maybe, I could be both Stella and Destelle at the same time.
At least, I felt that waybeforeHarry said what he did.
I should’ve messaged first. I thought about it to an almost obsessive level—thinking abouthim. What had gone wrong? What set him off? Was it the appearance of my parents? Did seeing them in all their elegant glory freak him out?
I should’ve messaged first or called him, but I chickened out. I’d rather wait in this limbo than have any concrete decisions.
Just as obsessively, I stalked Untapped Potential’s social media page, but they reposted old content or simply lyrics to their songs. No hidden depth or meaning. Nothing to give me any insight.
So when Monday afternoon rolled around and I still had zero messages, I started to worry.
“Destelle!” Nellie called, her shrill voice snapping me from the spiral of self-pity. She stood in front of the changing room at one of her favorite clothing stores. She had on a pair of stretchy floral leggings and a plaid top, one with ruffles down her chest. “What do you think?”
I tried to keep my expression neutral as I eyed the crazy combination. “Are you sure those prints go together?”
“Of course they don’t,” she said with an eye roll, coming closer. “I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone instead of trying them on separately. S-E-P-E-R-A-T-E-L-Y. What do you think of them on their own?”
“I think they look cute,” I said, and then paused. “You spelled that wrong.”
The look of horror that washed over my little sister’s face was almost laughable. “What?”
“You spelled it with an e, but it’s an a. S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E-L-Y.”
Nellie came closer, a tiny crease taking space between her eyebrows. This time, it was almost impossible to hold back a chuckle. “Don’t tell Mom.”
Okay,thatwiped away my humor. “Why not?”
“I don’t want her knowing I messed up.” Nellie looked down at her floral pants, running a finger along the faux front pocket. “I don’t want her disappointed in me.”
I never thought about Jamie and Nellie facing the same insecurities as me. But here she was, worrying about what our parents thought. Just like I did. “Do youlikespelling things out, Nellie?”
“Of course I do,” she answered easily, as if the question were stupid. “I only want Mom to think I’m good at it. I’m getting better, too. I practice all the time so I don’t mess up.” Her eyelashes fluttered as she made a face. “I knew separately had two a’s.”
They were playing some kid station over the radio, and a high-pitched pop song filled the silence between us for a moment. Far cry from the stuff Harry and I used to listen to.Sigh.
“Listen,” I started, shifting to the front of my seat. “Be yourself, okay? Always. Messing up is okay. If Mom seriously thinks any less of you for it, she can—” I broke off at Nellie’s wide eyes, letting out a sharp sigh.
