Hopeful Undertone

Chapter 3: Two Bouquets

There had never really been a chance that Diane was going to let me go camping.

And yet over the next several days, I had managed to fully convince myself that it was possible. Even she had to feel bad about how pathetic my birthday had been, I reasoned, and getting me out of her hair for a few days had to be a nice bonus.

In other words, I had been delusional.

"That's not happening," she said, casually trimming a grocery-store bouquet.

"But it counts as community service," I ventured weakly, "and Lyla will be there. And Abram! You like Abram."

"I don't like how close you're getting with Abram," she murmured, arching an eyebrow.

To be called out for an awkward situationship that you never asked to be a part of in the first place was beyond annoying, but I tried to let it go.

"But I haven't seen my friends in two weeks," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "And my grades are good—I can print them out right now. And it's with a church, and it's not even a 'teen' event. It's for young kids and their parents."

"Why would they let you volunteer?" Diane asked, arranging the stems in a vase. "You need credentials for that sort of thing. What if somebody drowns on your watch?"

"I still have an active CPR certification from when I volunteered at the Y."

She paused and looked at me blankly, then went back to arranging her flowers, apparently unmoved by my rebuttal.

"Abram gave me forms to fill out for the background check. He said—"

I could tell I was losing her. I had probably never had her to begin with. This whole song-and-dance was just her way of toying with me, of making me feel incompetent. The truth was that she didn't need a reason to say no, and she knew it.

"—he said they could really use the help," I finished, defeated.

Diane leaned her elbows on the counter. "My answer is no, honey. I'm sorry."

She didn't look sorry at all. I stared at the wall behind her, a familiar prickle starting behind my eyes. Do not cry, I willed myself. Do NOT give her that satisfaction.

"Okay?" she asked in a gentle, syrupy voice. I could feel her watching me.

A range of possible responses flitted through my mind. I could tell her off. I could explain that I was now a legal adult—did she realize that?—and that my asking her had been a courtesy, one she clearly didn't deserve. I could make a forceful, evidence-backed argument that I deserved this break, that I was trustworthy, that I had never given her reason to doubt me.

I could break down and scream that it wasn't fair, that she was only denying me this for the same reason she denied me everything: because I was not her child—was not of her, was not even like her—and therefore, it was her greatest pleasure to make me miserable.

Just as quickly though, I played this scene out to its conclusion: My dad arriving home after dinner, barely able to throw his keys on the table before my stepmom started in with her lies and exaggerations. Her incessant harping would remind him that he had stumbled blearily into middle-age, that he was pouring every waking hour into a job where he was barely relevant, just to come home to petty disagreements and an unhappy second wife who would have nothing to complain about if it weren't for... me.

It wasn't worth it.

The final possibility, and the one I acted on, was the one in which I continued to stare at the wall, holding in my tears even though I knew she could see them, and said, "Okay" before walking to my room and gently closing (not slamming) the door, like the docile little lamb I was.