Ten of Me ✓

Twenty-Nine

NICOLE

I drove way too quickly on the way home, my foot pressed firmly against the gas pedal and my hands gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Mom hadn't texted me against since I replied and told her I was on my way, and worry was making me sick. When I was forced to stop at a red light and glanced into the passenger seat, I remembered Morgan sitting there, and surprised myself by beginning to feel tears leaking out of my eyes.

Once I'd pulled up into my driveway, slamming on the breaks of my car right in front of the garage door, I grabbed the shopping bag from the pharmacy and ran up to the front porch steps. Purchasing the shampoos and conditioners earlier that day seemed ridiculous now: I'd dyed my hair, contoured my face a little, put on color contacts and convinced myself I was a new person. What kind of fantasy had I tricked myself into, thinking I could turn into someone else as if my mother and a magic wand?

I twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the front door to see both of my parents in the foyer as far away from each other as they could manage, their arms crossed. Dad was seated on our red couch, reclining against a plush pillow as he stared up at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. My mother, all the way across the large room, was leaning against a white column near the door. Her eyes were red and bloodshot with hastily wiped-away tears.

"Where's Nicholas?" I asked, because my little brother was the first thing that popped into my head when I saw both of my parents before me in obvious distress and the little seven-year-old out of sight.

Mom ran her hands through her blonde-to-purple hair. "He's okay," she said softly. Her voice shook and she swallowed noisily, as if trying to gulp back more sobs. "He's at soccer practice right now."

I'd almost forgotten that Mom had enrolled him in soccer practice after school a few days ago to try and get him to spend less time in our broken home, playing with his toy cars as he listened to my parents' fiery arguments downstairs in the kitchen.

"Okay," I said slowly, shutting the door behind me and kicking off my shoes, "So what's wrong?"

Mom exhaled, a slow rush of air that seemed to be preparing her for something, but before she could say a word Dad interrupted. "You've changed again," he said.

I pressed myself against the door, not sure what to say.

"I thought you'd learned your lesson when you turned into that silver-haired girl and then got your heart broken by your player boyfriend."

His mention of Noah made my head throb, and I shut my eyes tightly against the memories of what had happened as Lindsay. My transformation today had been another escape, and again, it had failed. Instead of feeling free, I'd been faced with my best friend in a total wreck and with a boy I cared about confused, half of the truth laid out for him and the other half still concealed.

"She doesn't need to hear that right now," said Mom carefully, her words running together as if she'd said that sentence in one enormous breath. She reached up to wipe her eyes again and I saw another glistening tear sliding down her cheek. "She needs to hear the truth."

I started to ask her what she was talking about, but Dad interrupted again. "You need to stop defending her!" he exclaimed, standing up from the couch. "She's her own person. She doesn't need you constantly stepping in on her behalf, and she needs to accept that she can't always go around running away from her problems."

"I know that!" shot back Mom. She wasn't leaning against the column anymore, either; her stance was rigid and she was glaring at Dad with something that broke my heart: loathing. How had these two people ever loved each other, ever cared for each other enough to get married? What had happened?