“Nichole,” Dad begins, because he believes in her mask. He doesn’t see the side of me she tried to warn Mrs. Whitman about, and he doesn’t know I take after his wife. He honestly thinks they’re a team, that sometimes it’s his turn to manage things, and this is one of those times.
“I told her it was delicate.” She’s talking to Dad like in her irritation she’s forgotten I can hear her. Like they’re so used to having the place to themselves that maybe she doesn’t remember I’m here . . . or else that’s just how she wants me to feel.
“I’m sure she thought she was helping.”
“She always thinks she’s helping, Ben.”
I start, my eyebrows cinching like a reflex before immediately relaxing. I’ve never heard my mom speak poorly of Cherish’s mom, or either of the Whitmans. To hear her tell it, Brianne is the most remarkably aware and surprisingly informed white person she knows, not to mention one of her absolute closest friends.
Is this perturbed outburst as unscripted as it seems, or is this for my benefit? Maybe this is just act two, and after trying to poison Mrs. Whitman against me, she’s trying from the other end. Which begs the question: What is her goal? Is her first priority besting me, winning advantage in our ongoing tug-of-war, or is this moment just about recovering in front of my dad?
“Mrs. Whitman didn’t say anything to me,” I say, gathering their gazes with my interjection. I make sure my dad is paying attention when I tell her, “I overheard you in Cherish’s room.”
One of her shoulders slips.
“Oh.”
It’s a satisfying turnabout: stumping my mother, and learning something else about Brianne Whitman. She didn’t just keep my mom’s confidence; she clearly kept mine, too. She could’ve given my parents a heads-up that I’d heard the conversation, but she didn’t. The only thing she did last night was give me a present of my own after celebrating her daughter’s birthday.
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you myself, Fair,” my dad says, rubbing his wife’s back so I don’t forget it’s her side he’s really on. “But the job opportunity actually happened a lot more quickly than that. One minute I was contacted by a headhunter, and less than a week later, I was flown out to start the onboarding process.”
His answer lacks texture. There wouldn’t be enough detail to convince me if it were anyone but my dad speaking, but I’m accustomed to the uncomplicated honesty of Ben Turner, and it sounds consistent.
“Frankly, I was a little shocked by the package. It’d take me another five years here to get what they’re offering. And under the circumstances . . .” And then he stops. “I’m sorry, Farrah. I couldn’t stop what happened with the house, and we didn’t want to tell you that. I didn’t.”
There it is.
They didn’t want to tell me.
There was something about telling me that would’ve been difficult for them. Something about the way I’d react, as though I wouldn’t understand. Or couldn’t, is what he’s implying, as he stupidly tries to take credit. It was my mother I warned, who knew it had to be done, but with my dad claiming the blame, their failure recasts me as that foolish teen who didn’t know what she was asking.
Can’t you just move a few things around for a while?
My face goes hot.
This is worse than my mother ignoring my warning, and she must know it. This mischaracterization is humiliating because I’m the one who said those words, but they’re being used beyond my intention. It’s not unreasonable that I didn’t know the difference between our situation and everyone else’s. I didn’t realize my family doesn’t have magically robust reserves, that there’s no extended family to give my parents what they needed or else to give my mom a new position with a salary to match her old one. I didn’t realize those were privileges that didn’t come with everything else we had. Now my innocent question is supposed to mean I was also unreasonable for being unable to imagine a world where other people may have what they require, but not me. All the years they told me I was just as capable and intelligent and deserving as everyone else at the academy, I should’ve known those were platitudes. That privilege dictates the demands of others are met; that is permitted. Only my demands are worrisome. That I am demanding is cause for concern.
“I could’ve dragged it out longer,” my dad is saying, like two weeks is anywhere approaching long. “But, honey, we just would’ve ended up in an even worse position, that’s all.”
Ben Turner is oblivious. Like Cherish, his presence on the board never makes him aware of the game.
It’s my turn now, and I don’t plan to be any more merciful than my parents have been to me.
Clenching my jaw to fight back tears isn’t complicated, but it is observable and people like my dad never doubt it.
It’s about control; it always is. Not opting for hysterics when restraint will convince. So I say nothing while my dad explains all the things he couldn’t have changed, implying all the ways it’s my fault he had to consider trying while I look like I’m trying with all my might to stay strong. Like they’ve given me reason to think that’s required of me now. Which makes it even more heartbreaking to watch when it doesn’t work. When I just can’t. Tears start slipping down my face, and my parents immediately part to come around opposite ends of the island and console me, or at least to hold me between them.
“I didn’t let you stay with the Whitmans to keep you in the dark, Fair,” Dad says after he kisses my forehead.
“We let you stay because we thought it’s what you’d prefer,” Mom says, but if she’s trying to direct her husband, trying to conclude the explanation so that I have less material to manipulate in my reply, he doesn’t get it.
“I was hoping renting this place would be a very temporary situation,” he says, unintentionally diverging from his wife’s message. “And I didn’t want you to have to go through it twice.”
I don’t say that I didn’t go through it the first time, either. I didn’t pack up my room, or help load a truck, in the first place. I packed for Cherish’s house, and after a nice dinner during which I was genuinely confused by how relaxed they seemed to be, my parents went back to my childhood home and dismantled it all themselves.
“I know it doesn’t look that way, but this move is a good thing,” Dad says. “I know it’s not what any of us had planned, but it might be better. After your mom’s layoff, we know it’s not the same thing as security; we know we made mistakes, that we can’t live right up to the edge of our means, that we can’t afford not to save much more than we did. But it’s not a lesson we need to learn more than once, I can promise you that.”