“We’re having a sit-in protest at the college tomorrow, so we’re making signs tonight. And I’m the only one with a car to pick everyone up.”
“You don’t have a car. I do.”
“Whatever. Can I use it?”
“What are you protesting?”
“Why are you still yelling?” I interrupt, adding to the volume with my complaint.
“This doesn’t concern you, Aurora,” Helen yells to me.
I roll my eyes at the nickname she’s used for me since she went to her first female equality rally in high school. She claims I’m blind to female oppression and my sleepwalking is only exacerbating the problem by conforming to the submissive female stereotype. Like she can talk with her knockoff Dr. Martens and black-lined eyes. I always argue back that she tries so hard to be different, but she looks exactly like all of her other goth friends. Individuality has nothing to do with fashion.
It’s been an ongoing argument in our house since she refused to wear a bra freshman year, stating it was an article of clothing designed by a man to trap women in the most literal way possible. A tank top isn’t very supportive, or discreet, no matter how many she layers on. So I refuse to be seen with her in public.
I still haven’t forgiven her for when Christian Longfellow came to pick me up for Oaklawn’s junior prom—as a friend. I may attend Sherling High School, but the majority of my friends are in Oaklawn. Christian offered to take me, so I could be part of our group of friends’ prom weekend.
Right after Christian saw me for the first time in my blush slip dress, smiling appreciatively, Helen leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re destined to be a statistic, aren’t you?”
I was tempted to slap her, and I’m not a violent person, so that just accounts for how horrible she made me feel.
Thankfully, she lives upstairs in the converted attic apartment now that she’s “in college” at Sherling Technical Institute. I usually don’t have to listen to her go on about gender inequality. And how women will never be taken seriously as long as we’re slaves to fashions that men design. And that commercialism is another form of prostitution.
I can’t handle it. Mostly because I don’t believe it. I like looking pretty and wearing feminine clothes. I may not be able to buy the current trends from the mall stores like they do in the movies—or as my friends from Oaklawn do—but I’ve gotten pretty good at finding the hidden, unwanted gems at consignment shops. Some of the clothes I find still have the original tags on them, and even though they’re a season or two behind, with the right alterations and accessories, I could easily pass for an Oaklawn girl … if I wanted. It’s why I’m certain I’ll be voted Most Likely to Go Somewhere for our senior class superlatives.
Because I am.
But first, I need to get out of this house. I roll my suitcase into the living room where Helen is still standing within the doorframe, not committing to completely entering the apartment. Now that she’s moved out, it’s like she’s making a point to not come back. Even though she only lives up a flight of stairs.
“You’ll have to pick me up at seven when I get off in the morning,” my mother calls back, refusing to leave the dishes long enough to have a civil conversation in the same room as her daughter.
Helen grumbles something. “Fine.” She’s about to slam the door when she glances at me. Her lip curls up in a sneer of distaste. “Where are you going? Is there a Homemakers of America convention this weekend?”
I huff at her blatant objection of my pink pleated tweed skirt and floral satin blouse. I think I look cute with my knee-high socks and white patent leather Mary Janes. This is the last weekend I can wear them.
“I’m going to Nantucket with the Harrisons,” I reply dismissively. And my nose may have turned up ever so slightly at her reply.
“Of course you are. Pretending to fit into a world you don’t belong to, as usual.”
I scoff. “And what male-bashing riot are you participating in this time? Did someone hold a door open for you and completely offend you?”
“Enough,” my mother barks, wiping her hands on a towel as she walks in from the kitchen. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You girls can have and stand up for any damn life you want. No one here has to pretend to be anything. Just because you’re in college, it doesn’t mean you don’t have plenty to learn.” She shoots Helen a look, but before I can be too smug about it, my mother redirects her hard glare at me. “And if your sister wants to stand up for an injustice, regardless of what she believes in, then she has every right to do so. We don’t all believe in the chivalristic bullshit you do.”
I cross my arms and purse my lips, matching Helen’s scowl. I can see her fighting back whatever insult she feels I deserve. But we both know it’s useless once Mom intercedes. My sister and I could not be any more opposite if we tried. It’s amazing we grew up in the same house, only a year and a half apart. It feels more like we were raised on different planets.
“The Harrisons should be here any moment to pick you up. You might as well wait for them on the front porch. What time will you be back on Monday?”
“I’m not sure which ferry they booked, but they usually leave in the morning. So I should be back in the afternoon sometime.”
“Enjoy your weekend,” she says before walking back into the kitchen, “but don’t forget where you came from.”
Like I ever could.
But I know she’s not talking about privilege. She’s talking about the constant reminder not to trust anyone, especially men. My mother is extremely jaded when it comes to letting people get close to her. Ever since our father left her with three girls under four to run off to who knows where with someone older with nothing but the clothes on his back.
I’m not sure what bothers my mother the most—that the woman was ten years older than her or that she was as dirt poor as we are. It doesn’t make sense … unless he really loved her. And there’s no way my mother can ever be convinced of that. Instead, she thinks the woman lied to our father, convinced him she could give him something my mother couldn’t … like a son. Or a chance at wealth. Or … I don’t know exactly—this is usually where I start blanking out, not able to listen to her go on about how men are untrustworthy. To never believe a single word, especially if they tell you they love you. She makes love sound like it’s a weapon of mass destruction.
I’m sorry he hurt her. I really am. But not every man is like my father. And I honestly can’t be angry with him if he left for love. Love is the only thing we’re meant to experience in this life, and if he had to leave my mother to find it, I want that for him. It just stinks that we’ll never see him again because of my mother’s wrath. I refuse to believe he intended to leave his girls behind forever.
I half-carry and half-drag my suitcase down the stairs with Helen looking on silently from the landing, not offering to help. I’d never expect her to. And just as I roll it out onto the front steps, the Harrisons’ shiny silver Lexus SUV pulls into the driveway.
I smile brightly as the driver’s door opens, hoping the back door will as well. But I know Kaden’s not with them. He’s been on the island all week, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to come all this way just to sit with me on the ferry. But my heart still hopes.