To pretend.
Toescape.
Dang these broken wings that I never stop beating, hoping one day—maybe just maybe—I’ll be able to fly.
After walking through the neighborhood from the bus stop, a chill races down my spine as my house comes into view. Mom’s car is in the driveway.
I swallow hard, making it to the sidewalk and the covered porch, trying to push away any thoughts of something being wrong. I’m just coming home from school. I haven’t done anythingwrongor out of the ordinary for a day that I don’t work.
But she isn’t supposed to be home so early.
Did she not tell me about a day off?
Is shestillbeing cold since our conversation two weeks ago?
I open the door and walk into unease that I swear is paranoia.
Except it isn’t.
Mom’s in the living room dead ahead, sitting on our old pale green and cream couch, waiting. Her gaze catches on me, and her brows furrows. “Calypso, come have a seat.”
My stomach tosses as I make my way over, taking a seat in the rocking chair across from her and planting my feet firmly on the ground so it won’t move. Mouth dry, I force my tone normal. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” Hard. The words are hard. “I got off work early today,” she starts, her gaze drifting. “About thirty minutes ago, I suppose. I went to Burger Blitz and was going to order lunch and surprise you when you started your shift, if you were working today. If not, I was going to order dinner to-go so you wouldn’t have to cook tonight.”
Dread wells up in my chest, my heart pounding in my ears. Everything is hot, and my mind races down every road possible to try and see where this is going and what I’m supposed to say afterwards, what shewantsfrom me.
All I know is thatshe knows.
“I talked with your boss, or youroldboss. He let me know you weren’t working today.” Expression motionless, Mom says, “He let me know you quit months ago.”
The knot in my stomach threatens to rise, and a cold tingle runs across my flushed skin.
I whisper, “Haven’t you been wanting me to quit for about that long? You’ve been worried about me doing too much.”
Her voice rises. “I’m not an idiot, Calypso! If you haven’t been working forthatlong, where is the money coming from? Why didn’t you tell me you quit, and what new job have you been hiding from me?”
I can’t hold her gaze. My “new job” is hardly a job, and if I tell her some guy at school offered it to me, she’d immediately think the worst. If I dare try to provide enough details to makeit “okay,” I’ll have to reveal everything about the play. And who knows if she’ll even believe me.
After all, Lex is insane. People don’tdowhat he has.
Our relationship is something even I can’t identify, and the terms of how he considers me—as an exotic creature for his amusement—won’t help anything.
Which is more important?
My relationship with writing, acting, and Lex?
Or my relationship with Mom?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I run my fingers through my hair, loosening my braids as I clutch my head until my nails bite into my skull.
I wanted to be an artist, once. Well, I wanted to beeverythingonce, really. Art was just what Mom had targeted the hardest. Agatha tried to take care of the rest when I hit high school. Art is what Mom managed to kill before I even had a chance to let it become anything.
In her narrative, I was simultaneously going to go to win awards for painting and starve because no one made money on art. The pressure she placed on me when I was no more than seven destroyed any shred of interest. And I’ve never gone back. Even when I silently pushed through for my love of writing and composing in the face of Agatha’s torment, I could never go back to what my mother had ripped away.
Agatha was a practical stranger, a brief back-stabbing friend. She could only clip my branches. Mom has access to my roots.
“Calypso!” she snaps. “Justtell me the truth.”
