Chapter 3
After school I’m helping my mom make dinner when Ashley comes in the kitchen to say she’s going to the game with Steve and then to the Daily Planet. Normally, everybody goes to the diner after a big win, but Ashley isn’t the type to go to school functions. She claims she gets claustrophobic, but that doesn’t stop her from going to see weird indie bands she likes. I eye her suspiciously, wondering if she’s really going to some sketch concert at the Chance she doesn’t want my parents knowing about instead.
My mom looks up from the taco recipe I found on Pinterest while I slice onion for the guac. “Yes to the game, but Steve has to drive you back afterward.”
Ashley’s eyes blink rapidly underneath her heavy cat eyeliner and then she lets out a loud whine. “It’s not fair!”
My mom puts down her knife. “How’s this not fair?”
“Because you don’t need to do anything. Steve is going to drive me there and back. And besides…” She starts looking at me now. “Wasn’t Ella’s curfew like eleven?”
The way she said wasn’t in the past tense makes me frown. I’m still very much here in front of her face. But this is between her and my mom, so I’m not getting in the middle.
“Yes, but—” my mom starts.
“So mine should be eleven too,” Ashely interrupts, crossing her arms for effect. Ashley has been getting into more and more confrontations with her lately, so I’m not at all surprised, but my mom’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something but then shuts it again, pressing her lips together. Then she pulls her scrunchie tighter. It’s what she does when she’s about to cave and make a last-effort Monopoly deal during family game night. I guess she’s about to cave now too.
“Is anyone else going that I know?” my mom finally asks.
“Everyone is going,” Ashley insists. “You don’t need to worry at all.” She uncrosses her arms. “Please? I really want to be there.”
Her eyes start to glisten, like she’ll cry if she has to. I know the feeling all too well. There have been so many times I pleaded with my parents because missing something felt like the end of the world. I’m ready to hear my mom ask a follow-up question, but she turns to me, putting me right in the middle, which I’ve been trying to avoid.
“Are you going?”
I open my mouth, but Ashley beats me to it.
“Yes,” she answers for me.
I snap my head toward her, ready to argue, but when we lock eyes, hers say please do this for me. I’m begging you.
First Carmen and now her. They’re acting like tonight is life or death. It seems ridiculous to me now, but there was a time when this game would’ve meant the world to me too. One of the last basketball games of senior year. Celebrating afterward with the team at the diner, where we always got free milkshakes with our meals because the waitresses would say it was another taste of victory.
“Well, if Ella goes with you, you can go. I prefer that you two stick together in case of emergency.” Then she turns to me. “But only if you’re feeling up to it, sweetie.”
Ashley bites her tongue even though the look on her face says her thoughts are sizzling like the taco meat in the frying pan.
The thing is, you can’t tell my mom she’s being ridiculous or overprotective when she’s gone through what she has. I can’t even imagine how fast my mom’s heart dropped when the doctors called to say I was in the ICU. Or how she felt waking up my dad and sister so they could all drive to the hospital together.
Ashley can imagine it, though—she lived it.
That’s probably why she doesn’t have a tantrum right now. I don’t remember being so dramatic when I was her age, but Ashley is the queen of using emotional outbursts to get what she wants. She nods calmly now, though, and without another word, it’s settled: Ashley can go to the game and to the diner afterward…if I go.
We make it through dinner without talking about the game.
My dad is a science professor at Vassar College and my mom is a doctor with her own practice, so dinner is always full of interesting things to talk about. TV shows make it seem like family meal conversations are torturous, but ours are the complete opposite, especially after the accident. Now we make a point to come together for dinner. No phones. No distractions. Tonight, Ashley sets the table with our molcajete in the middle, filled with guacamole.
When my dad tells a funny story about one of his students, we all laugh, and my mom smiles at him, eyes glistening.
Not to be sappy, but whenever my mom looks at my dad like that, I know love is real.
They met back in college at the dining hall. My mom wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to him. He called her that same night, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. I know this because they love telling the story of how they first met. My mom remembers every detail, from the blue collared shirt my dad was wearing to the chocolate milkshake he was drinking with his fries. When asked the same question, my dad always says he’ll never forget one thing: my mom’s smile. He still has that napkin, so I guess you can say romantic hoarding runs in the family.