Phoebe
I’m still thinking about the videos when I wake up the next morning and stagger downstairs for breakfast.
Bo’s already sitting at the dining room table, shoveling sugar-drenched Cheerios into his mouth. I almost ask him about Sofía, but I can’t think of a way to bring it up without being morbid.
“What?” Bo asks, his mouth full.
“Nothing,” I say, looking away and grabbing the box of cereal.
Bo’s spoon clatters on the table, and he scoots his chair back, ready to leave. The sweet dregs of his sugary milk are still on the bottom of the bowl. I will never understand how he can possibly skip the best part, but Bo never finishes the milk.
Rather than leaving as soon as he stands, though, Bo stares at me and then sits back down.
“Hey,” he says.
I look up at him, instantly on edge.
“I just . . . are you like me?” he asks.
“What?”
“Are you, you know”—he pauses—“like me?”
I shake my head silently. No. I’m not like Bo. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Bo went to Berkshire Academy, it’s that mental issues are hard to diagnose, harder to treat. There’s a lot of trial and error. There’s a lot of hoping that this drug balances out this chemical in the brain or that this symptom being reduced makes up for this side effect. There’s not a lot of clarity when there’s something wrong with your mind. But at least when there’s not something wrong, that’s pretty clear too.
Bo’s shoulders sort of sag with relief when I tell him there’s nothing wrong with me, and my heart clenches. I’ve wondered before if Bo resents me for being “normal,” but now I see that beneath whatever jealousy he might experience, there’s also worry.
For the first time, I feel like Bo really cares about me. He’s been nice to me before, of course, but it’s not like he was ever my defender at school or on the bus. He let me fight my own fights. I’ve seen Rosemarie tackle a kid who was calling her brother gay, but Bo never did anything like that for me. Then again, to be fair, I worked hard to make sure I was never in a position to need help. I never wanted to test whether or not I would get it.
I thought he didn’t care about me.
But now it seems like he does care, at least when it matters. Maybe he’s cared all along. He’s just shown it in ways that I haven’t seen.
Bo plays on his phone while I eat my cereal, but when I start to stand up and leave, he drops his phone on the table. I look at him, surprised at his sudden movement.
“So, uh,” he says awkwardly. “How ’bout them Patriots?”
I laugh. “I think they have a real shot at the Bowl next year, Dad,” I say sarcastically.
Bo shrugs, smiling at me. “I dunno,” he says. “Just—how are things?”
Even though I can tell Bo’s trying to keep it light, this whole conversation feels weird. I shift my empty cereal bowl from one hand to the other. “I don’t know,” I say.
“What’re you gonna do after college?”
I lift one shoulder up. How many different ways can I tell people, I don’t know?
“I mean, you don’t have to go to college,” he adds. “You could just, you know, leave. Backpack in Europe or camp across America or sit out in the woods and paint or something.”
I cock up an eyebrow at him. That’s new. Everyone’s asking me what I want to do in the future, but what they really mean is which college, which major, which career.
I sit back down. “It’s not as simple as that, though, is it?” I say.
“Why not?”
Because I’m me and you’re you, I want to say. Because you get to have the unknown. That’s why everyone keeps asking me what I’m going to do when I graduate—because they want some level of certainty with at least one of us. No one knows what Bo’s going to do, but everyone knows what my future holds, even if I keep pretending like I have a choice. A nice, respectable, in-state college; a reasonable major that will lead to a career with a salary and a 401(k) and a savings account; a retirement plan. I’m two years younger than Bo, and all I know is that whatever my future entails, there’ll be a retirement plan.
“Listen,” Bo says seriously. “You can do anything you want. You really can. You can start a company or get a doctorate or hitchhike to Wyoming.”
“Why would I want to go to Wyoming?”
“I don’t know,” Bo says. “I really don’t think you should go there. And, um, I want to talk to you if you ever decide to hitchhike. Seriously. But if you do it anyway, just know that it’ll be okay.”
I squint at him. He’s really not making any sense.
“All I’m saying is, your future is full of possibilities.” Bo looks me straight in the eyes. “Trust me, I know.”
I snort. “You don’t,” I say, my voice full of defeat. “Because you know what I really want?”
Bo looks at me, waiting.
“I want the freedom to mess up,” I say. Just once, I want to be the one who’s allowed to screw up. I want the freedom to choose. Right now, I have no choice. I have to be this way. But one day, I’ll be free. I’ll be able to live my life without having to be perfect. I’ll be able to do anything I want—or nothing at all. I’ll wander around aimlessly. I’ll make mistakes. I won’t worry about being safe, being perfect.
I won’t worry about disappointing my parents.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Because being free? That comes at a price I don’t think my parents can pay.