When I come out of my room later for dinner, I’ve decided something. I need to tell my family what happened too. Not, like, exactly—but I want them to know. I want it to be out in the open, even if it means them looking at me like James did today.
So when Mom asks if there was something that upset me today, instead of saying no or shrugging it off, I just tell them.
“I told James about the whole thing with Amanda from last year,” I say. “And he pretty much defriended me. Just like Amanda did on Facebook. But she didn’t defriend Ethan.”
I’m not sure they’ll even know what I mean, but I can tell instantly that they want to try.
“Clem, what is it that really happened last year?” asks Dad.
I look up at him. His eyes are teacher eyes, the ones he gets around a student who’s in trouble. They’re understanding, but they’re also my father’s. How can I tell my father what I did? Do I even get what I did?
I look at Mom. She nods, the same question on her face.
Olive is staring down at her hot dog and beans.
“I sort of fell for Amanda’s boyfriend,” I say. “We just kept getting closer and closer.”
I tell them about the online chatting, the time we went to the movies, how we’d exchange glances at lunch and in history class. Dad even laughed when I told them about the Simpsons Civil War joke. He got it.
It was nice to tell them; it didn’t feel terrible like I thought it would. We all ate slowly while I talked, and I could picture us with our hot dogs, mustard at the corners of our lips. It felt okay, but when I got up to the part about the drive we took, my mind was racing with what to say.
“The day I got my license, Ethan and I went for a drive,” I say. “We ended up talking a lot, and almost …”
“Hooking up?” asks Dad.
“Not ‘hooking up,’ ” I say, embarrassed that Dad even used that term. It’s so weird to be telling your dad this. I don’t think if we were back home in Bishop Heights that I could ever tell him. “We didn’t do anything at all, except hold hands a little. But it felt like …”
“You felt like his girlfriend,” says Olive. I look down at her and see that she’s totally caught up in this story, my story, and she’s understood me perfectly. I want to hug her.
“Yeah. And when we got back to town and saw Amanda, she knew.” I drop my head and look at the table. All of our plates are empty, but no one has moved to pick them up. “She just knew,” I say again, quietly.
“What was it that she knew?” asks Mom.
“That we liked each other, I guess.” I don’t even know how to define it. “That we maybe wanted more.”
“So Amanda broke up with him?” asks Olive.
I shake my head no.
“I’ve seen this a lot,” says Mom, frowning. “The man gets forgiven while the woman wears a scarlet letter.”
Mom’s a lawyer, but she was an English major in college. She deals with tragedy through literature. It’s only sometimes helpful. Luckily, I’ve read that one.
“Call me Hester Prynne,” I say.
“Hester who?” asks Olive.
“She’s the main character in The Scarlet Letter, Livy,” says Dad. “She has an affair while she’s married and becomes an outcast.”
“But Clem’s not married,” says Olive.
“It’s not a perfect metaphor,” says Mom.
“Forget it, Olive,” I say. I glance down at the bun crumbs on my plate and wonder how to feel. What to do.
“I’m worried about next year,” I say. “I don’t really …” I pause for a minute. “I don’t really have any friends.”
A tear slips down my cheek, and the room is totally silent for a moment.
Then Dad clears his throat. “Clem, I know it looks very dark right now. But you don’t have to dwell on this. The heart wanders—it’s part of being young. You know who you are, and we know who you are.”
“I’m not sure I know who I am,” I say. Because it’s true. How can I have any idea who I am? All I have to go on are my past actions, and this thing that I did last year, it was terrible, even though it’s so hard to put my finger on.
“Want me to tell you?” asks Olive.
I look up at her, and I guess something in my eyes says yes, so she goes ahead.
“You are the big sister who braids me,” she says. I glance at her near dreads.
“I’m about to become the big sister who forcibly washes your hair,” I say.
She reaches up and touches her matted curls protectively.
“You can drive stick exceptionally well,” says Dad.
“You think so?” I ask.
“Without question,” he says.
“You love to read in the sun, just for fun,” says Mom.
I smile at her, though I’m about to get cheesy chills from the self-help session I feel starting up.
“You can tie the perfect knot for any given situation,” says Olive.
“You record your life in that journal,” says Mom. “You may write a book one day, if you want to.”
I raise my eyebrows. Mom the English major doesn’t give that kind of compliment lightly.
“You do the best Little Mermaid jumps,” says Olive.
“You listen to music that really means something to you,” says Dad.
I feel my stomach unclench a little bit. I let my shoulders relax. I think about the song that James gave me, “Clementine.” I take a deep breath.
“Are we making you cry yet?” asks Olive. Then she starts to giggle, and I reach over and squeeze her tight.