Lettie
It’s April 20, which means I’m now eighteen years old. I don’t feel like an adult, even though the law has deemed me one. I can legally vote, join the military, work full time, get a tattoo, and adopt a child. I’ve settled on doing only one of those things, at least come November.
Jay buys a scone at the local Starbucks, where we’ve met up to go over his progress tracking down Dylan’s blackmailer. He places it in front of me. He’s a croissant guy (still surprised by that), and me, I’m all about the scone. When he reaches into his pocket, I’m sure he’s going for his vape pen. To my surprise, he takes out a small candle. He spears the end of it into the scone.
“Happy birthday, Lettie,” he says. He’s got a lighter on him, and just like that, the candle flame is flickering, enticing me to blow it out. “Make a wish.”
I pause, then say, “I wish my parents would pay for me to take a gap year to travel.”
With a huff, out goes the flame.
“I think if you tell me your wish, it won’t come true,” Jay says.
“Shit. Good point. Do-over?”
“I only brought one candle,” he says.
I shrug it off.
“Where would you go, anyway?”
“Maybe Taiwan,” I say. “Feels like a safe place to experience geopolitical turmoil without putting myself in too much danger.”
“Solid,” Jay says.
“Then I’d go over to Australia, learn to scuba dive, see the Great Barrier Reef before climate change bleaches it out of existence.”
“Cheers to multinational corporations and uncaring, myopic, self-serving politicians.” Jay raises his drink in a toast. We tap paper cups.
“Hopefully, you’ll become a leading environmental scientist and help lead the charge to a brighter future. Speaking of, any word from USC?”
“Nope. Still waiting,” I say. “Doesn’t matter anyway. My father won’t let me go.”
“You’re eighteen, Lettie. Your father doesn’t control your life anymore.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “But I don’t want to be saddled with hundreds of thousands in loans to pay back. And he won’t pay if he thinks it’s a waste of money.”
“He has the money and he won’t give it to his daughter?” Jay sounds appalled.
“Something like that,” I say, though it’s exactly like that.
Jay shakes his head. “Your father may be more rigid and unyielding than mine.”
“What would you suggest I do? It’s not like I can write a check for that kind of money, and the loans will crush me.”
Jay leans in close. All the familiar triggers are still there—his swarthy good looks, that distinctive cologne (or maybe it’s his natural smell, can’t say for sure). His to-die-for smile sends a shiver through my body.
“Lettie,” he says in a low voice, “how are you going to save the world if you can’t stand up for yourself?”
I pull back because I don’t like how close he is to the truth. “You don’t know my dad,” I tell him. “He doesn’t give in when his mind is made up.”
Jay offers a crooked smile—a devious look if ever there was one. “Everyone has a weakness you can exploit,” he says. “Everyone.”
My mouth slips into a frown. “Jay, you worry me sometimes.” Then I think: What is my father’s weakness? Next thought: What’s mine?
It might be Jay.
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” he says. “You’ve been on a revenge kick for as long as I’ve known you. Isn’t that all about exploiting weaknesses?”
“Touché,” I say. “But I did have some encouragement.”
“Hey, did you ever get a grade on your revenge paper?” Jay asks.
“Yeah, just got it back,” I tell him. “I got an A.”
Jay claps.
“I changed my original premise from the biological and sociological benefits of revenge to a psychological analysis of the harm it causes. Basically, I just wrote my own story—names changed to protect the innocent—and then backed it up with quotes from pretty much every psychological study I found, all of which supported that claim. My teacher particularly liked my conclusion.”
“Which is?” Jay leans forward on his elbows, his eyes probing mine, keenly interested.
“Revenge might seem like a good idea,” I say, “but everyone gets hurt in the end.”
Jay’s eyes spark up, like he gets off on human misery. Meanwhile, I still get a sick feeling in my stomach any time I look in the mirror.
“It’s a two-edged sword. It cuts both ways,” he says.
“Yeah, a lesson learned the hard way,” I answer. “In the end, everyone did get hurt—everyone including me. Dylan tried to kill himself because of what I did. Riley’s a walking disaster, still in denial about her pill-popping habit, which, by the way, may have become worse because of the stress we’ve put her under. And she’s back with Umbrella Man, did I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t. But I’m not surprised,” Jay says. “Older men have a certain charm that’s … hard to resist.” He winks at me and I want to die. “Speaking of Riley, did she ever find her phone? Have you searched the woods around Dylan’s house?”
“Four times now,” I tell him. “And no luck.”
“Well, I’m sure it will turn up at some point.” He sounds quite certain, and I wonder why. “And at least you got an A on your paper. That’s a win.”
“I’ve been enduring bouts of guilt and general self-loathing for months. Definitely not worth the grade—that’s basically what I learned.”
“Hmm,” says Jay, as if to say I care too much. “Well, maybe we can still set one thing right.” He gives me a smile that’s almost tender. “If I can help Dylan find his blackmailer, perhaps that will make you feel a little better.” He fires up his laptop, starts typing like a man possessed.
Dylan allowed Jay access to all his computer files. But he’s been pushing off this investigation for a while—too busy building his mysterious billion-dollar app to give it much attention. I still don’t know what the blackmailer has on my cousin, and Dylan isn’t saying.
Jay runs a bunch of software programs that trace data packets. He does some other stuff that’s way too techy for me to comprehend.
“Whoever it is, this guy is good,” Jay says. I hear something like awe in his voice. He stares intently at his laptop screen while our lattes cool. He shows me a screen full of meaningless jargon, as if I need the visual to confirm his assessment.
“How do you know it’s a he?” I ask.
Jay raises his head. “Fair point,” he says. “They’re good, whoever it is.”
While Jay works, I look at my phone and see an alert. There’s a new message in my inbox. I switch over to email, have a look, and frown.
“What’s up?” Jay asks. “Everything okay?”
“Yes and no.” My throat closes up, tears threatening as I stare at my phone.
“What’s wrong?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
I ball up a napkin in a tight fist. “I just got into USC.”
I return from Starbucks to find the kitchen festooned with colorful balloons and streamers. There’s a big cake on the table, impaled by two candles representing the numbers 1 and 8. Zoe is barking up a storm, and I give her some much-appreciated attention. After an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” my parents and I dig into the cake (carrot, my favorite) and I notice something a bit odd.
Something’s been up with my mom for weeks, but I’ve been brushing it off. Biggest red flag is that she’s started talking to me—I mean really talking, awkwardly talking—about things like sex and birth control, making a point to tell me that I can come to her with anything, she’s there for me no matter what. One day she even got a little weepy and we had to hug it out. I reassured her that I loved her and everything was good between us. I guess that didn’t satisfy her, because she keeps engaging with me—asking if I want to get our nails done (um, I never want to get my nails done)—and she’s taking a real interest in my various causes. She bought all LED light bulbs for the house and then announced a major reduction in red meat because of the environmental impact.
Tonight I notice something else. Can’t believe I didn’t catch on to it sooner. Mom is celebrating my big day without any wine. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw her drinking.
I’m thinking about this while I’m pairing my birthday AirPods to my iPhone.
Mom interrupts just as I get the music to play in my ear. “Honey, can I talk to you?” she asks.
My dad is off on a walk with Zoe, and Mom and I sit down on the living room couch.
“Sure,” I say. “As long as we’re not going to have the birth control convo again. I’m good on that.”
Mom gives me a strained smile. “No, I actually want to talk about me.”
“Okay,” I say, a bit uneasy. I’m thinking, no more wine means cancer. My mom has cancer. She’s dying and she’s about to shatter my world. Oh my god.
My mom takes a big breath, holds it a second. My heart stops. I’m not ready for this. Whatever it is, I’ll never be ready.
“I want to tell you that I have a drinking problem, so I’ve decided to stop drinking and seek professional help.”
Phew, not cancer, and not exactly breaking news, but I’m relieved to hear her admit it and to know she’ll get some help. “Okay,” I say.
“Now, you may have questions—and I know you’ve brought up my drinking before.”
“I don’t have questions,” I say quickly.
“Well, you may,” Mom says in a way that implies I should come up with a question.
“Umm,” I say. “Okay … what now?” There. That’s a good one.
“Now I’m seeing a therapist,” Mom says.
“What about AA? Isn’t that how people quit?”
“Not always. I haven’t had a drink for a month now. It’s been going pretty well, better than I thought. I’m not saying it’s been easy or without temptation, but I’m doing okay. And I’m sorry for keeping this from you, but I didn’t want to tell you what was going on until I felt that I had a handle on it … though it’s not something you ever just get a handle on. And yes, I’ll go to AA if I need more support. Regardless, it’s a daily commitment, and I have to be mindful. I have to look at the reason why I was drinking so much.”
“And what’s the reason?”
I admit, now I’m curious. This is my mom, and we’ve never talked like this before—like friends, two people connecting outside the roles of mother and daughter.
Mom lets out a heavy sigh, tosses her head back in dramatic fashion. “I don’t know exactly,” she says. “Stress, I guess. Not to make excuses, but it just became too easy to relax with wine. Whether it was pressure at work or worrying about family, I started using wine as a crutch. When you start drinking to cope with life, that’s definitely when it’s a problem. I’m working on that now.
“Mandy Kumar referred me to a psychologist she knows, so I have a therapist who’s helping. Like I said, I may try AA, but I’m not quite sure if it’s for me. I’ll take this one step at a time.”
“I’m proud of you, Mom,” I manage to say, choking a bit on the words.
She gives me a hug, and then gets teary and, well, maybe I do, too—just a little.
After our embrace, I feel a heaviness of my own. Mom dropping that big old truth bomb shook me to my core. Her openness and honesty make my deceptions feel a whole lot worse. Some secrets are so heavy, they can bring you to your knees. I guess I’m done carrying this weight alone.
“Since we’re doing the heart-to-heart thing,” I begin, “there’s something I should probably tell you.”
Mom looks alarmed.
“Oh, Jesus, no, not that,” I say. “I’m not pregnant.”
She relaxes immediately.
“It’s about substance abuse—well, sort of.” And that’s when I blurt it out—a dam bursts, unleashing a waterfall of secrets.
I tell her about my revenge plot to get back at Riley for ratting me out as the school vandal; about following Riley to some rendezvous with an older guy, and the pictures Jay and I took as evidence.
“I changed my mind after the fact,” I tell Mom. “I knew if those pictures got out there, Dylan would end up being collateral damage.”
“I’m guessing Dylan found out,” Mom says.
I nod. “Jay sent them using an alias because he thought it would be better than Dylan being deceived.”
“Maybe he was right,” Mom says.
“But those pictures sent Dylan over the edge—and I feel responsible for it all.”
“What do you mean … all?”
Now I have to tell her about Riley’s pill habit, and how Dylan stole drugs from her at Teagan’s New Year’s party.
“I went to that party and got pretty drunk, too, trying to bond with Riley, stupidly thinking I could fix things between them.”
Mom needs the whole unvarnished truth. I tell her about how I’ve been helping Riley track down her bio-dad, and Monique and the Wookiee, thinking Mom would be shocked. She is, but not to the extent I was expecting.
“Lettie, oh my goodness,” Mom says, shaking her head. “That’s a lot—a lot you’ve been dealing with, and a lot you’ve been keeping from me.”
“Tell me about it—and for the record I’m not drinking, not seeking revenge, and I’m not taking drugs. But Riley’s still using, and she’s still seeing that older guy, too, and not dealing with her family stuff at all. At least Dylan is doing better now, and Jay and I are trying to help him out with something. But I still feel really guilty for my part in all this mess.”
Mom nods slowly. “I feel like I really let you down, Lettie,” she says. “I’ve been checked out, and maybe my drinking was keeping us from communicating better. I’m sorry you’ve been struggling and dealing with so much on your own—but revenge? Honey, you know better. That’s never the answer.”
“Are you going to say it’s like a double-edged sword? Because I’ve heard that already.”
“Well, it is,” Mom says. “And I’m glad you’re over and done with that. You should have talked to me instead of acting out.”
The truth stings.
“And just for the record,” Mom continues, “Willow told me Evan wasn’t Riley’s biological father, but I don’t think Evan knows.”
“Yeah, I’d second that assumption,” I say.
“What Riley is doing is very, very dangerous,” Mom adds. “We need to get her help—right away. We need to talk to Willow.”
“Agreed,” I say. Now I’m the rat, but at least I’m doing it for Riley’s own good. Of course that’s what Jay thought when he leaked the pictures to Dylan, and look how that turned out. I’m still hoping that finding the blackmailer will make amends.
We’ve both gone quiet, absorbing the magnitude of it all.
My face must betray my thoughts, because Mom asks, “Lettie, is that the whole story? You said you’re helping Jay with something involving Dylan. Is there something else going on that I should know about?”
I sigh. It comes out, like I’m vomiting the words. “Dylan’s being blackmailed for something he did—maybe something embarrassing that he doesn’t want anybody to see. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something really bad, and he stole Aunt Emily’s necklace to pay off the blackmailer.”
“What?” Mom’s mouth falls open. “Do you know if he took any money from her? Did he get into their bank account somehow?”
“No,” I say. “He couldn’t get any money—that’s why he stole the necklace. Dylan said the blackmailer made him so afraid, it’s one of the reasons he took the pills. Jay Kumar is trying to track down whoever is threatening him. Anyway, Dylan put the necklace back and he doesn’t plan to take anything else. He feels too guilty about it, and there’s some hope now that Jay can get him out of this mess.”
“Holy shit,” says Mom, who hardly ever curses. “Lettie, is this true?”
“No, Mom, I’m making it up,” I say. “Of course it’s true.”
“We need to go talk to Aunt Emily,” Mom says.
“Why?” I ask. “We can’t tell her about the necklace.”
“We have to tell her.”
“Why?”
“Because Dylan is fragile and if he’s being blackmailed, his mother needs to know.”