The Originals

Page 10

“We’re out of soda,” I say to Ella, my face in the refrigerator. She’s over near the pantry digging for after-dinner snacks, tossing out pretzels and granola bars and Pirate’s Booty. Betsey comes in wearing jammies, her hair pulled back and her face scrubbed clean: She always changes quickly after work.
“No way,” Bet says, walking over to check the fridge I’ve just vacated, which bugs me like a gnat charging my face.
“I just said there wasn’t any.”
Bet shuts the refrigerator door and rolls her eyes at me. “Sometimes you miss things.”
“Go get some!” Ella whines to anyone who will listen. “There’s no way I can stay up to finish my paper without a Diet.”
“You go get some,” Betsey says. “I just got home.”
They both look at me; I look down at myself. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt. I frown at them.
“But you’re still dressed,” Ella protests the protest that I didn’t even have to vocalize. “Just go to the Quick Mart. It’ll take like five seconds.”
“Get some ice cream, too,” Bet adds, smiling because she knows I’ll cave.
“Fine,” I say, sighing and leaving the room. I pull on the coat and grab the keys, then check the wallet. “There’s no money in here,” I shout from the entryway.
“Sorry!” Bet shouts back. “I bought dinner out. Go to the ATM.”
Wanting to go stalk Facebook instead of spending time driving around San Diego in search of diet soda and ice cream, I opt for thievery instead. I clomp into Mom’s first-floor office, then open the drawer where she keeps a small amount of money for emergencies in a pretty little box. It has a bunch of passwords written on a yellow sticky note taped to the outside. Real secure, Mom. I take forty dollars and close the lid and the drawer, then for some reason, I peek in the others.
There’s nothing inside but meticulously straightened office supplies, medical files for each of us, and a stack of bank statements from Wyoming. I know what they are—and why they’re from Wyoming, of all places—but something makes me reach out and grab the one on the top. I’m curious. But then Ella startles me with her shouts from the kitchen.
“Hurry up! I need fuel!”
I sigh loudly, then replace the statement and shut the open desk drawers. I flip off the light, leaving Mom’s office as I found it, minus two crisp twenty-dollar bills.
six
Loud voices in the kitchen wake me up earlier than usual on Saturday morning. I roll out of bed and leave my room to investigate; Ella’s in the hall with crazy hair and an even crazier expression.
“What’s going on?” she asks. I listen and hear that Mom and Betsey are in a heated discussion. Mom says something about dating, and I’m jolted into action, grabbing Ella’s hand and pulling her down the hallway and the stairs.
“—looks bad. It makes us look like a loser,” Bet says as we walk into the kitchen. She’s standing near the island in striped PJ bottoms and a faded T-shirt, arms folded defensively over her chest.
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Mom says, frowning from her seat at the table in the breakfast nook. She glances at me and Ella. “Good morning,” she says in a clipped tone.
“Morning,” we mutter in unison. Ella blocks the doorway, curious, but I shove her through and we start making breakfast. Ella gets two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee from the pot, then puts three sugars in each on autopilot. She hands me mine; I take a sip before busying myself with toast.
“Let’s discuss it some other time,” Mom says to Betsey. Betsey snorts.
“No,” Bet says, “let’s discuss it now. We’re seventeen years old! We should be allowed to date!”
“You’re sixteen,” Mom says.
“Sixteen and a half,” Bet mutters. “Actually sixteen and three quarters.”
“You’re asking if we can date?” Ella asks excitedly, getting it now.
“Yeah, but apparently, Mom thinks we still like My Little Pony more than boys or something,” Betsey says.
“Betsey, I’ve had enough of your attitude,” Mom says. “You know perfectly well why dating is a risk… to all of us.”
“Not if we’re careful,” I say evenly, knowing and trying to wordlessly remind Betsey that calm is a better approach with Mom. I lean against the counter in a disarming stance. “If we’re careful, hanging out with a guy is just like going to night class.”
“I think you’re too young,” Mom says again, but her voice is definitely softer this time. I can sense her walls weakening. Ella leans into the counter, too, and Bet sits down at the table with Mom, pulling her right leg up under her. They get it.
“We’re old enough to wait tables,” I say carefully.
“And drive,” Ella adds, her tone measured.
“And fly an airplane, at least as a student flier,” Bet jokes. We all look at her like she’s lost it. “What?” she says, laughing. “It looks fun!”
“I think the point we’re trying to make is that we’re growing up, Mom,” I say, looking her right in the brown eyes that I always felt I inherited despite being made from someone else’s DNA. “We’re not little girls anymore.”
My words hang in the air until Mom sighs them away. She stands up and moves some plates to the sink, not talking while she does it. It’s tense in the room, but I do my best to remain unruffled—I know it’s helping Betsey stay that way, too.
Finally, Mom speaks. “There would be several nonnegotiable conditions,” she says slowly. I don’t want to send her back to “no,” but silly Ella rushes over and hugs Mom’s shoulders. Mom hugs back for a moment, then gently pries Ella’s arms loose. “I haven’t agreed yet,” she says.
“Let her talk,” I say to Ella; she nods.
“What are the conditions?” Betsey asks, slouching lower into her chair and picking at a freezer waffle on a serving dish.
“Well,” Mom says, stalling like she’s making up rules on the fly. “The necklace must be worn at all times, as usual.”
We all agree; that’s a given.
“You’ll have a curfew of ten o’clock and—”
“Uh, Mom?” I interrupt. “That’s a little early, don’t you think?”
“Eighth graders stay out later than that,” Betsey says.
“Seriously,” Ella adds, and she does look pretty serious about it.
“Fine,” Mom says. “Eleven.”
I bite my cheek to keep from smiling like I’ve been asked to appear on a dancing reality show.
But then Mom’s eyes cloud over. “I’m not sure what to do about…” Her words trail off and she twists her face in that way that she does when she’s considering something. I want to ask what she means, but I’m afraid to say anything. “Everyone thinks there’s only one Elizabeth, so obviously you can only date one boy. I’m not sure how to make it fair.”
“Straws?” Betsey offers. “Like our rooms?”
“This is a little more important than bedroom assignments,” Mom says, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all just too complicated. Maybe you should wait another—”