“You’re going to be grounded for a very long time, young
lady.” (And that’s different from the status quo…how?)
However, Mom says nothing. Only the ticking of the Frenchchef clock on the wall invades the silence. Each moment puts me more on guard. Then finally she releases a slow sigh. Okay,
here it comes.
“What’s going on, Cassandra?” Mom asks, her voice alarmingly gentle. “What’s happened to you this summer?”
I shift in my chair, choosing to pick at a small fleck of dried
milk on the table rather than look at her. She goes on, relentless.
“You seem lost. And it’s hard to watch. You’re so smart and
talented. You could have the whole world at your fingertips
if you focus. But you’re spinning your wheels. You say you
want to be a filmmaker, so I send you to directing camp.
When was the last time you made a film, Cass? Then there
were acting lessons.
“Then you told me you wanted to paint. I gave you private
art instructions for six months, and I haven’t seen you so much
as pick up a brush all summer. And I suppose I wouldn’t mind,
if you’d been off making new friends and having fun. But you
haven’t done anything this summer. Nothing but become angry
and reckless. What’s happening to you, Cass?”
Heat pulses to my face. I dig harder at the fleck on the table.
“You need to find yourself, young lady. You’re going to be a
senior in the fall. It’s time to learn who you are and what you
want out of life.”
Frank sets a hand on my arm. “We’re here for you, kiddo. We
just want to help.”
I don’t look up. Can’t look up. I feel exposed. Yelling,
punishments—those I can handle. But this? It needs to end
right now.
I sit back in my chair with a “ho-hum” shrug. “What can
I say, Mom? I guess I’m going through an adolescent phase.
Puberty. Hormones. That kind of thing. “
“Cassandra.”
“I know,” I say, holding up my hands as I stand. “I know.
I’m grounded.”
“Cassandra.”
I back toward the door, to my room. To safety. “Grounded
for life. Got it. I guess it’s time to take up harmonica and start
scratching a tally of days on my bedpost.”
Mom calls my name again sharply, but I’ve turned for the
hallway. I run up to my room and slam the door.
h
The Battle of the Dining Room Table isn’t over. Both sides have merely regrouped at their respective camps. Mom’s next offensive comes via Frank, shortly after dinner. He knocks on my door to cheerfully inform me that Mom says I’m allowed to go to the party tonight.
“Allowed to go.” Clever wording, since she knows that being barred in my room all night would be infinitely more enjoyable than going to that party. Getting all dressed up in a white eyelet-lace dress and floral scarf. Playing the role of pretty daughter for the guests. Nodding and smiling my way through a dozen dull conversations. Well played, Mother. Well played.
h
Slumped in the wicker deck chair that night, I glare at Mom as she chats with the other guests. Another mind-numbing party.
Rich, middle-aged people grasping desperately at the final
threads of youth, blabbing, and drinking cabernet sauvignon.
Frank pulls the cork off another bottle, laughing at what was most certainly a lame joke. With as much money as these
people have, they’re shockingly dull. The only person I care
to spend any time with is Travis, but his parents are here with
him, and even though he got off scot-free last night, their piercing glares warn me not to move any closer.
So I stay in my chair, drinking a Sprite and watching a moth swirl around the white Chinese lanterns that have been strung
out over the deck.
At ten o’clock, Mom gives me a nod. My time has been
served. I contemplate going inside to my room, but since I’ll
be cooped up there for the next few days while I’m grounded,