The Originals

In the midst of the conversation, I stand up and drop my full plate of pasta into the sink, then storm up to my room. No one stops me, and no one comes in the rest of the night.

Later, Sean unknowingly pours salt in the wound.

I think we should meet at halftime on Friday.

I stare at the Facebook instant message for a full minute, cycling through emotions. At first, I’m elated—he wants to meet up!—but then I’m heartbroken by the reality of my life. Nothing about this situation is even remotely fair. And although I should find some way to politely decline, I don’t. In this moment, it’s like I’m possessed by a regular girl: a girl whose mom doesn’t dictate who she dates.

Oh, you do, huh?

I see that he’s writing another message and wait nervously to read it.

Yep. I mean, you’ll be cheering; I’ll be taking pictures. Seems perfect.

It is, I message back, meaning it. It’s a great idea; in fact, it’s the best I’ve heard all week. I add a smiley-face icon, thankful that Sean can’t see my real face: red and blotchy from crying. Sighing a long, heavy sigh, I read:

So? You in?

I bite my lip, trying to think of an excuse. I know I can’t commit to this. Mom was clear: It’s Dave or no one. But beyond that, games are at night; Betsey would be the one to meet Sean. Agreeing to this is as pointless as wearing a raincoat in San Diego. But despite all that, the regular girl in me just wants to enjoy the moment.

I can’t force my fingers to go near the n or the o. Instead, I type:

Maybe.

eight

Mom’s leaving for work when I get home from school on Friday. We don’t usually see each other in the afternoons—which has been a blessing this week—but there’s no cheer practice since there’s a game tonight.

“I left chicken and rice in the fridge for supper,” she says when I walk into the kitchen.

“Why can’t you just say ‘dinner’ like normal people?” I ask, hearing the ridiculousness of my gripe. “And I hate chicken,” I add, which is among the most untrue statements ever uttered. But I’m still mad at her, and I’m boycotting chicken to prove it. Or at least I’m telling her I am; you never know what’ll happen when dinnertime rolls around.

Not wanting to see her stupid face, I go upstairs to my room and slam the door. I fall onto the bed and scream into the pillow. This week has been beyond annoying. Not only have I been tortured by seeing Sean and his wanting-to-hang-out self, but Ella wasted no time setting something up with Dave. They went out on a coffee date, and unfortunately, it went well.

At least I’m not the one who has to hang out with the guy.

Since even Mom was grossed out by the idea of three girls dating the same person at once—even if no one else knows we’re three—it was decided that Ella’s the one who’s going to actually do the dating. I mean, I still have to be polite to Dave at school, but Ella’s in charge of the rest. What that means—what’s making me hibernate in the caves of my pillow right now—is that all this was for nothing… at least from my perspective. Ultimately, Ella won big—getting closer to a life of her own—and I just flat-out lost.

I’m still lying facedown on my bed when Ella comes in a while later. She’s talking on the phone, and at first, I think she’s going to rub my nose in her “win.”

“Leave me alone,” I mutter into my pillow.

“Bet wants to talk to you,” she says, tapping me on the arm with the cordless. Glad that it’s Betsey, I reach out and take it.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Picking up my uniform from the dry cleaner,” Bet says. “Geez, you sound like crap.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m fine.” From the foot of my bed, Ella gives me a knowing look. “I’ll be fine,” I add.

“El said you told her that Sean asked you to meet at the game.”

“Yeah.” The phone is uncomfortably smashed into my cheek, but I don’t have the will to lift my head and ease my own pain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, and I can tell from her voice that she feels a little hurt that I didn’t share the story with her, too.

“Sorry.” Wow, I really do sound like crap.

“It’s okay,” Betsey says. “Let me talk to Ella again for a quick sec.” Glad to be off the hook, I hand Ella the phone, then drop my face back into the pillow. I listen to Ella’s end of the conversation.

“Hi.

“I know.

“I know.

“What do you mean?

“Are you being serious right now?

“Yes, of course, but…

“She might. And then we’d all be dead.

“I don’t know, B.

“Ugh… I just don’t know.

“Maybe.

“Okay, fine, she would.

“Fine. But if she gets pissed, I’m going to burn your Birkenstocks.”

Ella laughs and I can hear Betsey laughing on the other end of the line.

“Okay, sounds good. Don’t forget to check the stain on my blue shirt before you pay, okay?

“I know, but last time they didn’t—

“Betsey, just do it!”

She listens for a long moment and then sighs.

“I know, I know.

“Yeah, I’ll tell her.

“Okay, bye.”

Ella disconnects the phone and I feel it thump onto the middle of the bed. She doesn’t say anything for so long that I finally pull up my head and look at her. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest and she’s staring at me with pity and a plan in her eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You’re doing evening tonight,” she says, matter-of-fact.

I bolt up to sitting, eyes wide. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, but WHAT?” I say. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying… are you?”

“She… we… feel really badly that you’re not getting your shot with Sean,” Ella says softly. “We want you to have this one night. So yeah, I’m saying what you think I’m saying.”

My heart pounds hard and fast in my chest. “We’re doing a switch.”

We used to try to trick Mom a lot when we were little. I’d wear Betsey’s favorite T-shirt or Ella would ask for my favorite food for dinner, just to see if she’d be able to tell. She always saw through our makeshift disguises, but we loved it. It was a game, and every time we were called out, we’d launch into a giggle fit cubed, then start plotting our next attempt. But as we got older, particularly when we were made to live as one person, silly switches became less fun.

Nervous as I am about Mom finding out, tonight feels fun again.

I make my way to City Stadium in the dying daylight. At one point, on a particularly dark stretch of road, a passing car flashes its lights at me and I realize that my headlights are off. I flip them on, and driving becomes significantly easier.

When I arrive, I walk with my chin up like I know where I’m going through the lot, then head under the bleachers toward the field. I try not to make it obvious that I’m reading the signs; thankfully, there are many, and they are bold. I turn and make my way down a long tunnel behind several football players. I scan to confirm that none of them is David.