Page 40 of The Rebel
I tried not to look horrified, but Valencia had somehow cast a magic spell over Mom, who was now fawning over her and allowing her to get off scot-free. Well, not allowing, but completely aiding and abetting! What next? Getting Valencia’s detention canceled?
Mom sent Oliver to knock on Valencia’s door after she’d called us to the table and we waited several minutes for her to turn up. I gave thanks to Mom for having Taco Tuesday on a Wednesday, while Valencia spoke directly to Mom and thanked her for her beautiful bedroom and comfy bed.
She excused herself after dinner, avoiding the cleaning up for the second time, saying she had lots of homework to do. We never saw her for the rest of the night, but Mom was satisfied that she’d missed detention unintentionally. Like she’d wrapped her round her little finger.
Chapter 11
JADE
I spent Study Hall writing up my speech for Monday’s assembly, collaborating with Hannah, who was going to speak on her experiences at Covington Prep. We decided we’d do it in tandem, comparing the differences from her German school and my English school. For her, coming to Cov Prep and having to wear a uniform was strange, whereas I was used to it, and in England a uniform was the norm.
As we compared the differences in food—in England school lunches were called school dinners, I was interrupted by a text from Mom:Talked to Mrs. H today, would you be able to bring Valencia home? Her detention will finish at 4:30.
And in her typical style, there was an ‘xoxo’ and a bunch of smiley emojis.
The soccer team had scheduled a practice session in the gym after school. We’d do fitness and drills, have a kick around and talk tactics. She texted back that she’d tell Valencia, because I still didn’t have her number.
I was unsure if she would meet me in the parking lot, but deciding to skip a shower so I wouldn’t be late, I wandered up to the art room. Through the open door, I could see Miss Creighton packing up her desk. I tapped lightly and poked my head in.
“Hi, Miss Creighton, is Valencia still here?”
“Hi Jade, how are you? No, she left a few minutes ago.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, turning to leave. But Miss Creighton wanted details on my exchange in London and to cut her short, I said I’d be presenting a speech in Monday’s assembly.
I hurried back down the hallway, wondering if Valencia had indeed gone to wait by my truck. As I strode out to the parkinglot, a bunch of cars were leaving, Weston in his Audi, Sawyer in his Mustang, but then I wasn’t sure if it was the blue SUV I saw first, or Valencia’s head in that blue SUV. But either way, there was no denying that she was driving the car, hermother’scar. It was in our driveway often enough and it’s personalized license plate was distinctive: 10IS MOMMA
Okay, this was a new development—Valencia was driving herself to school in her mom’s car. So, why had she lied and said her friend was giving her a ride. By the time, I’d gotten to my truck, Valencia was nowhere in sight. But I had a dilemma right in front of me—and what I didn’t like was that Valencia was lying to Mom. So, did I blab to Mom, or confront Valencia directly?
It wasn’t until I got home and saw the note about the lasagna in the oven that I remembered it was Mom’s trivia night. It was a monthly get together with her girlfriends. Usually Kristin Reid was part of it too. At the last outing there was talk about organizing their own Ladies Spring Break and having a long weekend away. I was all for it, but Mom was a little hesitant. Me, Oliver, work—she’d probably find a reason not to go.
Oliver had gone to camp over summer, but I’d stayed home and worked at Dymock’s Groceries. Mom had said I didn’t need to work, that we weren’t short of funds, but I’d liked the idea of working. And Una Dymock had been a good friend of Dad’s, so I’d jumped at the chance for a summer job.
I followed Mom’s instructions and turned on the oven and set the timer. And then it hit me that I was alone. Ollie would be dropped off by the Wheelers after his guitar lesson and Valencia would be feeding her cat. It was the ideal chance to check Mom’s closet.
Since sorting Valencia’s room, the sight of Dad’s clothes kept surfacing. Not an obsession, but a curiosity. A very strong curiosity. I dropped my school bag in my bedroom and padded down the hallway in stealth mode.
Mom’s room was at the end, opposite Ollie’s. Her door was open a fraction, and I gently pushed it, the act of snooping inducing an adrenaline rush, my heart racing as if I was about to break into the principal’s office for an exam paper. Gee, there could be a million and one reasons why I was in my mother’s bedroom, all legitimate, but it felt so wrong, like I was crossing a line. When all I wanted to do was look in her closet.
Dad had ignored the first signs of stomach cancer, deciding that the vague ache in his stomach was a sign of gluten intolerance or something. He experimented with eliminating different breads and changing his diet for months before finally getting it checked out.
Mom said it was her fault. She was a nurse for goodness sake, she should’ve recognized the symptoms. But Dad said that his cancer was no one’s fault. He didn’t fall into any of the high risk factors for the disease, other than being a male. He wasn’t old, obese or a smoker with a bad diet, and there was no family history. But he got it anyway. And whether Mom had made him go for a checkup a week or two weeks or a month earlier, in Dad’s case, it would have made little difference to the outcome.
Dad knew that; we all knew that.
Dad spent his final days in hospice care. He didn’t want to die at home, didn’t want us to live with those lingering memories, I guess. And I’m glad he didn’t. Walking the hallway, coming into this room would have felt weird.
I flinched and froze at the sound of a car in the street, waiting a good few seconds before moving again. Satisfied it wasn’t Mom coming home early, I hesitated before opening the closet door, wondering if my finger prints would be incriminating. But that was ridiculous. Even so, I pulled my training jersey sleeve over my wrist before grabbing the handle.
Stepping into the large walk-in closet, there were compartments of hanging space, drawers and shelving on eachside, with a mirror and a dressing table at the end where a number of perfume and lotion bottles were displayed. The slightly longer wall had been Mom’s, the shorter side, Dad’s. Now Mom’s clothes were stored on both sides, generously spaced, and one shoe rack was entirely empty. Mom had a lot of shoes and boots, but not that many. Dad’s jackets weren’t in view, but there was one section hidden behind a full length mirror door. Careful not to let my fingerprints smudge the mirror, I slid it open carefully. Mom’s evening gowns were in there, sparkly, sequinned, flowing dresses that she wore to Country Club events. I gasped as I pushed it fully open, revealing not only the coats that had been in Valencia’s room, but also two suits. My lungs struggled, the small space suddenly suffocating. So, okay, not only coats but his suits too? Why on earth would she keep those? My eyes scanned, and on the floor were Dad’s favorite two-toned calf leather shoes. When he’d got them for the Country Club Christmas Party, I’d stared in wonder, costing over a thousand dollars, but he was in love with them and declared them the most comfortable shoe in the world, like walking on clouds.
I’d never known Dad—or Mom—to be so extravagant, but thinking back, he probably knew it would be his last pair of shoes, his last Christmas. Maybe that’s why he splurged. I knelt down, picked them up and turned them over. They were like brand new, the heels barely worn.
Now, for some reason, I thought Dad had worn them in his coffin. The good thing about having a terminal illness—I say with tongue-in-cheek—is that you can prepare for your own funeral. Dad thought he was saving everyone stress by writing a list for his send-off, from the clothes he wore (his Manchester City jersey and jeans), to the readings and music played at his service. But still there had been dysfunction and friction with Dad’s family.
Anyway, I thought he’d been buried in his Thousand Dollar Shoes, but obviously not.
My fingers slid over the soft leather, my heart racing, a strong connection to Dad overwhelming me, his hazel eyes and sunken cheeks vivid in my mind. My throat bobbed, a lump making swallowing an effort, and outrageously, my eyes watered.
