Page 49 of The Rebel
“Wha—? What? How do you know that?” I asked in halting disbelief.
“He’s from Burkina Faso,” Mom said with a glint in her eye. “I wasn’t married to Dad for nineteen years without learning something about soccer.”
“Who was Dad’s favorite player?” I fired the question like a pop test.
“Sergio Agüero,” Mom said smoothly. “The Argentinian striker.”
I frowned, not sure if Mom really knew that or had remembered his name from washing and folding Dad’s many soccer shirts.
“He scored 260 goals for Man City,” she said breezily, “Am I right?”
I gaped, eyes wide, nodding in shock. How did I not know this about Mom? Oh, she had a Man City jersey—because Dad made it compulsory to wear one when we watched a game together, and I’d brought her a Man City scarf from my trip because that seemed like a souvenir she might wear in winter.
A frantic conversation ensued with Mom spouting Man City facts like a Mastermind contestant. Since Dad’s death, she’d continued to watch the games but I suspected she was trying to fill in for Dad not being here.
“I’m amazed,” I said, totally overwhelmed to know she was a true fan.
“Well, Dad’s passion was contagious. I couldn’t help it.”
“But you never acted like it.”
“I know, I just tagged along. And in the beginning I was just a fan by default. But I came to love the team and especially loved seeing you and Dad and Ollie getting all excited for games.”
“You should’ve come to England with me, then,” I said, remembering how originally there had been suggestions that Mom and Ollie fly with me to England for a short vacation before I started my school exchange. But in the end it didn’t happen. “You were so keen for me to go and see a live game, but you would’ve loved it too. And Ollie.”
“One day,” Mom said. “One day, we’ll all go. It’s on my bucket list, for sure. But I think you needed that trip for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing she was hinting at something a little deeper.
Mom’s lips pressed and her throat bobbed. My heart skipped a beat as her eyes misted. “We’d been through a lot,” she said, wringing her hands on her lap, “you’dbeen through a lot. You took on a bunch of responsibility while Dad was sick. You really stepped up and I love you for it. You were my rock.”
From nowhere, my eyes were welling and dangerously close to leaking tears down my cheeks. I blinked rapidly to try to stop the flow.
“You still are,” Mom said, catching her own tears with a tissue.
My chin trembled, an action that is apparently impossible to stop. I sniffed, I rubbed my eyes, I dropped my head. What was going on? Mom shouldn’t be getting all cut up and grieving anymore. She was the strong one,shewas the rock of this family, the one who kept us going. She made us carry on, one day at a time, follow our dreams, fulfil Dad’s wishes.
“Mom?” I shifted along the couch to be next to her, tentatively placing my hand on her shoulder. I didn’t want this to be happening, didn’t want to see Mom having a meltdown, didn’t want her to be crying and struggling and not in control. Because that was a parent’s job—to be in control, taking charge. “Mom, are you okay?”
Mom sucked up a sniffle and blew out a calming breath, dabbing at the skin beneath her eyes like she was worried about ruining her makeup. “Ahhh” she sighed, smiling reassuringly. “It’s just been a long day. I’m okay.”
I rested my head on her shoulder. No matter that I was too tall and too heavy to lean against her, but she wrapped her arm around me, her fingers threading through my hair.
“You needed to go away as much as I needed to let you go. You’re an angel, Jade,” Mom whispered. “But you still need to be a kid for a little bit longer.” She chuckled, “This year, at least. Be a kid. Senior year should be fun. Make sure you have fun, Jade.”
“I don’t get it,” I murmured in confusion, wondering if she’d had more than one glass of wine at trivia night.
“You had to grow up fast. Too fast. I hoped that by going away you could take a break. Unwind from everything. And I needed to prove to myself that I could stand on my own two feet, without you.”
“But you don’t have to stand on your own. I’ll always be here for you,” I said, repeating a promise I’d made to Dad:Live your own life, but all I ask it that you please watch out for your mother and your brother. I won’t be able to, so I’m trusting you will.
“You know I will, Dad,” I’d said. “Goes without saying.”
That’s why I’d resisted going to England, stressed over leaving Mom and Ollie behind. Especially when nothing had resolved between Mom and Gramma and Pops. Mom quoted every last legacy of Dad’s, reaching for the stars, dreaming big, living life to its fullest, practically guilted me into going.
“I know, sweetie,” Mom said, her lips pressing lightly on the top of my head. “But I worry that—,”
“You don’t need to worry,” I cut in. “And I’m having fun, okay?” Though tonight certainly hadn’t been fun, not with Valencia and Ollie’s antics. I was glad I hadn’t told Momthe truth—she didn’t need the stress, because though she was making out everything was sweet and she was in control, I had an inkling it was far from the truth. “And Mom?” My pause was deliberate, a frantic debate in my head on whether I bring it up, because I knew she’d likely freeze me out, but I had to try. “Mom...you know Gramma and Pops are there for you?”
