Page 63 of The Rebel
“No Jade. Not yet.” It was as forceful and definitive as she’d ever spoken to me, the equivalent of a telling off.
“Well, when?” I was equally snippy.
Mom swung away from me, manically stacking pot upon pot. “You don’t understand,” she muttered.
“Well, tell me,” I shouted, pent up emotion releasing, though glad I was talking to her back and not face to face. “Tell me!”
“You won’t understand. The things they said,” she spluttered, her voice on the edge of cracking.
“What things?” I demanded. There were issues over the funeral service, I knew that. Petty things, the clothes he wore, the digital display, what food to serve at the post-funeral reception. Dad had already stipulated what he wanted, but still there were arguments. Uncle Stanley, Dad’s older brother, said grief did funny things to people and he was sure that the chaos would pass. But it was probably easy to say that when he was back in Arizona and didn’t live with it on a daily basis.
Because in all truth, I did miss Gramma and Pops, their regular visits. We went from seeing them basically daily to not at all. I hadn’t shared my student exchange experience with them, heck Pops would have loved to hear about the Manchester Citygame. But out of loyalty to Mom, I’d dropped all contact with them. Ollie and I had received birthday cards and generous gift vouchers but I’d been too afraid to even call them to say thanks. That’s how great my allegiance was to Mom.
But things needed to change. Because I couldn’t continue like this.
There was a closet full of my Dad’s clothes that she hadn’t gotten rid of and it killed me to know why.
“You won’t understand,” Mom repeated. She’d run out of pots to stack and shifted them along the counter, blocking me out, hiding her tears from me.
It broke my heart, because hurting Mom was the last thing I wanted to do. I begged again, “Mom, tell me what happened.”
“It’s not your business, Jade!” she shouted jamming her fists on the counter so forcefully that a terracotta pot crashed to the ground, splintering into a dozen pieces.
The right thing to do would be to clean it up, make sure she hadn’t been hurt by it, but her stubbornness was unbearable and I couldn’t be around her a minute longer.
“You’re right,” I screamed back. “It’s got nothing to do with me!” And I stormed out of the greenhouse, back into the house and grabbed my keys. I literally squealed out of the driveway, spinning my tires, something I didn’t realize I was capable of.
I had no destination, just a revving in my chest that was overwhelming. I’d hurt Mom, I’d made her cry, I brought up bad memories, I’dyelledat her—and yet I still didn’t know why she’d cut Gramma and Pops from our lives.
I drove around in circles, going through the neighborhood streets, wondering what I should do. Storming out was crazy, it was illogical and childish, yet at the same time there was a thrill of liberation about it. Was that how Valencia felt when she’d answered back Mrs. Fox, when she’d skipped detention—a kind of wild freedom.
Oh sure, later I’d have to face some consequences, apologize, own up to being a jerk, but for now...for now...
I found myself coming down from the top of Valencia’s street. My driving slowed. After the game, Valencia had gone home to feed Volley—of course— and she was going to keep him company and spend time on her art portfolio.
I drove past the entrance of her driveway, but in a reckless turnaround, I spun the truck around, illegally riding over the curb and almost taking out the Reid’s mailbox as I roared up her driveway, my foot way too heavy on the accelerator.
I left the engine running as I raced out and banged with my fist on the front door, even though there was a perfectly usable doorbell. I didn’t even have time to wipe my watery eyes when the door opened.
The first thing I noticed was that Valencia was still wearing my Man City jersey.
“Jade?”
I was still trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving, my eyes blurring, my hands shaking.
“Wanna go for a ride?” It came out squeaky, high pitched, like a soprano, a messed-up, deranged soprano.
Valencia didn’t say a word. She pointed behind her, dashed off and returned a few seconds later with her tote bag and phone.
I opened the passenger door for her and slammed it shut once she was seated. Then I walked around the back of my truck, giving myself a moment to swipe my eyes and cheeks and breathe in the fresh air.
I jumped in the driver’s seat, slowly pulling the seat belt across my chest, feeling her dark eyes watching me, tender, caring, patient. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead as I waited for my pounding heart to calm down.
Here I was in meltdown mode, and despite all my good friends who I could confide in—Weston and Lucy and Victoria—it was Valencia I’d chosen to come to, who got to witness me in this unstable, vulnerable state.
Her touch resonated through me like a gentle breeze, my whole body decompressing as the tension in my shoulders released and my fingers unclenched on the wheel. I tilted my head, seeing her hand resting on my knee. Yep, it was a simple act of comfort, but it meant the world to me.
And then she said, “I got you.”
