Page 5 of The Rebel of Raleigh High
2
SILVER
For the most hatedgirl at school, my home life is surprisingly normal. My parents are still together—increasingly rare—and I have a younger brother, who interferes in my shit twenty-four seven, as little brothers like to do. Mom works at a local accounting firm, and Dad is an architectural engineer. We have some money. Not a lot, but enough. We live in a good neighborhood. Our house is a beautiful old Colonial with a wraparound porch and painted blue shutters. Every Sunday, we visit my grandmother at the Regency Park Retirement Community, and she feeds me baked ziti and tells me stories about ‘The Old Country,’ otherwise known as Italy.
Between the hours of eight in the morning and two thirty in the afternoon, I might be a social pariah, scorned, laughed at, shoved and tripped. But at home, I’m just Sil: much-loved daughter, goofy older sister, and doted on granddaughter. One more year and I’ll be able to get the hell out of Raleigh and start at a college where no one knows my name. I don’t even care which college I end up going to, so long as I don’t know a single fucking soul there.
Saturday morning brings an early acceptance letter that has my mom dancing around the kitchen, singing my praises before we’ve even eaten breakfast. I get back from my morning run, and she’s still in her pinstriped pajamas, her hair all ruffled and sticking up from her pillow, and the smile on her face makes me want to hurl myself up the stairs and lock myself in my bedroom for the rest of time. She doesn’t know. I haven’t told her a thing about what’s been happening with me for the past nine months, and I’m not planning on telling her, either. She has enough on her plate with work and with Max, and I don’t want to add to her troubles.
The signs are all there, though. I used to go out on the weekends. I used to hang out at my friends’ houses. Every now and again, a cute boy used to wait out front for me in a pick-up every morning to take me to school. Now I spend my weekends studying, playing guitar, and reading books. Now, I drive myself to school in the beaten-up old Nova dad bought for me at the beginning of summer. Now, I don’t smile anywhere near as often as I used to.
A part of me is angry that she hasn’t noticed.
“Jesus, Sil. You didn’t tell us you were applying to Dartmouth.” Mom holds up a torn open envelope and a sheet of paper, waving it in my face. “Can you believe this? I can’t believe this.” She clears her throat. “Dear Ms. Parisi. Upon reviewing your application, we are pleased to announce that we have chosen to confer a ‘likely’ status upon you. Please note, our final acceptance of your application will not be confirmed until March of next year, but you can assume your ‘likely’ status will ensure your entrance to Dartmouth, should you maintain your current record of achievement and personal integrity!”
She speaks normally to begin with but then slips into an English accent part way through. By the end of the statement, she’s talking like Kate Middleton and screaming with excitement. “Silver!” She grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me. “I can’t believe you got a ‘likely’ letter from fucking Dartmouth.”
“Mom! No swearing!” Max’s high, reedy voice calls from the living room.
“Sorry, sweetheart, that is a bad word,” she calls. “I got carried away. Did you know that your sister’s a genius?”
“I did begin to suspect when she walked into that glass door at Olive Garden,” he replies flatly. Little bastard. I’m gonna have to tickle the crap out of him later. For an eleven-year-old, he really does possess a surprisingly accurate understanding of sarcasm.
I take the paper from Mom’s hand, scanning the words there, printed in black and white, plain as day. I wait for the wave of triumph that should wash over me (this is a seriously big deal, after all) but it doesn’t come. Somehow, I feel even emptier than I did before I walked in through the front door.
“Aren’t you happy, Honey?” Mom asks, tucking a rogue strand of hair back behind my ear. “I thought there was going to be more…I don’t know, hysterical jumping around?” She turns, heading for the kitchen counter, where it looks like she was in the process of making pancake batter.
“You shouldn’t have opened it,” I say quietly.
“Hmm?”
“It was addressed to me, right? The letter? You shouldn’t have opened it.”
Her head whips up, and I see her instant guilt. Her eyes are the same color as mine, blue as cornflowers and spring skies. The excitement in them fades, and it’s as if her entire face has clouded over. “God, you’re right. I just went out of my head when I saw the address stamp. I’ve been opening mail for you your entire life. I forget sometimes that you’re almost an adult now. I’m sorry, Sil. I won’t do that again.”
Damn. I feel shitty now. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad. It’s not a big deal, and I wouldn’t have usually even said anything, but the twisted, gnarled knot of anxiety that I woke up with this morning only worsened while I was out on my run, and I feel like I’m edging toward a complete nervous break right now. I don’t say any of this to Mom, naturally. I give her a tight-lipped smile, placing the letter from Dartmouth down on the kitchen counter, and I head for the stairs.
“Where are you off to, sweetheart?”
“I need to shower. I’m covered in sweat.”
“Okay, well hurry up, okay. Dan asked me to finish up on an urgent account. They need their third quarter paperwork first thing on Monday, so I have to head to the office for a couple of hours. I thought we could eat together before I leave.”
“Okay.” I feel numb as I trudge up to the second floor. Luckily, my room has an en-suite, and I get to shower without Max banging on the door, harassing me. Once I’m dressed, I go back down to the kitchen, where the table is heaving under the weight of all the food Mom’s laid out for us.
“Cute outfit,” she says when she sees me. “Overalls were crazy popular when I was your age, too. Are dreads back yet? I always wanted dreads. Didn’t think I could pull them off. I used to sing in a Bob Marley tribute band. D’you know that?” She belts out the first line of ‘Buffalo Soldier,’ and I smile despite myself. I thank my lucky stars that I have her as a parent most days. She could be an uptight, overbearing, maniacal overlord type, but she’s pretty laid back as it goes. She doesn’t try too hard. She’s not watching me like a hawk twenty-four hours a day, firing out orders and telling me what I can and can’t do. She’s also not constantly trying to be my best friend. She’s just her. She’s just Mom, secure in her role, typically fair and reasonable. But yeah. Also weird.
“You might have mentioned that a couple of times before.” I snake a pancake from the stack in the middle of the table, biting into it, and Mom slaps my hand.
“Neanderthal. Sit down and eat with a knife and fork like a civilized human being. Are you gonna go over to Kacey’s and celebrate today or something?”
I sit. I use my knife and fork as directed. “No. I have a bunch of homework.”
“Do it tomorrow, love. It’s not every day you get into Dartmouth.”
“I didn’t actually get in. I got a ‘likely.’ And you read the letter. If my grades slip, they’ll rescind the offer anyway. I can’t start slacking off now.”
“Silver, one day won’t kill you. I’m sure Kacey’s mom hasn’t drained the pool for winter yet. You should put on a bathing suit and go get some sun this afternoon. You spend way too much time indoors these days. You’re looking a little vampish. You’ll start to glow in the dark if you’re not careful.”
