Foes & Cons by Carrie Aarons (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📗

knows how important it is to me to carry on their legacy. Even if we aren’t friends anymore, she still knows that.

So when Hailey knocked her to the floor, I … I went just as low. No, I went lower. I saw the humiliated blush stain her cheeks. I could see the set of her shoulders, how she was holding sobs, which looked heavier than the world, back. I did that. The comment about her underwear was so mean, I wanted to bend down and scramble to take it back. But she just fired shots at me, about the project and about my future with the family business, so I didn’t.

I feel lower than scum. It was also a lie, what I said. I find her so sexy that some days it’s all I can do to keep my hands to myself. In the privacy of my bedroom, I don’t. I’ve jacked off countless times in the last two weeks to nothing more than the memory of my arms wrapped around her in that hallway at homecoming. Not porn, not some Instagram model’s picture … no, I’ve been jerking it to a fucking memory of my fingers on her skin. How the hell has she managed to get me to do that?

And yet, I haven’t apologized. We keep going around in circles, hurting one another until the other person bleeds just a little more. Just a little deeper.

I have so much anger in my heart when it comes to her, and yet, I also want to lay our weapons down. But there is still no explanation for what she did two years ago. And until I have one, I’m not sure we can ever do that.

Instead of thinking about this emotional shit, I turn my focus on my essay.

This is something I can control, at least until it’s out of my hands and with the admissions office. Then they’ll have it, and it’s just all of my hopes and dreams on the line.

16

Blair

“Pancakes or waffles?”

Dad shoots me a smile as I pad into the kitchen, my hair still sticking up from the good night’s sleep I had.

“I hope there are chocolate chips in that batter. Other than that, I don’t care which way you make them.” I point a finger at the mixing bowl dusted with flour that Dad is currently stirring.

“Waffles it is, because I’ve got a craving.” He sets the bowl down and pats his stomach, then walks over to the freezer.

“You’ll ruin your appetite putting ice cream on those,” I admonish him in the fakest way possible.

This is our schtick; me acting like he’s the child and I need to teach him exactly what a balanced meal is. In reality, we’ll both put a scoop of vanilla ice cream on our chocolate chip waffles at ten a.m. and be perfectly happy with our decision.

Sunday mornings are reserved for Dad’s expert breakfast skills, one of the only decent meals he can make, and lounging around watching recorded daytime television shows. Except that this morning, Dad hits me with a bombshell as I pour my orange juice.

“I talked to your mom this morning.”

It’s the sentence I always dread most when it comes to my father. I love him so deeply, but his soft spot for the woman he married is his biggest flaw. It’s the thing that makes me resent him—the only thing.

“Why?” My voice is full of judgment and annoyance. “I don’t even know why you pick up her phone calls anymore.”

I don’t know why I do either, I should add, but don’t say it. It seems we’re both a bit weak-willed when it comes to that woman.

Dad sighs. “Someday, you’ll understand that even though we aren’t together, she is still the mother of my child. I signed off, when we created you, to have a relationship with her in whatever way that evolved. I still have to parent with her, and you deserve to have the most normal balance we can create for you.”

“No, I understand that completely. Dad, there are enough kids from divorced families in Chester for me to write a case study on co-parenting. But you have to want to be a parent in order to do that. My mother doesn’t want any part of that, so I’m not sure why you’re still trying.”

“Don’t say that, she loves you in her own way.” He says this as if he’s trying to convince us both.

I love my dad, but he seems to still assume I can be convinced of things simply because I’m his child. Him telling me that my mother wants to be involved with my life is the same thing as him trying to still tell me that the Easter Bunny or Santa exist.

He finally divorced her a year ago, after six years of staying married to a woman who didn’t share his bed, let alone his home or his zip code. For years, I and everyone else around him begged for him to cut the cancer out, but he had to do it in his own time. She caused a shit storm, of course, even though she was the one who left in the first place.

I want to see my dad happy. I want to see him fall in love with someone who is worthy of that, and yet. he put his life on hold to respect a woman who can’t even show up for the flesh and blood that they created together. I hope, in my going off to college, it gives him the room to finally do something for himself. I suspect, since I know how his brain ticks, that he’s been putting his own happiness on hold to raise me the best he can. Sometimes I want to tell him he can take a night off the job, but I think it’ll only heighten his anxiety about finding someone who might fully love him.

In my seventeen short years on this earth, I’ve observed all kinds of love.