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“Why would you apply? You’re not going to any of them.” She reaches for an onion.
I place my hand on her wrist. “What do you mean I’m not going to any of these colleges?”
She plucks my hand off and meets my glare with a haughty, cold stare of her own. “We’re paying for you to go to school, which means you’ll go where we tell you—Darling College. And you don’t need to keep asking for applications. We’ve already filled yours out for Darling. You should be accepted in October or so.”
Darling is one of those internet colleges where you pay for your degree. It’s not a real school. No one takes a degree from Darling seriously. When they told me over the summer that they wanted me to go there, I thought it was a joke.
My mouth drops. “Darling? That’s not even a real college. That’s—”
She waves the knife in the air. “End of discussion, Elizabeth.”
“But—”
“End of discussion, Elizabeth,” she repeats. “We’re doing this for your own good.”
I gape at her. “Keeping me here for college is for my own good? Darling’s degrees aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on!”
“You don’t need a degree,” Mom says. “You’ll work at your father’s hardware store, and when he retires you’ll take that over.”
Chills run down my spine. Oh my God. They’re going to keep me here forever. They’re never, ever going to let me go.
My dream of freedom has been snuffed like a hand over a candle flame.
The words tumble out. I don’t mean for them to come out, but the seal breaks.
“She’s dead, Mom. She’s been dead for three years. My bag hanging from her hook isn’t stopping her from coming home. Me getting a dog won’t stop her from rising from her grave. She’s dead. She’s dead!” I scream.
Whack.
I don’t see her hand coming. It strikes me across the cheek. The band of her wedding ring catches on my lip. I’m so surprised that I shut up, which is what she wanted, of course.
Her eyes widen. We stare at each other, chests heaving.
I break first, tearing out of the kitchen. Rachel might be dead, but her spirit is more alive in this house than I am.
“I don’t want to go.” Scarlett’s firm tone doesn’t waver. We’ve been standing in front of the gas station for twenty minutes arguing about our plans, and my best friend isn’t budging.
Neither am I. My cheek still throbs from Mom’s earlier strike.
The girls who invited us to the party lean against the side of a black Jeep with its top down, their heavily made-up faces wrinkled with annoyance. The dark-haired guy in the driver’s seat looks impatient. I’m surprised they’re waiting around. I mean, it’s not like they know us. Their invitation was the result of a five-second conversation in the potato chip aisle after I told the blonde that I liked her shirt.
“Fine. Then don’t go,” I say to Scarlett.
Her brown eyes flood with relief. “Oh, okay, good. So we’re not going?”
“No, you’re not going.” I lift my chin. “I am.”
“Lizzie—”
“Beth,” I cut in sharply.
I don’t miss the irritated flicker in her eyes. “Beth,” she corrects, dragging out the one syllable as if it’s so inconvenient for her to utter.
Like my parents, my best friend is having a tough time adjusting to my new name. Scarlett doesn’t think the name Lizzie is juvenile at all—It’s more juvenile suddenly calling yourself something else after going your whole life as Lizzie! was her response when I announced at the start of the summer that I was now going by Beth. But of course, she’d say that. Scarlett is a badass name. Who would ever dream of changing it?
“You don’t even know these girls,” Scarlett points out.
Another shrug. “I’ll get to know them.”
“Beth,” she says miserably. “Come on.”
“Please, Scar,” I say, equally miserable. “I need this. After what happened today, I just need a fun, crazy night where I don’t have to think about anything.”
Her features soften. She knows all about the slap and the college application betrayal—it’s all I’ve been talking about since I got to her house tonight. I think that’s one of the reasons she suggested going out and driving around. She was tired of hearing about it.
“I really don’t want to go, though,” she admits. “But I don’t want you to go alone.”
“I’ll be fine,” I promise. “I’ll go for a couple hours, scope out the scene and then come back to your place, and we can stay up all night eating ice cream.”
She rolls her eyes. “The ice cream’s all yours. I’m on a crash diet ’til Monday. I need to look hot for my first day of senior year.”
A loud honk comes from the direction of the waiting Jeep. “Yo! Come on!” the driver shouts.
“I’ll see you later, Scar,” I say quickly. “Leave the back door unlocked for me, ’kay?” Then, before she can object, I hurry over to the Jeep. “I’m coming,” I tell the girls, because if I don’t do something outside my parents’ perfectly prescribed routine, I will implode. There won’t be anything left of me but scraps. That’s how I feel right now, actually, like I’m nothing but scraps pasted together by my parents.
“’Bout time,” one of them mutters, while the other blows a bright pink bubble with her gum.
“Beth!” Scarlett calls.
I glance over my shoulder. “Did you change your mind?”
She shakes her head. “Just be safe.”
“I will.” I climb into the back seat next to the blonde. Her friend hops into the passenger seat and whispers something to the driver. I lean over the side to address Scarlett again. “If my parents call, tell them I’m asleep. I’ll be back in a few hours. Promise.”
I blow her a kiss, and, after a beat of hesitation, she pretends to catch it in her hand and smacks it on her cheek. Then she heads for her car, and the boy behind the wheel of the Jeep revs the engine and we tear out of the gas station parking lot.
As the wind snakes under my hair and lifts it up, I count all the sins I’ve just committed.
Accepting a party invite from kids I don’t know.
Going to a party in the next town over, an area that’s not exactly white picket fences and apple trees like my pretty, safe hometown.
Getting into a car with strangers. That’s probably the biggest sin. My parents will ship me off to a convent if they find out about this.
But guess what?
I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.
They’ve already announced that I’m expected to spend my college years with them. We’re at war now.
I feel trapped in my own life, weighed down by their rules and their paranoia and their fears. I’m seventeen years old. I’m supposed to be excited about my senior year. I’m supposed to be surrounded by friends and dating cute guys and having the time of my life right now. People say it’s all downhill from here, and that’s just depressing