Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Sixteen

| photo by Azzedine Rouichi from Unsplash |

Summerfield High School is smaller than I pictured. Or maybe it's just shorter? Mom turns into the parking lot and I understand the misconception. The photo in the yearbook is a tightly cropped shot of the school's main entrance. But the two stories of shiny new metal and glass have been tacked onto the front of a squat and boxy, tannish-brick building.

"I'm going to wait in the car," Lindsay announces.

Mom pulls into a parking space reserved for visitors. Her eyes shift to the rear-view mirror with a sigh. It's a longer, wearier version of the one she let out as we were leaving the fifties-themed restaurant at the mall—which was followed by the words, "Lindsay. You are chipping. Away. At my patience."

"I'm not going to leave the car running," she says now.

Meaning Lindsay is free to stay out here and bake in the hot car? Nice, Mom.

I'm the first one out, speed walking across the parking lot, because I've lost patience with both of them. I hoist one of the heavy glass doors open, and I'm greeted by a waft of chilled air. I stay there, holding onto the door—partly because of the heavenly breeze. But mostly because the entrance hallway is bigger than it looks from outside. More intimidating. The ceiling is vaulted and there's a massive glass wall separating it from an office space with a reception counter and a row of waiting room chairs that remind me of a hospital.

Lindsay huffs past me and heads for the single door to our immediate right. She reaches for the handle but then, like me, she stalls out in the open doorway. But I don't understand her hesitation. The sign beside the door says Administration Office—which is where we're headed—and it's not like...

Oh, wait. There's a guy with longish blond hair talking to the lady behind the counter. Noah is early.

Mom exhales a protest and circumvents Lindsay, jerking the door out of her hand and waving us both through like an irate crossing guard. The flurry of motion and attitude draws the reception lady's attention. Noah turns toward us, and Mom calls out his name like she's greeting an old friend, which is embarrassing. But then she takes an extremely obvious moment to brand Lindsay with a warning glare before she crosses the room to shake his hand. And that's just...wrong.

"Thank you so much for meeting us here," Mom says.

Noah's eyes flick over for a quick read of my face and there's a hint of...something. 

"No problem, Mrs. Clark." He turns to Lindsay and adds, "How's it going?"

My sister keeps her eyes down. She says, "Good-thanks," and scurries away like a scolded puppy. She parks herself, unnaturally rigid, in the closest chair, her face a little pale. Kind of like my first day at the new house, when Noah called my phone and Mom gave Lindsay a lengthier, angrier silent reprimand than the one I—and possibly Noah—just witnessed.

"We'd love for you to join us for dinner next Sunday," Mom tells him. "Three o'clock?"

"Thanks for the invitation, but there's a golf tournament at the club this weekend. I have to work all day."

"I'll settle for a rain check," she says, but her manic enthusiasm is starting to fade. "I'll ask again when everyone gets settled back in school."

They exchange a genuine smile. Then Mom gives me a suffocating hug and says, "Text me when you're on your way home."

"Yeah, okay." I use my elbows to push against her grip. She takes the hint and I break away, focused on the exit. I push through the glass door without glancing back to make sure Noah is behind me, because I can't risk it. I don't want to know if my prickly tone hurt Mom's feelings, or if Lindsay is offended that I didn't say goodbye.