Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 26: Emma

The edge of my bed depresses as someone sits on my mattress. It's blissfully dark underneath my cloth, but my face is now damp. I don't move, not to take the towel of, and especially not until I know who is sitting there. Is it my mom or the Henry Williams? Which lecturer am I going to get tonight? Who is it going to be?

I press my eyes shut and wonder how much longer I can spend pretending to be asleep. Surely, they'll get frustrated and leave. But my mom eventually clears her throat, and I know my mom will never let something like this go. Not in a million years, and neither will my dad. I want to make it worse for them. I feel like making it worse. There's a growing part of me that wants to put so much distance between us that they won't recognize me anymore.

My thoughts are becoming self-destructive, and this isn't me. At least, it never used to be. When did I become the person hiding under the towel? When did malice start poisoning my heart?

"We need to talk."

Of course she thinks we do, but I disagree.

The medication for my headache is making me feel lop-sided, like I weigh more than I should. It's a strange wooziness that has overtaken my limbs, creating a numbing sensation across my body.

"About what?" I ask, still with the towel over my eyes. It's muggy, humid, and now that I've woken up from my nap, it's rather unpleasant, but it's easier to face her this way, when I'm not facing her at all.

"About what's going on with you." She sighs, and the sound of defeat in her voice is the thing that finally gets to me.

I take the towel off my head, grateful that the throbbing in my brain has died down to a distant lull. It reminds me of how some movies portray tinnitus. A small thing in the background, but lingering. A constant hum just along the edge of the surface, making it hard to focus.

At least the pain is over. Mostly.

"What do you mean?" I try to play it off, like this has been no big deal, like everything is okay.

My mom presses her lips into a thin line, flattening her features into a malevolent, twisted expression. Her cheeks are sharp and drawn, her eyes daggers, and her lips poised to kill. "I mean about whatever this teenager thing you are going through. Your father and I are trying to be there for you, but we're not sure—"

"Trying?" I cough out the word, slide it between my teeth. "Mom, do you know what my favorite subject in school is?"

She looks at me, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes are wider now as she watches me. "Well, I imagine sciences are taking most of your priorities, as that's the most practical—"

"Music, Mom. Clarinet, specifically, and band."

"You quit marching band—"

"I quit marching band because you made me. You told me it took too much time away from the rest of my studies. You told me it was a waste of time."

"Well, wasn't it?" Her voice turns indignant, like she's astonished her precious daughter would ever say these things to her. Her daughter is in love with band, the horror. The crushing, disgusting horror of it all.

"No. Not when it's what I want to do with my life." There, I said it. Loud and clear.

Her lips curve, and for a moment, not a single sound escapes her. Then there's this little "hmph" noise, like she's thinking everything over as brand new information. My parents can't be that dense, can they? How have they managed to be so oblivious?

My stomach grumbles, and it feels hollow. I haven't eaten since I got home from school, and it must be from a lack of dinner. I glance at the clock and realize it's past eight thirty. They didn't bother waking me up for dinner.