I never protested the bows, ponytails, and frilly dresses she adorned me with when I was little. I never told her I hated ballet or piano lessons when I was in elementary school. I did whatever she wanted with a smile because I saw the brokenness in her eyes when she looked at me.
I saw jagged little bits of longing, and I didn’t have the heart to push back when she artfully arranged my life. If I did, I knew she’d crack.
If I had my way, I’d live a simple life: free from social circles and phony smiles. I’d live happily with a normal job and a few good friends who understood me. Hell, I’d kill for one person in the world who understood me.
My mind clicks back into motion and I realize Mom is still fussing at me. “If you’d stop worrying about stupid things like painting, maybe you’d pay attention to your social obligations,” Mom huffs.
Those are your social obligations. Not mine.
I hate when she belittles painting. It’s the only thing I love. It’s the only thing that sets me apart from the social clusterfuck all around me. It’s the only time I can hide from the stone wall.
“I know,” I say before combing my fingers through my hair. I feel her ice-blue gaze on my eyebrows, and I slide the pads of my fingers over them before she can threaten me with brow gel.
“Honestly, Sage, there are girls who would kill to be in your shoes. I’m sure some girl over in Duncan would do anything to live the life you’re living.” It’s back, the broken stare she gives me whenever I’m not sticking to the script. The weight of Mom’s expectations sinks into my chest like lead and the rumbling of stone begins. I feel my chest tighten and my lungs try and fail to fully inflate.
“I’ll get dressed,” I mutter, while examining my toes and the way they sink into the plush carpet. There are tiny specks of paint dotting the floor. All different colors like sprinkles. Mom hates it and lets me know all the time how I’ve ruined perfectly good carpet, but I like the way it looks.
“Please don’t wear jeans, for the love of God.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and shuts her eyes for a brief moment then she leaves fussing under her breath.
The second my bedroom door closes, my shoulders drop and my spine curls forward. The stone wall recedes and a dull throb radiates across my skull.
My mind flits to Mars and I’m envious of how carefree he seems. His parents are probably just as easygoing and charming as he is. I wonder if he’s being shoved into a box that doesn’t fit him.
Probably not. That’s just you, Sage.
I flip through the clothes in my closet and pick out something I know Mom will approve of. I rush to get dressed in a cream Chanel blouse and a black pleated skirt. I let all of my hair down and brush it until it behaves. Then I run a flat iron over the unruly ends until they’re straight.
My gaze falls to the ornate jewelry box sitting on my vanity and I sigh. Mom will forget she was ever mad at me if I wear pearls.
I hate pearls.
Mom loves them.
I grab a string and fasten them around my neck. Now, all the personality has been groomed right out of my body, and I look like Eleanor Emerson’s daughter.
When I walk into the kitchen, where Mom and Dad are talking and laughing, I pause for a moment to absorb the happy sounds. At least they love each other.
I mean, I know they love me too, especially Dad. He’s always in my corner. He’s the reason why I have an easel in my room now. I guess Mom loves me too. I just wish she’d love me for who I really am and not who she wants me to be.
“There she is.” Dad’s big voice reaches out to me before his long arms pull me in for a hug. “You look beautiful, kiddo.” He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead that makes me smile.
“Thanks, Dad.” I squeeze him a little tighter because I know soon I’ll be surrounded by Mom’s friends and their daughters. I know Leah and Sophia will be there, talking amongst themselves, and I know I’ll be slowly dying inside while it all happens.
“Oh, so you do know how to do something other than paint,” Mom snorts. Her heels on the kitchen floor make the bright clicking noise and I fall into the melody. Anything to ignore her while she talks. “For goodness sake, Sage, did you even bother to wash the paint from your hands?”
I glance at my paint-smudged fingers and curl them into the palm of my hand, away from her scrutiny.