Page 124 of Intermission

“I’ve heard about those privacy apps and things kids can get now so their parents don’t know what they’re doing on their phones. Faith, I told you that if I he contacted you I would—”

“You would have him arrested. I know.” I grind my teeth. “Why would I risk that?”

“Joseph, get our lawyer on the phone. This whole ridiculous plan is that no good Noah Spencer’s doing. I bet he’s the one who’s talked her into graduating early as well as this beauty school nonsense.” A mocking laugh exits her nose. “He’s probably hoping thatshe’llbe able to supporthim!”

“Enough.” I push back from the table. “What iswrongwith you? Do you think I’m incapable of having an original thought? These aremyplans, not Noah’s! As far as he knows, I’ll graduate in May, withthe rest of my class!”

“I don’t believe you.” She stands, heading toward the stairs. “And I’m going to your room to find the evidence. You’ve only been eighteen for three days. If he so much as—”

“Evidence?” I rise and follow her upstairs. “Evidence of what?”

In my room, I watch in disbelief as my mother rifles through my desk drawers, looks under my bed... even between my mattress and box spring.

“Your relationship with him was unhealthy from the very beginning,” she says. “He was a charmer. You fell for him just like Becca fell for every sweet-talking drug-pusher who played a guitar. Noah Spencer is using you now, Faith, just like he did when he was here. You can’t trust people like him. They’ll crush your heart and spit on everything you do for them as if none of it matters until they need the next thing.”

Mom moves to my dresser, pulls out the top drawer, and dumps it out on my bed.

“He’s using your infatuation with him to manipulate you. Don’t you see? It’s like I said, he probably wantsyouto supporthimwhile he chases after his own stupid acting career.”

“Stupid acting career?” Blood pulses against my temples. “Tell me how you really feel, Mom. My dreams of a stage careerdefineme. They’ve made me who I am. If Noah is stupid for wanting to be an actor, then so am I.”

“You’re certainly acting it!” She shoves my underwear back into the drawer and grabs the next drawer down, repeating the process.

“Why are you doing this? This iscrazy! Why won’t you believe me?”

“You lied about him before. Why wouldn’t you lie now?”

My chest heaves with every breath, and my vision begins to tunnel, just like the first time Mom threatened to have Noah arrested. I take a deep breath in, close my eyes, and let it out slowly.

“That’s it, then.”

I walk down the hall to Ryan’s old room, open the closet, which is now used for storage, and pull out the luggage set Ryan and Danielle gave me for Christmas last year.

“What are you doing with those?”

“I’m eighteen, Mom, and I’m done.”

“Done? Done with what?”

“Done with this argument. Done with trying to measure up to Ryan and Gretchen and whatever picture you’ve drawn in your head about what I should be. I’m done with being compared to your loser sister, no matter what I do. And more than anything, I’m done with trying to tell you the truth about me and Noah.”

“Thisisabout him. I knew it.”

“It is now. But it didn’t have to be.” I am out of emotion and nearly out of time. “Look,” I say in a calmer tone. “You’re going to be late for work, and I’m going to be late for school if we keep going over this now. I’ll come by and get the rest of my stuff—and Janey—after school. That way I’ll be out of the house before you get home, and we can avoid being awful to each other.”

Mom blinks several times. “Where will you go?”

“I guess . . . Grandma Maddie’s, for now. Then . . . we’ll see.”

“Of course that’s where you’d go. But you’ll be back.”

“Maybe.” I plop the biggest suitcase on my bed and unzip it. “Do you believe what I said about Noah? That he isn’t involved in my school decisions? That I haven’t spoken to him for over a year?”

“No.” Mom leans against the door frame, crossing her arms. When I start filling my suitcase, she says, “Give me one good reason Ishouldbelieve you, Faith.”

My hand stills on the suitcase zipper. Regret is bitter, replaying every white lie and omission, every vague or outright dishonest action.

“I can’t.” I zip the suitcase shut. “I wish I could present evidence that would make you believe me, but I can’t.”