Page 31 of The Rebel (Covington Prep: The Girls We Love #7)

Mom’s smile was smug as she poured my tea. “Doesn’t hurt to be prepared, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly as I added milk and a spoon of sugar, which is how I’d learned to drink it from my host family.

“Valencia, sweetie.” Mom’s tone suddenly dropped, full of concern. “You didn’t need to stay in your room.”

I spun around on the stool to see Valencia wearing black jeans and a black hoodie, her hair now loose and wavy on her shoulders, holding an empty plate. I realized I’d been so caught up with my friends all night that I hadn’t noticed she hadn’t been around. Well, Lucy tended to be a lot.

“Sit down,” Mom directed, taking her plate to the dishwasher. “I’ll pour you a tea.”

“You should’ve joined us for the quiz,” I said, wondering how much of that conversation she’d heard, the shame of my mother trying to set me up for prom.

She smiled with a shrug. “The food was really delicious.”

“Did you miss out on the Jaffa cakes? You have to try the Jaffa cakes. They’re so good. Mom, are there any left?” I jumped off the stool, suddenly hyped up.

“These are the best,” I said in a ramble. “I ate so many of them over in London, but you can get them at Dymock’s Grocery Store.”

“Only sometimes. I was lucky they had some in stock,” Mom said, heading to the door. “I’m going to check on Oliver.”

“Paris goes to England after his next tournament. Maybe he can bring some back for you?”

“When does his next tournament start?” I asked.

“On Monday morning.”

“Oh.” I listened for Mom’s footsteps going down the hallway, before speaking in a hush, “Hey, are you okay?” Now I felt guilty that I hadn’t checked on her during the evening.

Valencia brought her cup up to her lips and nodded. But she quickly set it down again, probably too hot.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s sorted. I’m fine.” And she jumped down off of the stool. “I’ll just take this to my room. Good night.”

And she was gone, the Jaffa cake left untouched.

––––––––

I was up early the next morning to watch the Premier League match live. We carried on the tradition that Dad had established years ago, a cooked breakfast in front of the tv and wearing our Manchester City jerseys, and Mom and I were wearing our scarves even though it wasn’t cold inside.

Oliver made himself a nest on the floor, laying blanket upon blanket and pillows around him like a little fort, while I stretched out on the couch and Mom took her regular armchair.

The buildup was as important as the game itself and I cheered as the players came onto the pitch.

The excitement made me relive my time at the stadium, and as always, I exuberantly showed them where I’d sat when the camera panned around the crowd, getting off the couch to go closer to the screen to pinpoint my exact position.

I came back and collapsed on the couch and that’s when Valencia appeared in the doorway, wearing long purple cat pajamas.

Mom welcomed her. “Come in, come in, game’s about to start.”

I immediately sat up, making room at the end of the couch. There was another armchair but it was in the far corner and not really suitable for watching the screen.

Mom directed Valencia to take a plate and help herself to toast and bacon, while she poured her a cup of coffee.

I pulled the scarf from around my neck and tossed it to her. “It’s compulsory to wear Man City gear while watching the game,” I said.

Valencia looked at the screen and deadpanned, “What if I’m a Chelsea fan?”

My eyes widened. “You better not be serious?”

“Traitor!” Oliver cried and turned around and threw a bunch of pillows at her.

Valencia didn’t miss a beat, flinging them right back at him, and a pillow fight ensued. I kind of felt jealous at how easily the two of them connected.

“Hey, hey,” Mom intervened, holding up the small little t-shirt shaped pillow.

“Here, Valencia, you take this first.” Like a basketball shot, she lofted it through the air in Valencia’s direction.

Her throw was weak and it landed on my knees.

I passed it to Valencia while Mom explained, “Everyone gets to sit with the pillow until a goal is scored, then it get’s passed on. ”

“So I hold it until someone scores a goal? Any team? Or does it have to be Manchester?”

“Just Man City’s goals,” I said. “Bring us luck.”

“Heck, that’s a lot of pressure,” she gulped.

“If you’ve still got it at the end of the game and we lose, it’s not gonna be good!” Oliver teased.

“What happens then?”

“Oh, you have to do all the chores for the day!” Oliver jumped up and down, over excited. “Mow the lawn, sweep the driveway, cook the dinner...”

Valencia lobbed the pillow over to him. “I don’t want it then,” she squealed.

Ollie picked it up and brought it back to her, resulting in another play fight as she tried to resist it, both of them giggling. Oliver triumphed as he tucked it under her arm. “Mom gave it to you, so you have to. It’s Sinclair tradition, you know.”

Mom and I nodded in unison. Dad had started the tradition when we’d given him the pillow as a birthday present, but Ollie was exaggerating over the chores. If the team didn’t score a goal, the pillow holder might have to empty the dishwasher or clear the table, but nothing major.

“Okay! Shhhhhh, shhhhh,” I hushed, demanding some reverence for the game with a glare at everyone. This was the very reason I hadn’t wanted Mom to do an English breakfast because you can bet Lucy and Victoria would have talked their way through the whole game.

Valencia immediately stopped laughing, putting her finger up to her lips.

She might’ve been mocking me, but I appreciated her respect.

And though I hated to miss even a second of the game, I liked that we were all sitting together.

Valencia sat with the pillow on her lap and I noticed she wrapped the scarf around her neck.

And she cheered with us when Man City scored the first goal, handing the pillow to Oliver.

At half time, she went to her room and came back dressed in black ripped jeans and a pretty horrible gothic t-shirt, but I was impressed that she kept the scarf around her neck.

Jumping up, I dashed to my room, rummaging through my drawers for a shirt she could wear.

It was from two seasons ago, when I was a size smaller so I hoped it wouldn’t swamp her.

The sponsor logo was different from the latest version that Ollie and I were wearing.

“Try this,” I said, handing it to her. She seemed surprised and held it up. “It should fit. It’s actually compulsory to wear when you’re watching.”

“Oh,” she said, pulling it over her head. “So why didn’t you bring it out before? You let me sit here for half a game without one?”

“I was testing your loyalty,” I said.

“I passed?”

“With flying colors,” I said, “you groaned when Chelsea equalized.”

“How’s it look?” Valencia asked, pulling on the sides.

“A whole lot better than that grunge t-shirt underneath,” I said.

Valencia arched an eyebrow. “You don’t like my clothes?”

“I prefer you in that,” I said, nodding to the light blue jersey.

Her cheeks flushed pink, and Mom chimed in, “And yes, Valencia, you’d be right to guess that he’s unbearable when Man City lose a game.”

“Well, let’s hope we score again in this half,” Valencia said, folding her legs beneath her and looking down at the jersey. “Ollie, you better bring us some good luck!”

I edged a little closer from my corner of the couch, moving into the realm of her now familiar fruity fragrance.

And when we (and by we, I mean Man City) scored again, we all celebrated with high fives and pumped fists and Ollie gave me the pillow, and I might have taken the opportunity to shift a little closer to Valencia, plopping it between us.

Buzzing after the 2-1 victory, I called Weston, a Tottenham supporter, to have an analysis of the game and to discuss the other results and the table position. That’s when I missed Dad—and Pops—we’d thoroughly dissect every facet of play and every player’s performance.

I found Mom out in the greenhouse. The place was bare, nothing growing and hadn’t for the past year.

“Thought I’d get this up and running again, spring isn’t far away,” she said, sorting through planters and pots.

“Cool,” I said. “But don’t bother with that kale stuff. It’s disgusting.”

“It happens to be very good for you,” Mom said with a laugh, “and easy to grow. You doing anything?”

“I might do a workout,” I said, “why? You need me to do something?”

Mom shook her head. “No, I was just wondering. I’m taking Ollie swimming later. We’re meeting Trina and Tyson.”

“Cool,” I said again, clearing my throat, a now-or-never moment presenting itself. I cleared it again, this time for attention.

Mom frowned, but before she could ask if I had a cold, I blurted out, “It’s Dad’s birthday coming up.”

Mom’s eyebrows rose and fell, and I saw a wave of sadness sweep through her eyes, instantly misting over. Her lips pressed tightly and she nodded.

“Should we do something?”

She blinked the moisture away. “Yes, of course, we can have a special dinner and visit the cemetery,” she said, producing a smile. “Maybe his favorite...”

But I cut her off, hating myself, but needing to say it. “I meant with Gramma and Pops. Invite them over?”

Mom sniffed and she fully closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered.

“But Mom...”

“No Jade. Not yet.” It was as forceful and definitive as she’d ever spoken to me, the equivalent of a telling off.

“Well, when?” I was equally snippy.

Mom swung away from me, manically stacking pot upon pot. “You don’t understand,” she muttered.

“Well, tell me,” I shouted, pent up emotion releasing, though glad I was talking to her back and not face to face. “Tell me!”

“You won’t understand. The things they said,” she spluttered, her voice on the edge of cracking.

“What things?” I demanded. There were issues over the funeral service, I knew that.

Petty things, the clothes he wore, the digital display, what food to serve at the post-funeral reception.

Dad had already stipulated what he wanted, but still there were arguments.

Uncle Stanley, Dad’s older brother, said grief did funny things to people and he was sure that the chaos would pass.

But it was probably easy to say that when he was back in Arizona and didn’t live with it on a daily basis.

Because in all truth, I did miss Gramma and Pops, their regular visits.

We went from seeing them basically daily to not at all.

I hadn’t shared my student exchange experience with them, heck Pops would have loved to hear about the Manchester City game.

But out of loyalty to Mom, I’d dropped all contact with them.

Ollie and I had received birthday cards and generous gift vouchers but I’d been too afraid to even call them to say thanks.

That’s how great my allegiance was to Mom.

But things needed to change. Because I couldn’t continue like this.

There was a closet full of my Dad’s clothes that she hadn’t gotten rid of and it killed me to know why.

“You won’t understand,” Mom repeated. She’d run out of pots to stack and shifted them along the counter, blocking me out, hiding her tears from me.

It broke my heart, because hurting Mom was the last thing I wanted to do. I begged again, “Mom, tell me what happened.”

“It’s not your business, Jade!” she shouted jamming her fists on the counter so forcefully that a terracotta pot crashed to the ground, splintering into a dozen pieces.

The right thing to do would be to clean it up, make sure she hadn’t been hurt by it, but her stubbornness was unbearable and I couldn’t be around her a minute longer.

“You’re right,” I screamed back. “It’s got nothing to do with me!” And I stormed out of the greenhouse, back into the house and grabbed my keys. I literally squealed out of the driveway, spinning my tires, something I didn’t realize I was capable of.

I had no destination, just a revving in my chest that was overwhelming. I’d hurt Mom, I’d made her cry, I brought up bad memories, I’d yelled at her—and yet I still didn’t know why she’d cut Gramma and Pops from our lives.

I drove around in circles, going through the neighborhood streets, wondering what I should do.

Storming out was crazy, it was illogical and childish, yet at the same time there was a thrill of liberation about it.

Was that how Valencia felt when she’d answered back Mrs. Fox, when she’d skipped detention—a kind of wild freedom.

Oh sure, later I’d have to face some consequences, apologize, own up to being a jerk, but for now...for now...

I found myself coming down from the top of Valencia’s street. My driving slowed. After the game, Valencia had gone home to feed Volley—of course— and she was going to keep him company and spend time on her art portfolio.

I drove past the entrance of her driveway, but in a reckless turnaround, I spun the truck around, illegally riding over the curb and almost taking out the Reid’s mailbox as I roared up her driveway, my foot way too heavy on the accelerator.

I left the engine running as I raced out and banged with my fist on the front door, even though there was a perfectly usable doorbell. I didn’t even have time to wipe my watery eyes when the door opened.

The first thing I noticed was that Valencia was still wearing my Man City jersey.

“Jade?”

I was still trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving, my eyes blurring, my hands shaking.

“Wanna go for a ride?” It came out squeaky, high pitched, like a soprano, a messed-up, deranged soprano.

Valencia didn’t say a word. She pointed behind her, dashed off and returned a few seconds later with her tote bag and phone.

I opened the passenger door for her and slammed it shut once she was seated. Then I walked around the back of my truck, giving myself a moment to swipe my eyes and cheeks and breathe in the fresh air.

I jumped in the driver’s seat, slowly pulling the seat belt across my chest, feeling her dark eyes watching me, tender, caring, patient. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead as I waited for my pounding heart to calm down.

Here I was in meltdown mode, and despite all my good friends who I could confide in—Weston and Lucy and Victoria—it was Valencia I’d chosen to come to, who got to witness me in this unstable, vulnerable state.

Her touch resonated through me like a gentle breeze, my whole body decompressing as the tension in my shoulders released and my fingers unclenched on the wheel. I tilted my head, seeing her hand resting on my knee. Yep, it was a simple act of comfort, but it meant the world to me.

And then she said, “I got you.”