Caught Up (11 page)

“K
ennedy,
where
have you been?!” my mother snaps the minute I step through the double doors. Hand on hip, nose flaring, eyes drawn to narrow slits. She's fuming.

“I-I-I,” I stammer nervously. I've never seen her so mad. “I was . . .”

“Before you open your mouth with a lie, think about what you are going to say to me. Because I know, and you know, that you weren't with Hope or Jordan because I've spoken to both of them. Now where were you?”

“Ohmygod. I can't believe you'd call me a liar. Have I ever lied to you?”

“I'm not calling
you
a liar. I'm warning you to not let any lies fall from your lips in case you wanted to.”

I stand here silently, racking my brain as to what I'll tell her. She has me cornered. I've never been in this situation so I don't know what to do to get out of it. Finally, I hang my head. My lashes wet with tears.

“I-I-I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“Oh, no, young lady. You're not getting off the hook that easy. I want to know where you were and why your phone is off? I've been calling it all night. And all morning.”

I reach in my bag, pulling it out. Yup . . . it's off. “My battery died,” I lie. “And I didn't have a way of charging it.”

“And no one else had a phone you could use.”

“No. There wasn't any service.”

“Excuse you? What do you mean, there wasn't any service? Well, where were you that you couldn't make calls or get your butt home before your curfew?”

“At a friend's house.”

She tilts her head. “Don't try my patience, Kennedy. What
friend's
house? And who are this
friend's
parents?”

“It's just her and her mom. Her dad died.” That's a lie. But I don't think she'd like hearing that Sasha's father is in prison for armed robbery. And I think she told me drug charges, too. Or maybe it was a gun charge. I can't remember. All I know is, this information is on a need-to-know basis.

She eyes me. “That's not telling me what I want to know, Kennedy.”

I'm starting to feel light-headed.

“Mom, please. Not right now. I don't feel well.”

She huffs. “Who do you think you're telling
not right now
, huh? Like I'm bothering you. You don't get to strut up in here twelve hours after your curfew without one phone call and tell me
not right now
. I will smack the piss, the snot, and everything else out of you. Do you understand me?”

I clutch my churning stomach.
Ohgodohgod! I'm going to throw up!

I don't answer. I take off running toward the powder room across from the sunken great room. She's hot on my heels.

“Don't you dare run off from me while I'm talking to you. Kennedy! I want to know where you've been! I've been up all night, worried sick about you! I've called all over town looking for you! And you have the gall to stroll up in here like everything is fine! This is not acceptable, Kennedy!”

“Not now, mom, please!” I slam the bathroom door in her face. Flip up the toilet seat and grip the cool porcelain, throwing my guts up. I cling to the coolness with all my might. Tears spurting from my eyes as I empty the remaining contents of my cramped stomach out.

I stay in this position—face inside the bowl, hands squeezing the sides, until I am coughing and dry heaving. And then I do the unthinkable.

I poop on myself.

 

Four
P.M.
, my mom is at the foot of my bed, shaking me. “Wake up! Rise and shine!”

I groan as she walks over and flips on my nightstand lamp. I don't remember how I got into bed. Or when I took off my clothes and slipped into my pajamas. But somehow I did.

My mind is blank.

Completely gone.

Mom starts shaking my bed again. “Let's go, Kennedy! It's time to get up. You should have gotten your sleep wherever you were last night. Sleep time is over.”

I groan again. Everything around me is still spinning from the night before. I've spent most of the morning throwing up. I'm exhausted. And now all I want to do is sleep. Sleep. Sleep!

But it doesn't look like that's going to happen with my mom breathing down my neck doing everything she can to kill my sleep mode.

I close my eyes. Snatches of last night flitter through my head. I'm in the middle of the floor dancing. Alone. Swirling and twirling. Guys are pressed up against me, grinding and groping me. My boobs are exposed. The teenie-tiny skirt I was wearing is hiked up over my hips. Someone tries to slide his hands in my panties. I remember, now, telling him no. I pushed his hand away.

I think I see Sasha over in the corner with her friends, laughing at me. But why would she do that when she cursed those boys out for trying to hump me all up on the dance floor?

“Mom,
please
. I don't feel well,” I grumble, pulling the covers up over my head.

“That's not my problem. That's yours.” She snatches the covers off me. “Now get up out of this bed.”

“Why can't I sleep?” I whine. “We can talk later tonight, or tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, little Miss Party Girl. You don't get to choose when we talk. We talk when I say we talk. So get up. You are sadly mistaken if you think you're going to lie in this bed and sleep the rest of the day away. I was nice enough to let you sleep off whatever it is you
drank
or
smoked
last night. Now it's time for you and me to have a little chat.”

She shakes the bed again. My stomach churns and I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. I take two deep breaths, then roll and stretch. I rub my burning eyes. They can barely open.

It takes a few minutes for my eyes to finally adjust to the brightness in the room. There she is. My mom. Standing at the foot of my bed with her arms folded, scowling. She's pissed. Very pissed. And I know I'm in big trouble.

And I know I have no one to blame except myself. I should have never had all those drinks. But I only had three, I think. Or was it four? I remember the first drink. And the second one after that.

Ohgod! All I know is, my head feels like someone is stomping around on my brain with cement boots. It even hurts behind my eyeballs.

If this is what drinking does to you, then I want no further part of it. None. Never. Ever.

“I'm waiting, Kennedy,” Mom says through clenched teeth. “You and I are going to have a serious conversation, starting with where you were
all
night. And who dropped you off this morning with all that loud music playing, like this is some ghetto yard drop-stop.”

I cringe as my ears pop. Although she isn't really yelling, it feels as if she has a bullhorn up to her lips and she's screaming into my ear.

“Okay, okay. I'm up. Can I at least take a shower and put some clothes on before I have to face my inquisition,
please
?”

She narrows her eyes at me. I can tell she's ready to go off. She takes a deep breath. Then finally says, “You have ten minutes. And not a second over.” She glances at her watch. “Starting now.”

“I
'm very disappointed in you, Kennedy,” Mom says, eyeing me. We are siting at the kitchen table. A cup of green tea with honey is in front of me. Mom shakes her head. “I raised you better than this. No young respectable girl comes dragging herself into the house way past the crack of dawn, reeking of alcohol and marijuana smoke.”

“I wasn't smoking marijuana, Mom.” I say this as if it's going to make that big of a difference. As if it will lessen the consequences.

She eyes me incredulously. “So you think underage drinking makes it better?” She tilts her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better knowing that
my
sixteen-year-old daughter was only out God knows where
drinking
instead of
using
illicit drugs? Is that what you're telling me, Kennedy?”

“No ma'am.”

“So how was it?”

I blink. Give her a confused look. “How was what?”

“The party you were at? You know, the one you thought it was okay not to come home from.”

I lower my eyes from her burning stare. I fidget with the spoon in my hand, then dip it back into my steaming mug, stirring thoughtlessly.

Mom's fingers tap against the tabletop impatiently. “I'm waiting for an answer, Kennedy.”

“I'm sorry,” I say softly.

“No. Don't be sorry. I didn't ask for an apology. I want answers.”

I think to tell her some elaborate tale, but I can't remember exactly what I told her when I walked through the door this morning. I don't want to tell a lie that doesn't match whatever I've already told her. I am relieved when my mom unknowingly lets me off the hook from having to remember exactly what I told her when she asks me who this
friend
is I was out with last night.

“Her name is Sasha.”

She tilts her head. “And
how
do you know this
Sasha
girl?”

“From work.” I blow into my cup, then take a slow sip of my tea.

She purses her lips. “Mmm. Where does she live?”

“Across town,” I offer, hoping that'll be enough to satisfy her inquiry. It isn't. She wants to know exactly where
across
town she lives. I tell her not too far from the Flatlands, a subsidized housing development.

She purses her lips and keeps silent. I can tell she's thinking. “I see,” she finally says calmly. I can tell by the look in her eyes she isn't too happy about me being in the hood, but she doesn't say so. “And how old is she?” I tell her eighteen. “And you thought it was okay to stay out over this Sasha's house without me knowing anything about her or her family, is that right?”

I shake my head. “No. I know it wasn't okay. I was wrong for not coming home, or calling you to let you know where I was or that I was okay. I know I know better. I thought I'd be home before curfew, I really did.”

“So, let me get this straight. My sixteen-year-old daughter stayed the night over at some eighteen-year-old girl's house where her parent allowed underage drinking?”

“Her mom didn't know we were drinking.”

“So the two of you snuck alcohol into her parents' house, is that what you're telling me?”

“No. She kind of already had the alcohol in the house.” Okay, I know it's a lie.

“I see. And were there boys at this little party?”

“It wasn't a party.” Okay, it's another lie. And I feel horrible for looking my mom in the eye telling her this. I shift in my seat. “There weren't any boys there, just Sasha and a few of her girlfriends.”

“Kennedy, you know the rules. No sleepovers over anyone's house unless we've met the parents. No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. And definitely no sex.”

“I only drank.”

“But there was marijuana there... at this party, right?”

“It wasn't a party. And there wasn't any marijuana there.”

She gives me a blank stare. “Look, Kennedy. Do I look like I need to be in a clown suit or something to you?”

I shake my head. “No, ma'am.”

“Then why are you sitting here trying to insult my intelligence? I was your age once. You stumbled up in here reeking of alcohol, which you admit to drinking, and smelling like you were rolling around in a cloud of marijuana smoke.”

“But I didn't smoke any. I swear.”

She lets out a frustrated sigh. “But you were around it. Kennedy, I raised you better than that. Why would you be around someone smoking marijuana, huh?”

I shrug. “I didn't know there was going to be marijuana there.”

“And what if someone had called the cops and ended up raiding the place, then what? You would have been arrested, too.”

I lower my head. “I wasn't thinking. All I wanted was to have some fun, that's all. I didn't plan on getting drunk or staying out past curfew, or coming home hung over. I feel horrible for what I did.”

“And so you should.” She eyes me, then reaches over and places her hand over mine. “I'm angry and extremely upset with you. But I'm relieved that you're okay. That still doesn't mean you aren't punished.”

“I know I am. It won't happen again. I promise.”

“Let's hope, for your sake, it doesn't.”

Mom slides her chair back from the table, then stands. “Look, sweetheart. I know what it's like to be sixteen and wanting to be adventurous. You've always been inquisitive. And a good kid. And I don't want anything to change that. There can be a lot of peer pressure to sometimes do what's not right. I just don't want to see you getting caught up in peer pressure. Your father and I have taught you to make your own decisions, haven't we?”

I nod. “Yes. But I wasn't being pressured to do anything.”

She eyes me. “You should not be drinking. First of all, you're not old enough to drink. And secondly, anything could have happened to you out there being intoxicated. Young women get taken advantage of all the time.”

“I know, Mom,” I say sheepishly. “And I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”
Not getting drunk, that is.

She stares at me, then squeezes my hand. “Listen, sweetheart. I know my little baby girl is growing up. And I know your father and I have to trust you to do the right things. But all I'm asking is that you not grow up too fast. You have a bright future ahead of you.”

“I know, Mom,” I say.

She stares at me. Then narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you're not using drugs?” I tell her I'm sure. She wants to know if I've ever tried them. Again, I answer no. She eyes me as if she's trying to decide whether or not she should believe me. Technically, she shouldn't. I know it. Thankfully, she doesn't.

I run my hands across my eyes and over the crown of my head. I'm feeling queasy.

“I'm not naïve, Kennedy. I know what goes on at teen parties. The last thing I want is for you to get yourself caught up in something you can't get out of.”

“Mom, I won't.”

“You have one more year left, sweetheart, then you are off to Harvard or Yale.”

I swallow. “Can we please not talk about that right now?”

She sighs. “How long has this drinking been going on?”

“Last night was the first—and my
last
—time.” I groan. “I feel awful. I don't like it.”

She smiles. “Then I guess what you're going through should be punishment enough.”

“Are you going to tell Daddy?”

“No. You're going to get a pass, this time. But don't let it happen again.”

“I promise. I won't.”

 

The next day I'm on my thirty-minute lunch break sitting at a table in the food court filling Sasha in on all the drama with my mom.

“That lady better get her life,” she says, tilting her head, causing her bright fuchsia bangs to swing over her left eye. I've finished telling her that my mom wants to meet her. And she's not the least bit pleased about it. “I know dat's your momz 'n' all, but where dey do dat at? I ain't even 'bout to come to ya house 'n' let ya momz scrutinize me like I'm some backyard trash. I be done cussed her out, okay? She bet' not even try it. I'm too grown for da mom games, boo.”

I blink. “She's not trying it. Or playing games. She's only interested in seeing who I'm hanging out with.”

She snorts. “She better go have several seats at da Garden.”

I give her a blank stare.

“I know how dem uppity broadz like your momz move. They think their precious daughters are too good for chicks like me.”

“That's so not true,” I say defensively.

“Yeah, right. Lies. Rich broadz like your momz stay lookin' down at girls from da hood like we lepers or like we have a bad case of herpes. No ma'am. Dat ain't gonna happen. Not today. Not any other day. ”

“That's not her intention—to scrutinize you,” I say softly. “She just wants see who I'm hanging out with; that's all.”

She huffs. “Yeah, right. More lies you tell. What, she wanna make sure I'm good enough for her precious little princess to hang out wit'?” She rolls her eyes. “Girl, bye. Miss me wit' dat. Ain't no momz I know checkin' for dey kidz' friends. Ya momz is buggin' for real, girl. She doin' way too much.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Mmmph. Well, guess dat ish somewhere else 'cause ain't nobody got time to be meetin' her.” She waves me on dismissively. “Movin' on. So you tryna hit dis party up wit' me dis weekend or what?”

“I don't know,” I say. “I kind of promised my mom I wouldn't get into anymore trouble.”

She frowns. “Girl, bye! You betta get ya life! All dat good girl ish gonna get you is a buncha borin' nights at home. I know you ain't even 'bout to let her ruin ya summer fun, boo.”

She's right! I said I wanted to party and have fun. So why should I stop now when the fun is just getting started?

“What time are we going?”

She grins. “
Bish
, dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout. It's gonna be live. Trust.”