Thicker Than Water (3 page)

WHEN MY DAD BOUGHT THE FARM, HE CALLED IT AN “INVESTMENT.”
It was really the opposite.

“Look, I don't know what you want me to say,” Dad said, his voice elevated just below a yell. “I'm doing the best I can.”

I stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened to him on the phone. He didn't know we were back from Dr. Frank's. Cyrus had immediately slunk downstairs to smoke, despite the fact that we stopped in a rest area less than an hour before. There's nothing like watching your brother pulverize a handful of pills on top of a flyer about preventing forest fires.

Dad hung up the phone like it had feelings—a fierce clatter. That was my cue; I started up the stairs.

“Dad, we're home.”

“Oh, CeCe. Hey. How's it going?”

I watched the transition, which was slower than usual. The one where Dad pulled his face up into a contorted smile, like there were strings attached to his skin that made it defy gravity and stress. Ladies and gentlemen—my father, the puppet.

“I'm okay. Who was on the phone?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, you know how telemarketers are. Always wanting your money for something.”

Translation: You know how creditors are. Always wanting your money because you owe them.

“Can I make you something to eat?” he asked, heading for the pantry.

“No, thanks. I need to finish my application.”

“Oh, okay. The scholarship thing, right?”

“Yeah. The scholarship thing.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Like yawning, the move was contagious; I touched my ponytail. The black strands felt ratty and knotted together from having the car windows down.

“Actually, I think I'll take a shower first,” I said, turning to go.

“Your brother all right? His appointment go okay?”

I stopped under the weight of the question. There was
my
answer and there was the answer Dad wanted. I closed my eyes.

“Fine, Dad. He got a script for two months instead of one.”

I could almost hear his smile.

“Well, now, that's smart of him! That'll save us a bundle
in gas and a visit fee. See, Cecelia, you aren't the only one with brains in the family.”

It took almost an hour for those words to stop echoing in my ears.

My hair was still damp when I sat back down at the computer to finish my essay, but I couldn't really concentrate. Instead, I stared at the screen.

Should I say something to Dad again? Should I remind him that Dr. Frank's just a quack, more interested in money than medicine? Should I convince him that Cy's crushing and smoking and snorting his pills, transforming them until they can't possibly be considered a prescription for pain and can only be considered drugs?

Yeah, right.

Let's run through my previous attempts at enlightening my father, shall we?

“Dad, I don't think it's a good idea for Cyrus to go to this doctor. I've heard some bad stuff about him—Natalie's dad said he's a total pill pusher.”

“CeCe, we need to be supportive of your brother. You know how hard it's been for him. If this doctor makes the difference, it's worth it.”

Fast-forward . . .

“Dad, Cyrus is skipping classes. A couple of the guys on the team talked to me today. They're worried about him.”

“I'll ask your brother about it. It must be a misunderstanding.”

And only weeks later . . .

“Dad, I think Cy's in trouble. Those pills he's taking—I think they're becoming a problem.”

“Oh, so, what, you're a doctor now?”

“No . . . I just think he might be abusing his prescription.”

“Your brother is fine. He is taking medication, prescribed by a DOCTOR, for his knee. We can't afford surgery right now, Cecelia. This is the best I can do.”

So, no, I didn't think it would matter if I tried talking to Dad again. Denial isn't a river, it's a refuge. It's where you go for answers when the truth is a) too upsetting, b) too far-fetched, or c) too ugly.

I pulled up my half-complete application and watched the flashing cursor. The blinking black line was distracting, like a neon sign.
This is pointless
, it flashed.
Scholarships aren't awarded to charity cases.

We all make choices. The college fund my parents started when I was little went into Cy's soccer training and equipment. They thought he would've gone pro by now. Things didn't quite go as planned. Mom's dead and buried, and Cyrus—well, he's on his way there, too, I guess.

When I turned fifteen, I was old enough to get a part-time job—old enough to start saving for the future. But Dad convinced me that I should load up on academics, take more AP classes instead.

“Colleges look at transcripts first and foremost,” he reasoned. “Not work experience flipping pizzas.”

But that was before the farm, before every cent he had went into tillers and irrigation and Leafgro. A few days ago, I'd heard him say something to Jane about foreclosure. As much as I resented the farm, it was the last bit of stability we had left.
Losing it would mean admitting how lost we really were.

I clicked until I reached the Edenton scholarship application checklist. I scanned the page. High School Transcripts—in the mail. Activities and Awards List—saved and printed. Essay—making progress. SAT scores—hopefully on their way. I sat for the test later than I wanted to; it took a while to scrape together the enrollment fee.

I scrolled back my application essay and reread my words. All my application topics had similar vague topics that had deceptively simple answers. Case in point—“Describe one life event that has shaped you as a person.”

It was hard enough to narrow it down to one.

            
Cecelia Price

            
Application #: 21184

            
Topic Choice:

            
Describe one life event that has shaped you as a person.

            
I was barely a teenager when we found out my mom was sick. At first, it was hard to see it. She didn't stop working or cooking dinner. It wasn't until the prescription bottles started lining the kitchen window that it was really in our faces.

               
Those bottles were impossible to ignore. In the morning, they were like a sunny panel of stained glass—the full ones let through a smattering of gold
sunlight, while the almost-empty ones allowed a wash of color to bathe the counters and sink. At night, I'd scrub the soapy dishes and pretend they were candles, a line of tea lights that caught the reflection of the setting sun or the ceiling lamp. It was easier to see them as glass or fire. It was too hard to call them what they were—vessels filled with something my mother needed, something her body found necessary to keep her alive.

               
When you're little, you learn that medicines are a good thing, they make you healthy. If you have an ear infection, you swallow gooey pink liquid that's kept in the fridge. If you spike a fever, a dropper of grape syrup bathes your mouth in something sweeter than candy.

               
The first thing I learned from my mother's cancer was that medicine doesn't really make you better. It just delays the inevitable, allowing you to hang on for dear life. But it doesn't make you stronger or brighter. It just buries your flame in something like ash. You might still smolder, but you will never flare again.

On Monday, my friend Natalie was waiting for me next to the college tour bulletin board. It had been stripped of last year's university pamphlets and it looked like a face—tan and pockmarked, with a few pushpin piercings. Our high school guidance office made a lot of promises—not the least
of which was that they'd guide us toward something. The bulletin board was a halfhearted attempt.

“You look at the list yet?” I asked her. Natalie shook her head.

“I wanted to wait for you—that way we can sign up for the same ones.”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. I'd known Natalie since middle school and she'd never grown out of the bandwagon mentality. Case in point—when lacrosse became the sport du jour, she immediately began dating a series of varsity players. The most recent one, Jeremy, was actually sticking around.

I looked at the sign-up sheet on the back of the office door. Our high school started the College Tour Crawl two years before—you could hitch a ride to different nearby universities every other Saturday. It was free and it meant you didn't have to rely on your parents to take you on the weekday tours.

There were ten schools on the fall list. I'd been accepted to three of them, but I started signing my name next to every one.

“You're going to go to
all
of them?” Natalie sounded doubtful. “I thought you were, like, completely committed to Edenton.”

“Edenton is expensive.” I shrugged. “I just figure I need to keep my options open. Have a backup plan—isn't that what the counselors are always saying?”

“I dunno. I usually zone out when I'm in those college prep assemblies.” She took the pen when I finished and
jotted her name next to the first two schools. She paused with her hand hovered over the Edenton slot. “So—I mean, if you're probably going to go there, is there any reason to take an informational tour? Can't we just explore the campus in the fall when you're actually enrolled?”

I slung my book bag back on my shoulder and shook my head.

“I want to go see it.”

What I don't say? That going on a college tour at my dream school might actually make my dreams still feel possible.

“I gotta go to Chem. I'll see you later.”

Some classes seem fundamentally useless. Chemistry was the opposite. I liked the whole concept of substances interacting with one another, of creating something new when there was nothing there.

Dr. Schafer was our only doctor-teacher. It made kids either listen to her or try to see if they could push her buttons. Fortunately, Organic Chem was for advanced students, not assholes who threw things covered in their own spit. I was halfway to my seat when Dr. S called my name.

“CeCe? Could you come here?”

I knew what she was going to say. I could see it in her down-turned mouth, her furrowed brow. I braced myself for impact.

“CeCe,” she said, her voice lowered, “I still haven't received your lab fee.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“I wouldn't bring it up, except that we're starting acidity
and alkalinity at the end of this week and, in order to supply you with your materials, I have to have —”

“My dad must have forgotten to send in the check. I'll say something to him tonight.”

“Right. Okay. Well, listen”—voice even lower, eyes full of pity—“the guidance office runs a program for people who need some assistance with school fees. If you'd like, I can say something.”

“No, that's okay.”

“Are you sure? It's nothing to be ashamed of, CeCe—”

“No,” I repeated icily. “I'll take care of it.” I tried to sound a little less hostile. I liked Dr. Schafer. I was hoping she'd write me a another scholarship recommendation letter. Besides, you really shouldn't bite the hand that grades you.

When lunch rolled around, I headed for the library. I never ate in the cafeteria, not since Natalie found Jeremy and spent the whole time making out with him. Instead, I made a deal with the librarian: I could hang out for my thirty-minute lunch if I spent fifteen of it shelving returns. I liked the library. It was a good place to work through lab reports or homework.

I started with my statistics problems. There was just something about solutions—the fact that they existed, I guess—that made me feel a little more grounded. There's a reason why they're called math
problems
, so there had to be a reason why I was able to solve them without even breaking a sweat. Either that or numbers were an easier language for me to read. The beginnings and endings were much
clearer and the absence of emotion was refreshing.

After I finished, I sifted through that day's returned books and started to roll my cart toward the far end of the room. The front left wheel let out a high-pitched squeak and I pushed a little faster.

“Is that her?”

I heard the whispered words, even over the protesting wheel.

I'd seen them come in a few minutes ago, before I got up to start shelving. Jason Oliver and Lucas Andrews. If everyone in high school had to wear a label, Jason's would have said “Stoner.” I'd gone to school with him since elementary—I think he'd been a smoker even then. He usually reeked of BO and pot.

I didn't know much about Lucas, except that he was too blond and tan to be from around here. Someone once told me that he grew up in L.A., and that made sense. He was almost too good-looking, like a silk flower arrangement. Too pretty to be real.

I figured they were here to ditch class, and I wasn't going to be a narc about it—ignoring them was good enough for me. Apparently it wasn't good enough for them.

“Hey, Cecelia—that's your name, right?”

Jason. He had long, stringy hair that was brown, I think—it was a little too greasy for me to be sure. Sometimes he had it tucked back in a hat, but that day he'd chosen to follow the school rules—no headgear. It might be the only one he'd ever followed.

I'd reached the paranormal shelf, but I'd have to slide past
him to put the books up. I grabbed one in each hand.

“Yeah. I'm Cecelia,” I said, trying to sidestep him. “And you're Jason. We've gone to school together since we were five.”

Despite my efforts not to, I brushed up against him. I forced myself not to shudder.