Chapter Twenty-Six

Dawn on Monday breaks obnoxiously bright, another hot, sunny summer day in Dell's Hollow. I wake early enough to watch the light seep through my bedroom curtains, even though I have no place to be. Yesterday's excruciating ride home was probably the last time I'll leave the house as a minor.

When my parents got to Richmond, they met Jo and me on the curb outside Mama Maple's Bacon and Eggs, the only friendly place I could think of to wait in Richmond (in separate booths, of course). My parents barely said a word to us, just "Are you girls okay?" and "Do we need to pay your bill at this restaurant?" We then got in the back seat of the Oatmobile and stared out our separate windows for the three-hour drive. With no radio, I might add—my parents' first of many punishments to come. The scenery whipping by the Oatmobile's windows was nearly identical to our ride up, but it felt impossibly different. Everything was different. I was no longer riding toward the person who mattered most to me, but leaving her behind. Just like she'd left me.

Jo didn't say a word to me when Dad pulled into the farmhouse driveway. She only thanked my parents and muttered a quick "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Blum" as she climbed out of the minivan. Then I watched her walk away, too, toward the distant figure of her own father waiting on the porch. She never looked back at me. And the worst part about our long ride home?

I'd had enough time to figure out that that was my fault, too.

How did I set off for Richmond convinced that I'd lost everything, only to come home with less? I roll over without bothering to check my phone, tucking in under the blankets; since I don't have a job, a volunteer club, a best friend, a girlfriend, or the R1 to take care of, maybe I can just stay here for the last month of summer vacation, cozy in my self-loathing.

Something creaks overhead.

I bolt upright after the moment it takes me to place the sound—it's been months since I've heard anyone moving around the attic besides me. I leap off my mattress to look out my bedroom window, which overlooks the driveway, and find it empty. Maybe Max parked by the road? She might've gotten here late and wanted to let herself in through the back porch door rather than wake everyone with the rumble of her bike.

As I sprint from my bedroom to the spiral staircase down the hall, a new scene unspools before me, scripting itself. My sister would have driven through the night to get here, plagued by regrets over the last words we hurled at each other. I picture it as I pound up the steps. She'll be sitting on the daybed in her old yolk-yellow room. She'll apologize, and then I'll apologize, and everything will be—

Perched stiffly on the edge of the daybed, Mom startles when I burst through the shower curtain into the attic. She's still in her pajamas and pilled, short summer bathrobe instead of the put-together athleisure that is her usual summer uniform, and has yesterday evening's coffee mug clutched between her hands. She went right to the coffee maker the moment we walked into the house, before Dad quietly banished me to my bedroom, telling me we'd talk tomorrow. I wonder how long she's been up here, if I missed the sounds of her climbing the staircase. I wonder if she ever went to sleep last night.

"El," Mom says when she recovers from her shock.

Still frozen in the doorway ("curtainway"?), I don't know what to say back.

She sighs. "I was planning to wait till later to talk, once your father was up. Or hell, once he was home from work. But I guess we can't put this off forever, huh?"

"I guess."

It's strange to hear her speak to me like … like she's a person, and like I'm a person. Mom pats the bed beside her, and I drift closer, though I stop just short.

That seems good enough for her, for now. "What were you thinking?" she asks, again, not as a parent might, but softly, as if she actually wants to know, and plans to listen.

Which makes me want to tell her the truth.

"I—I was trying to help Max. I thought if I could see her and talk to her, I could get her to come home. And maybe … if it was both of us asking, then you'd let her stay."

Mom stares down into what has to be a room-temperature mug of coffee, processing. "You made some pretty poor choices, El."

"I know."

"You could've been badly hurt, you and your friend."

"My girlfriend," I mutter instinctively, and then, "ex."

Mom looks up at that, raising an eyebrow. "Really? Well. I'm sorry about that."

I snort. "You didn't even like her."

"I didn't know her. I would've liked to have the chance. But I think I know why you didn't feel you could talk to us. To me. And I know it's because of my poor choices, too."

"So you're not mad?"

Mom blinks back at me. "Of course I'm mad, Eliana. I'm extremely mad. You drove a motorcycle across state lines without a license—"

"With a license!" I insist. "I—Max helped me get it, she …"

Mom winces at my sister's and my machinations, which are probably not helping my case. "And with another minor on the bike. That's on top of everything you two did to get in trouble in the first place. That was an appalling series of decisions, and you both might've been seriously hurt, in any number of ways. But." She sighs. "Your father and I have made some stinkers, too, starting with leaving you out of the conversation when Max went away. And God, before that. I can't tell you how many regrets we have over your sister and the choices we made."

Though I'm scared of the answer, I force myself to ask, "Do you regret kicking her out?"

"El … we didn't kick your sister out."

Wait, that's not true.

That can't be true.

"Max was furious with us when we told her that going pro was off the table until after college. She never even wanted to go to school. She would've kept riding forever. But we truly believed she wasn't able to handle that life without burning out. Even when she was your age, she was getting into trouble, falling in with trouble. You were just a kid then, so maybe you didn't see it, and we sure didn't want you to. But there were nights when she never came home, places she went that she never told us about, and we … We told her no, that she had to go to school. We wanted to keep her safe. That was our mistake, too, because she was miserable there."

"You think you should've let her go pro?"

Mom sets her mug down on the floor to clasp her hands together and prop her chin on her fists. "No. I don't know. I still wonder what we could've done differently, how we could have kept her safe without holding on so tight. Maybe there isn't an answer. When she dropped out, she came home and fell back in with the same crowd anyway, the same bad habits. I thought working for Jolene might keep her straight; that's a good woman, and I know she was there for your sister when Max didn't want me to be. In the end, though, after she crashed the car and got her DUI—"

"She what?"

My mother winces. "Like I said, we didn't want you to know. Another mistake, because it seems you've been walking around with the idea that we ‘tossed Max away.'"

Now it's my turn to wince, as my words from our fight come back to haunt me. "Dad said you didn't," I remember, though I was too caught up to listen at the time.

"We gave her a choice. Get clean, get it together. We would help her, give her any support or resources she needed. But we told her that we had another daughter to think of, and that we couldn't allow her to put you in danger with her choices. You thought the world of your big sister, and we wanted that for you, but we were terrified you'd be with Max some night, and things would go bad. So we told her she had to pick: the track she was on, or—"

"Me," I offer around the pound of gravel in my throat.

"No," Mom insists. "All of us. Her family. But she wasn't in a place to make that commitment, and … and you know what happened after that."

I don't know what to do with this, where to put this information. Max was never kicked out. She had a choice. She told me to take care of her bike, all the while knowing that she wasn't coming back for it, or for me. Whatever I thought I felt on the sidewalk outside of her apartment, it's nothing compared to this: not just losing my sister, but this idea of a sister I never really had. "I must've looked so fucking stupid, telling her I came to bring her home," I realize aloud.

"Listen to me." My mother turns on the daybed to face me for the first time. "Maybe Max will come home one day. Or maybe we'll all have a relationship from afar. I have to believe we will, because she's my daughter, and I love her. But that's not your responsibility, El. And if we're comparing mistakes—which, yes, you certainly made a few—then your dad and I made the same mistakes we made with Max all over again, holding on to you so tightly. You're a good kid, but before that, you're my daughter, and I love you, and all I ever want for you is to be okay."

I sink into my mom and she wraps her arms around me; it's a little stiff with lack of practice, but I could stay here forever instead of facing the mess I've made.

Unfortunately, that's not a choice I can make.

"I fucked up with JoJo," I mumble into her shoulder. "A lot. And with Zaynah."

"Well. Now you have the chance to fix things."

I suppose that's true. "So am I not grounded?" I sniff.

"Oh, El. You are absolutely grounded. And you will not be driving anything with an engine for some time."

"So what, I'm just walking to school in the fall?"

She hugs me a little closer. "Have you considered a bicycle?"