19. Pissing Contest

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pissing Contest

T he Texas landscape blurs into a haze of greens and browns from the bus. Daisy reclines beside me, her head resting against the window, her blue eyes reflecting the passing scenery. We point out the cows each time we pass them. We're heading home for Spring Break. To my home, specifically.

Daisy suggested we make this trip together.

To be honest, I'm not sure whether she's doing it to avoid her family or to support me with mine. She claims it's going to be like a field trip for her anthropology class with Professor Avery, to see how my crazy family lives.

The bus pulls into Port Lavaca. The familiar dread overtakes me. The town is small, the kind of place where everyone knows your business before you do. My parents live on the outskirts, in a rundown house that's seen better days. Rusty, our old dog, greets us with squinty eyes and a wagging butt.

My father raises an eyebrow at Daisy. "You say you're studying engineering? Ain't that dangerous, what with all the wires?"

"Yes," Daisy says, her expression completely solemn. "I wear a helmet whenever I have to go up in the articulated boom lift."

I manage not to crack a smile as she describes working for a telephone company, instead of the edge of nanotechnology that she loves.

"You're so skinny," my mother says. She has no boundaries, so she accompanies these words with pats on Daisy's arms and hips. "Are you sick, dear? I have the hardest time keeping food down, you know."

Daisy, bless her, chats with my parents, asking them about their lives, their opinions, as if they're the most interesting people she's ever met.

She charms them, which is not really a surprise.

The surprise is that they actually settle into something resembling half-decent behavior. My mother reclines on the sofa with her pained martyrdom. My father sits in his recliner, a blank smile plastered on his face.

There's only one tense moment, when my mother asks me for money. Her new medicine helps, but it's a brand name. Five hundred dollars a bottle. Even knowing it's a lie doesn't help my shame that I can't give it to her.

"I don't have any money," I say honestly.

My father slams his hand on the table, making everyone jump. "You could be here earning money for her treatment. You go off reading books, letting her die, because you never did give a shit about family."

I flinch at the harsh words. I've heard them before, but somehow they hurt every time. Though no tears fall. A long time ago my body realized it would be a waste of resources.

Daisy defends me. "She's working so hard at school, doing what almost no one else could do. Getting As in classes that everyone else struggles with."

My parents stare at her like she's speaking another language.

They don't understand, don't want to understand, but I appreciate the attempt. Sometimes I dream of saying a few things to her family. Most likely the same thing would happen. They don't have any empathy.

She and I explore the town together during the day. I take her to the high school, the library, the diner where I waitressed—my usual haunts. I also show her the place where seniors set off firecrackers behind the bleachers for their prank, the grove where people park their cars to make out, the community center, where people gather over bingo cards to complain about the youths.

She has this ability to make friends everywhere she goes. I always knew about it, but it's different seeing it on campus compared to the town. It's not like people were mean to me here. If anything, I got my share of sympathy for my parents. Everyone knows about the Hill family. But I rejected anything that seemed like pity. And I suspect that I might have taken genuine overtures of friendship or kindness that way, too.

I watch her ask questions about the thirty varieties of tomato that Mrs. Ferguson grows, a smile at my lips. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I almost care about the various water content or flesh thickness of the fruit slash vegetable. It occurs to me that everyone has their own version of Shakespeare, something they're obsessed with, something that has value…not only for them, but for the world.

At night, we share my bedroom, taking turns on the bed and the old, moth-eaten sleeping pad, whispering in the dark things that would be too hard to say in the light. Things like how I miss Stratford, even though I shouldn't. Things like how she hurts thinking about her family, but she knows she'll go back.

Rusty passes back and forth between us, providing comfort to whichever one of us needs it, pressing his face into our necks, his fur absorbing our tears until we can laugh it off once again. He's a godsend.

He's also turning so gray. It hurts to look at him, to know I'm missing the final years or even months of his life. Life is about choices. I could stay with him, but I'd lose myself. I suppose the same is true of Stratford.

Which just proves what my childhood taught me.

Love is not a good thing. It's deep water. And the worst part is, we put the chains on ourselves and sink to the bottom.

Daisy and I also clean the house.

That's my job, and I can't skip it even with a guest.

The house is spotless now, every surface scrubbed, every corner dusted. It's a futile attempt to cleanse the space of the toxicity that lingers in the air. Daisy had thrown herself into the task alongside me with a determination that I both admired and found embarrassing .

"I told you not to come," I say, my voice tinged with regret.

She waves me off. "Gotta get rid of the calories somehow."

I roll my eyes, because she probably weighs half as much as me. "Don't get rid of any calories. You are literally the perfect shape."

She snorts. "Don't tell me you're mad about your curves, the ones that make your Professor get all hot and bothered—"

"Stop right there," I interrupt, my cheeks flaming. I glance towards the closed door, paranoid that my parents might overhear.

Daisy grins, her dimples on full display. "Sorry not sorry."

As I sit there, surrounded by the familiar walls of my childhood bedroom, I'm reminded of just how far I've come—and how much further I still have to go. Daisy's presence is a comforting one, but it's also a stark reminder of the secrets I'm keeping. We'll return to Tanglewood soon, and I'll be thrust back into the tumultuous world of academic competition, illicit affairs, and secret societies.

On the last night, we make our way to a local bonfire.

Daisy's in her element, laughing and chatting with a group of locals as if she's known them all her life. I envy her ability to adapt, to find joy in the companionship of others.

I've never known how to do that.

I wander away from the firelight, the darkness of the woods enveloping me like an old friend. My phone screen contrasts with the natural gloom around me. I open the online program where the latest draft for my paper waits.

As I start to re-read it for the millionth time, I notice another icon in the document. He's here, reading it, too. Adrenaline jolts through me. The thought of him being here with me, even though we're miles apart, thrills me.

It also terrifies me, how connected I feel.

The paper is basically done. I might change one single word every time I read through it, sometimes one as small as a preposition. The limit of three thousand words means that every single one counts.

I've cited a study that proves that prolonged objectification contributes to psychological trauma, as well as depersonalization. Ophelia becomes a spectator in her own life.

At her funeral, Hamlet and Laertes fight over who loved her more, but it's performative. Neither actually knows her. She is an object to them, even in death.

I press enter and type, Essentially, it's a pissing contest.

He only has access to read and comment. That's what he does now, adding a note on the new sentence. Insightful. Accurate. Lacking the pedagogical language that will make this accepted in academia.

I grin. I'm going to erase the line in a minute, but I'm enjoying this. Even though I probably shouldn't. There's nothing romantic about editing a document together, is there? I delete pissing contest and replace it with an unproductive competition driven by pride, where participants assert authority over one another using archaic or harmful metrics.

Better , he adds in a new comment. Though now you're over word count.

I delete the sentence altogether, but reply to this comment. Sometimes pedagogical language is not better. It's just longer.

Blasphemous , he replies. And accurate.

Branches rustle. Feet whisper over the loamy earth.

Red, one of the local guys, his girlfriend, a sweet, doe-eyed girl whose name I can't quite remember. They settle down near me, their voices barely more than a whisper. I hold my breath, hoping they won't notice me. My heart sinks as they begin to kiss, murmuring sex words, love words. My cheeks burn.

I swallow hard, my mind racing as I try to think of a way to escape without being noticed. But then the girlfriend speaks. "I'm pregnant."

There's a long pause, and then Red's voice comes too low to understand. It's almost as low as the vibration of the earth. It's urgent, too. And…somehow I can tell, full of promises. That's what's happening right now. A family is being made. That should be sweet. It is sweet, but a shiver runs down my spine.

This is what happens to girls who stay in Port Lavaca.

Getting pregnant. Getting married. Often in that order.

I never wanted that.

Which is why I need my degree. I need the Tempest Prize. It's not a game to me. It's my escape pod from this adorable and stifling small town. There's only so long I can watch my life as a spectator. This is how I break free.