Brilliant by Rachel Vail Page A

my childhood in London that I barely remembered beyond my stories of it and those snapshot moments like reading/eavesdropping at my mother’s feet—where we lived even when we moved back to the States, back to New York but not the city, to the town where Mom grew up, just beyond walking distance to her parents’ house—none of those places were home to her.
    That’s what made me mad.
    Her home wasn’t our home, where she was right then with us, with her husband and children. Her home was amemory. It didn’t belong to me.
    Hearing her say home and mean not our home but her old home made me feel profoundly not sturdy.
    I never admitted this to anybody.
    But waking up that Sunday morning I admitted it to myself, after the dream. Her home, but not my home, and I didn’t like when she called that home home . It was a betrayal, being mad at my mother for that, being mad at my mother at all, after everything she did, does for us, but there it was. I was mad at her. This is our home, you jerk, I thought in the room I woke up in, the stark white room that screamed its betrayal at me all night as I slept and wrecked my dreams. This is my home, and you are taking it away from me.
    I got up and hauled myself into the bathroom to stare at my still slightly swollen lips for a minute or two. Jelly had been so happy about hooking up with JD, who actually did seem like a sweet guy, though not nearly smart enough for Jelly. She pointed out that she wasn’t planning to be SAT study partners with him, just to have fun this summer, and why not?
    She was absolutely right. I was determined to want the same with Mason. I could still feel the imprint from his strong hands on my back and sides.
    Enough thinking about that, I told myself, and took a long, hot shower.
    I went with my father to pick up bagels and pastriesto bring to the house my mother grew up in, the house it seemed pretty clear we were going to move to. We listened to music in the car and he sang along in his happy off-key way, and then focused on choosing food in the store. He offered to let me drive on the way home, so I got in on what felt like the wrong side of the car and buckled up. He told me to check my mirrors. “You always want to know where you are compared to what’s around you,” he pointed out.
    “Yeah,” I said. “That would be good.”
    I backed out of the spot. We didn’t talk; we focused on my driving. At a light, though, he said, “So it looks like we’ll be moving in with your grandparents for a while.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You okay with that?”
    The light turned green. “I guess.” I eased out. “Are you?”
    “It’s going to be hard for all of us,” he said. “Especially Mom. But like everything in life, I guess, it’s just temporary. So we all have to…”
    “I know,” I assured him.
    “I’m so proud of you, Quinn,” he said. “You amaze me, how maturely and lovingly you are dealing with all this. Mom and I really appreciate you.”
    I fake-smiled and kept my eyes on the road. I ventured a question at the next stop sign. “Are you mad? At all? At her?”
    “At Mom?” he asked.
    I shrugged and accelerated. “She’s the one who—”
    “No, Quinn. I’m not mad. She’s the one who what? Supported us all these years? Worked in a high-risk industry and didn’t succeed a hundred percent of the time? Why would I be angry at that? Why would you be?”
    “I’m not.” I retreated. “Sorry I asked.”
    “You’ll learn, Quinn, as you grow up, that everything doesn’t always go perfectly. And when—not if, when—it doesn’t, that’s when your humanity is tested.”
    “Fine, okay, I was just asking. I didn’t say I was mad.” I kept my eyes on the road and didn’t ask my other questions, like, What if I want to invite friends over after school, when we’re living at Grandma’s? Would I be allowed? And how awkward, inviting them to my grandparents’ house! Not that I ever really invited people over, but what if I wanted