June

I'd never been that grateful for the existence of school. At the least, it caused me to have less time to spend on missing Nathan. I even welcomed Matt Granton slamming his locker shut when I passed by to make me startle, inviting me to taunt him with the fact he had to redo sophomore year, and that I would be one of the students tutoring him. There was a rumor going around the hallways that Amy Wang's baby was his, something I refused to believe, seeing as how Amy was a nice person and Matt Granton was not. The result, however, was that for once, he was more stared at and giggled about than me, and I certainly didn't mind that. The only thing that genuinely stung was the idea that someone would want to sleep with that asshole, while I hadn't even been kissed yet. Mad world.

I'd wanted to take Arts 854 that year, but the guidance counselor had advised against it: I'd never be a star at it with my coordination, she'd said, and it'd be wiser to pick something I had a chance to excel at. Hayley thought it was harsh; Sam told me I could draw just fine and he'd help me if needed. I only appreciated her honesty. Yeah, painting was fun. It wasn't going to ensure I'd be admitted to a decent college, though.

I ended up taking Computer Programming and Web Design, and to my surprise, it turned out I was really quick on the uptake of the material. It was a bit like writing: piece by piece, you were building something, and in the end, you either created something you could be proud of or something that fell apart the minute you began to poke at it. Most of the time, if it didn't work, you could fix it, and then when it was finally ready... Oh, that was one of the most satisfying feelings I'd ever experienced.

Soon enough, I was asked to join the after-school Computer Science club led by our teacher, something I genuinely enjoyed. Three other people participated, two boys who kept glancing at me whenever I said something as if they'd never seen a girl before — or more probable, never seen a disabled girl before. The other, a very handsome senior called Malik, was constantly trying to help me without me having asked for it, whether it was by carrying my stuff or finding the flaw in my latest website. In the beginning, I'd been patient, as he meant well. Polite, June. After a few weeks, however, I'd exploded: he'd zipped up my bag, something I easily could've done myself, and I was done with nicely explaining I was quite capable of taking care of myself.

Weirdly enough, me shouting at him in half Spanish, half English, resulted in us being friends of some sort. Hayley was jealous of me; she said she loved him and wanted to have his babies. Yeah, I didn't think she meant any of it. Sam kept on telling her he felt sorry for her future kids, as surely they wouldn't be allowed to eat anything but lettuce. I was starting to suspect deep down he longed to be the father of those poor salad-eating souls.

I wasn't the only one who was doing better: Nathan was as well. As a consequence, we had fewer and fewer opportunities to talk to each other, with the time difference, me being at school all day, and him working his ass off and spending a considerable amount of his evenings in a pub called The Albion, together with Albert. Nathan continued to swear Albert was a scary guy, but honestly, I thought he was as big a softie as Nathan himself. I'd dubbed him 'the Englishman who didn't like to speak' and had written a short story about him — Albert had loved it and had sent me such detailed feedback he could've been an editor for all I knew.

I'd never had a conversation with the man, but Nathan said that was normal and that he hadn't had one yet as well, and probably would never have one either. He really looked up to Albert; half of the things he told me involved him one way or another, and most of the time when we FaceTimed, Albert was right there next to him. Sometimes, when they'd won the pub quiz together on Friday nights —yes, pub quiz, not a joke— he'd call me up totally wasted, blabbering about the questions they'd answered correctly, probably not realizing how adorable it was when he did that. I would be doing homework with Hayley, and Sam would be walking in, take a look at our amused expressions, and say: "Jeez. Nathan shit-faced again?"

One time, Nathan called me when I'd been cooking pasta for my dad and promptly held a whole drunken conversation with him. Dad was chortling every other sentence. "Seems like he's fitting in, huh?" he said afterward, and suddenly, it wasn't all that hilarious anymore.

The one person who didn't think it was funny at all, was my mom. Our relationship hadn't improved after Nathan had left; on the contrary, most of the time when I was with her, she'd zone out, staring into nothing at all. I was getting worried about her. She was letting herself go; there were days she wouldn't shower or comb her hair, and sometimes she'd serve dad microwave food. He never complained, nor would he ever confide in me, but by the number of cigarette butts I found on the porch each week, I could tell he was concerned about her as well.

I was making an effort to reconnect with her. She was my mom. Yeah, she wasn't the easiest woman to be around, and we had both hurt each other — that didn't mean it always had to be like this, right? I'd gotten older. I'd realized adults weren't invincible; I was reminded of it every day, with dad coughing and shuffling around the house. She was just a person. I was too. We'd both made our mistakes. But I loved her, and when you loved someone, mistakes could be forgiven.

So, that was why I was here now, doing the dishes, mom drying them absentmindedly. She was slow, barely finishing one fork per minute, and she was far away again. Large circles hooded her eyes; her hair was dull, pulled up in a messy bun that only accentuated the grey replacing the black. She didn't look like a forty-two-year-old woman anymore. More like fifteen years on top of that.

I was in a brooding mood, and her deafening silence only made it worse. A few hours ago, Charlotte had added a picture of her and Nathan to her Instagram, sickeningly perfect, her laughing hard but beautiful, him looking at her with this slight, sweet smile, wearing these fancy clothes like they were planning to attend a wedding. Why did they look this good together? The comments had made me sick to the stomach, all saying something along the lines of perfect couple and when is that ring coming and I had almost hurled my laptop at the wall. "Are you okay, June?" Malik had asked hesitantly, throwing a glance at the screen. "Something not working out?"

Yes. Something was definitely not working out. For me, at least.

I couldn't get the picture out of my head. My heart hadn't hurt this much since the day he left. It was like someone was slowly scratching lines in it with broken pieces of glass Christmas ornaments; even the green ring on my finger couldn't comfort me. Didn't know it was possible to hate someone you hadn't talked to in four months with such intensity it made you want to get on a plane and strangle them with your bare hands. And yes, never say you hate someone, unless it's the absolute truth. Sometimes, I wished I had kissed him, right in front of her, at the airport, not because he might've stayed then, but because it would've caused a whole lot of drama and it would've messed with her mind.

With a sigh, I reached out for a couple of knives lying on the bottom of the sink. My brain screwed up, and my hand shot back without me wanting to, causing a wave of water to splash over the edge, crashing down on the floor, the knives falling to my feet, clattering loudly. Fuck. Part of my shirt and pants were drenched, making it look I'd pissed myself. Great.

I bent down to pick the cutlery up, but they were slippery, and I couldn't get a grip on them. I felt mom's eyes on me; it made the task even more difficult.

"Oh, just let me do it!" She swatted my hand aside, plucking the forks from the ground with ease, dumping them back in the sink. Her movements were abrupt and noisy and made me startle. "Looks like you can't even do the dishes anymore..."

My face heated and I clenched my fists — that wasn't fair. This had always happened, and it would always continue to happen. Where was the woman who would laugh and tell me to get a towel, joking that it wasn't bathing time yet? Sure, she was having a rough time, though that didn't justify her getting angry over something I had no control over. Why did she have to make me feel incompetent?

I took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that were queuing up behind my eyes. "If you don't want me here," I said, cursing myself for the lack of power in my voice, "then just tell me."

She planted her elbows on the counter, hiding her face with her hands, fingers gripping the ends of her hair. She stayed like that for a while, totally still. Was she crying? I had no way to know. Finally, she turned to me, her eyes cold and empty. "You're my daughter," she said, "and I love you. But every time you walk through that door, I can see it. See that you don't really want to be here."

I looked away, grabbing my own arms. It was true. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be home, with Sam and Hayley, or on the porch with dad, or at school, and most of all, I wanted to be in London, with Nathan. I didn't want to be with her because she was this entity draining all my energy and self-esteem. I was trying, though. Didn't that count?

"It's my fault," she said, and I wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or to me. She yanked the tea-towel from the hook, flinging it to the ground and furiously wiping it across the beaten linoleum with her boot. The towel was soaked in only a few seconds, already useless. She didn't seem to notice. "I should've kept you away from those boys. You're spoiled. I failed you."

"Mom, what on earth are you talking about?" I was starting to panic; the nausea had returned, strong and thriving again. I dug my nails into my skin, hoping the hurt would prevent any unwanted movements, including crying. I did not want to cry. She'd only be annoyed.

She abandoned the towel, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her eyes were fixated on mine, scaring me: I didn't recognize her. "You've been whining ever since he left, caressing that ring like it means something, forcing your dad to cuddle you and tell you it'll be fine, feeling oh so sorry for yourself — pathetic, June. Is this how I raised you?" Her lips trembled, bleak and dry. "Is this who you've become? Weak and helpless?"

Her words nestled themselves in my heart like sharp little needles, injecting me with something that paralyzed me to the bone. Was this what she thought about me? Was this how she saw me? I couldn't believe it — I didn't want to believe it.

"There are more men in this world. Men who will win your affection with care, instead of money."

There was a lump in my throat, and I gasped, no longer able to hold back the tears. What was happening? Who was this woman? Didn't she remember how she used to tease me, saying I should marry either Nathan or Sam? Didn't she remember how we laughed about it? I swallowed, briskly drying my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. "So, you think I love Nathan because of his money?" It barely came out, and I hated myself for not being able to remain collected.

She laughed, a laugh full of contempt and disbelief. "Love?" she said, shaking her head. "Love is what your father and I gave you. This boy moved across the planet with a stuck-up, rich girlfriend, leaving you behind with some old, ugly ring. And why? To make even more money. Because that's what these people do. They take their money and try to turn it into more money." She took the sponge and fervently began scraping it over the bottom of a pan. Water was flying everywhere; she didn't seem to care. "And you still think you love him? Then you're really ruined." She stopped moving, seizing the sides of the sink, her body straining. "You're not his equal... I should've — I should've done my job. I should've taught you that, like my mother taught me. Taught you that you aren't blond, and that you aren't rich, and that your parents aren't educated... People like him, they see people like you as a nice little project to make them feel better about themselves."

This didn't make any sense. At all. My cheeks were now as wet as my shirt, and I was shivering, unable to speak; it hurt so much, like the things I wanted to say were imprisoned together in my throat, too many of them to fit in the tight space. "Mom," I forced out, voice stranger than ever, "why are you saying these things?"

"I should've said them before."

This wasn't her. This wasn't mom. Something in her had broken. Was it when dad was consoling me over the fact Nathan was gone? Was it when I came back from the trip, full of stories about luxurious hotel rooms and magical music? Was it during New Year's, when she'd left shortly after midnight, claiming she had a headache? Was it when she found out about the clothes? When dad almost died?

Was it the day we came to California?

"I'm not weak," I said. "I'm in love, and my heart is broken. I think that'll make me pretty strong in the end." I took a deep breath, pushing myself to look at her, at that face I knew so well, and didn't know at the same time. "I try my best, mom. I love you, and I love dad, and I think you're the best parents I could've wished for. And it's not your fault, but these past two years have been shit. And whatever you think of Sam and Nathan, they have made it better, and they didn't have to use any money to do that."

I neared her, wanting to wrap my arms around her, make her feel that I loved her, that I really did — she backed away, holding up her hands to stop me. It was more painful than anything she'd said. "Mom, I know you don't want to hear this. But please listen to me. I think... I think you should use our insurance and go see a therapist."

She laughed again. "You even think like them. A therapist!"

It took all of me not to break down — because I realized if I did, it would only make the situation worse. This was beyond anything dad or I could fix. This was deep, all-consuming unhappiness, and it had nothing to do with me or Sam or Nathan, and everything to do with her hard life, working day and night, missing her family. "I think you're depressed, mom. I might be sad, but you... I do see you. I do hear you. And what I see and hear... I think you need help."

She raised her finger at me, in a flash of her old self, shaking with rage. "Let me tell you how it is, mija, considering you suddenly seem to act like you're the adult here," she said loudly, eyes staring at me but not registering me. "Your father was fired nine months ago because they felt he couldn't keep up with the work anymore. And now he's a parking lot attendant." She spat it out like it was something dirty, something shameful. "So, if a therapist can fix that, and pay our way back home to New York, then wonderful, I would go in an instant. But otherwise, don't come here throwing rich people solutions in my face!"

She was yelling now, yelling and trembling, and for a second, I wondered if she was going to hit me.

Then, I started to walk away. My legs were heavy; a million thoughts were swimming through my head, making my heartbeat stand out. This wasn't mom. This wasn't her. I didn't know what to do with this broken version of her.

"Yes, leave, thank god! And don't you even think about calling that boy and pouring your heart out to him. Have some fucking dignity!"

No. I wasn't going to. I couldn't.

Because she'd been right about one thing.

I was a fool for ever thinking I'd even stand a chance.