“Yes, your father saw it. You know he’s always looking for good buys on instruments for the program. He recognized this immediately and called me. Kensington, you cannot sell something that’s your father’s,” she says, and I stop in my tracks, spinning on my heels, my blood boiling.
“His?” I shout. “His piano? Mom…are you…are you joking?”
“Kensington, you need to take this down…now,” she says, opening the computer and spinning it around for me.
“No,” I say, folding my arms. I’m throwing a fit. A staunch, standoff kind of fit—like I did when I was four and didn’t want to eat my green beans—but a fit nonetheless. This is ridiculous.
“Yes,” she says, the word coming out slowly, her eyes scrunched, wrinkling at the corners. We stare at each other like this for several minutes, and the longer I look at her, the longer I think about what she said, the angrier I get.
“You said it was mine. Mine! You said that was my piano. You told me when I was ten, after I won my first competition. Grandma died and left that piano to you—your mother, not his! And then you said it was mine. You told me that it was always meant for my hands, and you loved the joy it gave me. You don’t get to take it back. And if I want to sell it, because it doesn’t give me joy any more, then I’m going to! And he doesn’t get any say in things! You can sweep those awful things he’s done under the rug if you want to, but I will never forget. And I will never forgive him!”
I turn around the second my last word is uttered. With a calm but quick pace, I climb my stairs, turning back only after I’ve made it up the first few. My mother is frozen in her place, her hand just where it was on the computer, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes wide and on me…almost. I may as well have slapped her.
I get to my room and slam the door, like a child, and move to my window, putting my headphones on and pulling my knees up to my chest while I unzip my backpack and pull out my pile of homework. I look up every few minutes, waiting for Owen to look back, and after an hour, I can’t take the waiting any longer, so I send him a text and ask him to come over.
My mom must have let him in, because I never hear the doorbell or knock, just the sound of him slipping through my door moments later.
“Homework done?” I ask, everything inside me still churning, still fuming.
“Uh huh,” he says, his head tilted to the side as he moves toward me a little apprehensively. “You’re pissed about something. Your dad coming over? Cuz I’m not so sure I’m up for wrestling him again.”
“Ha,” I let out a short laugh, then let my head fall forward into my hands, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re safe. Just doing that thing where I yell at my mom, but I feel bad about it. Even if I’m right…I feel bad.”
Owen slides down on the floor next to me, both of our backs against my bed. He flips through a few of the things I’ve let fall out of my backpack, looking at the back of one of the books I picked up from the library. “This looks like a chick book,” he says, tossing the copy of Emma I picked up from the library back onto my stack of notebooks.
“It is. It’s one of my favorites,” I say, looking at the cover. It’s an image of the movie version, a carefree Gwyneth Paltrow holding her bow and arrow. “How come you have advanced calculus homework?” I ask the question quickly, keeping my eyes on the book, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. I sense Owen’s pause though. I don’t know why this makes him uncomfortable.
“I tested out of freshman algebra. I’ve always been a year ahead in math. Brain just sort of likes numbers, I guess,” he says, his voice trailing off at the end. He reaches his arm to my leg, grabbing my hand and pulling it into his lap, cupping it with both of his and playing with my fingers. “What was this fight about? You know your mom gives me bacon; I hope you didn’t mess up my supply,” he says, leaning into me.
I smile, my gaze into my lap. Owen’s joke is sweet.
“She’s letting my dad rule things. She always has, and it just…it makes me so mad,” I say, the frown taking over again.
“What’s he trying to rule?” Owen asks.
“Her,” I say quickly, looking up at him. “And me, by extension.”
Owen lifts his hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, leaving his hand on my cheek when he’s done. “So don’t let him,” he says. Simple, plain. “Is this about your playing again? Because I thought we had that figured out—you do that for you, wasn’t that the deal?”