clementine

chapter 20: Clementine is 17 years old

I am standing in front of twenty-four different varieties of cake, and a further sixteen selections of cupcakes. Pies cannot be accurately counted. Variation of frosting is unknown.

"Samantha, you're not smiling." My mother reminds me with a pointed grin. Her lipstick is bright and perky in the way that tricks other housewives into thinking she's younger. Even though I know for a fact that she's one of the youngest mom's here. She got knocked up with me on her Junior prom night.

I make sure that I am making eye contact (Step One of the Five) and attempt a tired smile. It doesn't go well. "Do I really have to be here?"

Mom raises her eyebrows, but before she can answer, Connor pipes up. "Oh, is it question time? I have a question!" He states with too much enthusiasm. "Are we actually allowed to ask that question?" He points at me smugly, and when mom gives him an unimpressed look, he turns to me. "If I have to be here, then you have to be here." I roll my eyes at him. He's only a year younger than me, but sometimes he acts like a smug thirteen-year-old.

"You both have to be here." Her eyes are mugs of steaming coffee that she wouldn't dare touch because did you know that caffeine is a drug, and even worse stains your teeth? She tells me this almost every day.

"We are the only teenagers here, mom, and you've got enough people in your housewife club Social Affairs Council to handle it." I plea, but she just gives me the look. The one that says I'm not smiling enough and arguing too much.

"I'm going to make sure Mrs Forbes hasn't... forged my cherry tart recipe." Amanda Hall does not appreciate having the baked-goods-spotlight stolen from her. Without another word, she stalks off into the crowd of sunhats and good morning, Mrs Halls.

Through the chitter of women and the grumbling of husbands dragged along, I try to find peace in the normalcy of the event. I am just a teenager, dragged to a function by her mother. I am here. And that is enough.

Until it's not.

"Is Trevor coming?" Connor asks nonchalantly.

My entire body tenses, and in my head, flashes of Trevor's face, confused and irritated, refusing to look at me. He was disgusted by me. "Why would he?" I am disgusted by me. There is something wrong with me.

"Uh," My brother gives me a look, "I don't know. Isn't he your boyfriend?"

My stomach sinks. He's right. I should be comfortable with Trevor by now.

It's been two years, his voice rings out in my head, crashing against every rational response.

"You're right."

You're wrong.

And I don't know who I'm talking to anymore.