THE CUT

I get that you're pissed at me, but

19

I've been rotting in bed for nearly a week now. If I thought my breakup with Rafe was rough, this is even worse. Now he thinks I'm someone I'm not. He thinks he can't trust me, and that's not true.

My mother wakes me up and forces me out of bed by ripping the duvet from my body, which washes me in cold. She leaves me to get up and warns me before she goes that breakfast will be ready in five minutes.

"You need to get up," she says, in the serious voice she would use when I was being a difficult child. It used to scare me, but now it's annoying.

"I don't want breakfast. I don't want anything to eat." I scratch my head. I haven't washed my hair since before the party.

"No," she says, "you will join us."

And I know she means it. I have to go down and join them. We eat breakfast together every Sunday.

I stand on a patch of sunlight on the floor in front of my window to warm my bare feet. Then I slide on some socks, check myself in the mirror, and descend the staircase where the smell of bacon wafts up my nose.

My mother is organizing things on the island while my father sits in his place at the dining table, his face hidden behind a large newspaper. I greet them glumly as I walk in, rubbing my eyes.

Our chef is at the stove where pancakes are sizzling and popping. She smiles at me from across the room—she's always cheerful, which is why my mother likes her so much.

My father glances at me over the newspaper. "You got in late the other night."

"What night?"

"The other night," he says.

"Oh. I went to a party." I reach for a fresh muffin in the center of the table and unwrap the paper from around it. No matter how unwell I am, I can't resist a muffin. Today, they're chocolate chip.

"Yes, we know," my mother says, then purses her lips. "Are you going to tell us about it?"

"Uh..." My parents have never cared about my party endeavors. "I went with Sarah. It was a house on a beach. I had fun. Why?"

"I waited for you," she says. "Who dropped you off?"

"Sarah dropped me off."

My mother turns to our Chef. "Mary. Would you mind leaving us for just a moment? I'll keep my eye on the stove."

Mary gives a curt nod and then scurries into the den next door.

My mother brings a full bowl of fruit to the table and pushes it towards me. "Have some," she says, and she sits in the chair across from me. "You weren't just with Sarah, were you?"

"What?" Crumbs fall from my lips. I wipe them away.

"Your mother found out that that friend of Sarah's was there," says my father. "And that you're pretty friendly with him."

"Were you with those boys?" She looks at me like, Care to explain?

Instead, I choose the defense. "What about it?" I'm too tired and hungover to deal with more Pogue trash talk.

"We thought you weren't about that," she says, as though she's been dying to spill her feelings for. "Honey, we thought those boys weren't of interest to you."

"How'd you know what I was doing?"

They're quiet. My mother leans back in her chair, which creaks from the weight.

"Who told you?"

"That doesn't matter. What matters is, that we don't want you risking your future by terrorizing the island with that group."