Turning Point

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Picture of Lyla on the side :) (or the top if you're on mobile)

“Lyla, we’re home, honey!” my mother called, her voice ringing through the house.

I got up from my bed and walked down the stairs to greet them. I caught a glimpse of my dad carrying the grocery bags to the kitchen. Mom stood in front of the open door, fumbling with the remaining bags.

Cold evening air blasted through the door, making goosebumps pop up on my bare arms. I walked over and closed it.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Mom said distractedly. She tried to hold onto the bags, but they kept slipping from her hold. I reached out a hand. “Need some help?”

 “You’re a darling, Lyla.” Mom smiled, handing me a couple of bags. I didn’t respond, instead turning to carry them into the kitchen as Dad did. 

“Hey, squirt.” Dad passed by me, ruffling my hair as I set the bags on the kitchen table. I gave him a brief smile, letting it slip once he’d walked out. Something was up. Dad didn’t usually call me affectionate names like squirt, and he definetely didn’t ruffle my hair like that, if at all. Actually, I realized, Mom hadn’t looked completely like her normal self, either. Her smile had been a little too wide, and there was an excited light in her eyes that wasn’t common. In any other family, this parental behaviour would be far from suspicious, and any other kid probably wouldn’t notice at all. But the Blues weren’t exactly like any other family, and I wasn’t exactly like any other kid.

I walked back out of the kitchen, just as my mom started to walk in. I turned towards the stairs to head back up to my room, then changed my mind and went towards the living room, where both my parents would surely be, relaxing after their shopping expedition. I’d find out what was going on – I knew it would bother me for ages if I didn’t. I didn’t like suspense, and never had; I always had to find out everything right away.

“Hi,” I greeted them casually when I entered the room.

They looked up from the television screen. “Hey, honey. Come sit.” Mom waved me over to them. Another weird thing, I thought to myself. On regular days, my mom might tell me to come sit down, but I don’t think she’d wave me over – definetely not as vigorously as she just did.

A few moments of silence passed as we watched the show. Dad leaned back comfortably on the couch, the only person actually watching the show. My attention was on Mom as I wondered when she’d say something, because she very obviously had something to say and wasn’t focusing on the TV either. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and every so often she’d let out an excited sort of sigh, separate them, and clap them lightly together like she was trying to get our attention. Then she’d pretend to watch for a while, but obviously wasn’t really because her eyes kept flickering over to me, which made me feel uncomfortable. I considered saying something, but decided against it when I realized I didn’t really know what to say.

Finally, several minutes later, my mom spoke. “We heard some exciting news when we were out today.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, trying to put just the right amount of interest in my voice that would keep Mom from nagging me about why I didn’t want to know what she had to say. At the same time, I didn’t want her to think I was super excited, because I really wasn’t. It would most probably be some sort of modelling job that she thought I could somehow worm my way into, even though I wasn’t a Two. What else would make Mom look so frantically excited?

I felt a heaviness settle on my heart at the thought. I’d had countless conversations –near arguments, to be more accurate– with her about this very subject. She refused to believe that I wouldn’t be able to become a model. I’d tried to convince her that modelling was only for Twos, but she’d always breeze past that argument and start monologuing about how I could do anything if I set my heart to it. At that point in the conversation, I really didn’t know what else to say, so I’d back down with a simple ‘Alright, Mom’ and scurry away to avoid her saying anything else to me.

For the past few months, the modelling talk had died down a little, and I’d been hugely relieved, thinking she had finally got it into her head that it wasn’t happening.

Evidently, I was wrong.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, eyes sparkling delightedly. That was it, nothing else. I sighed inwardly. Oh, Mom.

“What was it?” I asked, as I apparently must.

“Well, you know how Prince Brendan just recently turned eighteen,” Mom said. I nodded. How could I not? There had been a huge televised celebration that pretty much everybody in the province spent all day watching. 

“Well, when we were in the store, we overheard some people talking, and apparently, his Selection is starting soon!” Mom’s grin was nearly ear-to-ear. By now, Dad had stopped watching TV and was also smiling at me.

“Oh, that’s cool,” I said, and meant it. I mean, this is the next ruler of the country being chosen here. But I still didn’t completely get the reasoning behind my parents’ crazy smiles.

“Cool?” Mom demanded. “It’s much more than cool! You could enter, Lyla!”

WHAT?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mom,” I exclaimed, waving my hands defensively. “Are you crazy? No, I couldn’t. I’m only fifteen.” I thought everyone knew you had to be at least sixteen to enter for the Selection.

“Your birthday is only in a few weeks,” Mom pointed out.

“Yeah, but by then, all the girls will be Selected already,” I answered.

Mom’s face fell. “You’re right…I didn’t think of that.” I was annoyed at her, but I couldn’t help feeling bad when I saw how sad she looked.

“Oh, Macy, cheer up,” Dad said, patting Mom’s shoulder. “You didn’t hear what I heard at the store.” He winked at me –I’m not sure if he meant this to be reassuring, or what.

I looked seriously at my father, feeling my heartbeat start to speed up a little.

“When you were paying at the register, I heard the women behind us say that they’d lowered the minimum age for the Selection to fifteen years old.”

Mom happily squealed, “Really?!” while my mouth dropped open.

“Yep, that’s what they said.” Dad grinned at her.

“That can’t be true,” I interjected.

Mom fixed me with a piercing glare, angry that I pooped her party. “You never know, Lyla. It could be.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“Of course, there isn’t any way for us to tell if it’s true, but there is a possibility,” Dad said before I could say anything. “So there is hope.” He and Mom shared a smile, while I stared at the floor, my head whirling with thoughts.