Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

“Well, that is delightful,” says Kiki, linking her arm through mine, “because I am currently down a date and I could use the company.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Dealing” starts earlier than I expect it to, because when my mom wakes me up with a dish of pickled cucumbers—her surefire hangover cure—I know I’m in trouble. “Enough sleeping. Eat, Dotchka,” she says, holding it close enough to my nose to make me gag.

“Mama—”

“Don’t ‘Mama’ me when you are still passed out at two in the afternoon the day after a dance at which there isn’t supposed to be any drinking. Now eat.”

I hate to admit it, but they work. “Did you really think there wasn’t going to be any drinking at Homecoming? Besides, none of us were driving—the limo brought me home.”

“At what time?”

I mumble “3:00 a.m.” as quietly as I can, but she catches it anyway.

“Three?! Bozhe moi. Lara. There’s a reason you have a curfew, and I think it’s a pretty generous one—”

“If you wanted me to take the limo and stay safe with my friends, I couldn’t come home until everyone else was,” I point out. In truth, I have no memory of what we were doing until that time, but judging by the gross, fuzzy taste in my mouth, it involved a lot of vodka. “Anyway, I’m home. Safe. And eating pickled cucumbers.” I take another one, as if it’ll make the argument for me.

She raises one of her eyebrows. “I take it you had fun.”

Did I have fun? I know I did all the things that are supposed to be fun. I danced and played drinking games and took a thousand pictures in my tiara.

I also know I avoided fooling around with Chase as much as possible and spent most of the night thinking about Jasmine until I drank enough to stop thinking about anything at all.

“I won queen,” I say instead of answering her question.

“And was that fun?” she asks, because my mother is very smart.

I hug my covers to myself. I want to tell my mom the truth. I want to tell her about Jasmine and how confused I am, and I want her to stroke my hair and call me Larotchka and tell me everything is gonna be okay and to just listen to my heart.

I want to, but I am fucking terrified.

“Of course,” I lie.

My mother always knows when anything less than the truth is falling from my lips; it’s why I have to text if I’m being slightly dishonest about where I’m gonna be. My face shows everything. And I wonder what it’s showing that’s making her give me that “Oh, honey” look.

But she doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand.

And I fall apart.

My mother holds me while I cry into her shoulder, not moving even when I’m definitely getting snot all over her shirt. The hair stroking I’d been hoping for happens like clockwork, and I know that I’m running the risk of feeling it for the last time.

I can’t bear that.

My mother is pretty literally my everything. It’s why I barely complained about going to North Carolina for the summer. It’s why I didn’t argue with my father about me going to a state school. It’s why I’ve never fought her having full custody.

It’s why I have to tell her the truth, even though the very thought sends me into another round of tears.

“Larotchka, what happened? Did he hurt you?”

That’s enough to make me pick up my head and wipe my nose. “No, God. No. Chase was great. Chase is always great. It’s me. I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess; you’re my wonderful daughter who is not fully escaping punishment for missing curfew, but that’s beside the point for now.” She gently wipes a tear from my cheek with a neatly manicured fingernail. “What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath, and another, until I can talk without breaking into sobs. “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to hate me.”

She looks like I’ve slapped her, which makes me feel worse. “You are my daughter. You are my whole heart, Larotchka. I could never.” She squeezes my hands so hard it’s like she’s trying to push that fact into my skin.

“I … there’s someone. Not Chase. Not … not a boy.” I exhale slowly. “I met a girl. She’s not my girlfriend or anything, but I think … I think that I want her to be. And I think she wants that too. And I know we’ve never talked about anything like this, but I didn’t—”

Her fierce hug cuts me off and sets off a fresh round of tears, her whispered “Larotchka” ruffling my mess of curls. “Bozhe moi, you had me so worried. This—happiness—is a good thing. Someone who loves you is what I want for my daughter.”

I didn’t think I could clutch my mother any tighter, but I’m pretty sure I’m leaving claw marks in her back. “You’ve always told me how traditional baba Mila and deda Tolya are, how mad they were when you had me without marrying Dad. I didn’t know how much tradition was in you too.”

“Do I seem traditional, Dotchka?”

“Well, there’s a dish of pickled cucumbers in my bed, so, yes?”

She laughs gently, releases me, tucks one of my messy curls behind my ear. “Some things about Russia, they stick. Their laws on gay people, not so much. But I have to admit I am surprised after so many years of hearing about the legend of Chase Harding.”

The mere mention of Chase, the knowledge that I have to tell him, makes me want to be sick all over again in a way Mama’s top remedy can’t cure. “It wasn’t a lie,” I assure her. “I’m not gay. I’m not sure what I am. I just know that this one girl makes me feel … everything. The rest, I’ll have to figure out.”

“You have plenty of time for that.” She drops a kiss on the top of my head. “How about