But my dad says nothing. He won’t even make eye contact with her.
I brace myself. “I’m going,” I tell her. “I can’t live with myself if I don’t at least try.”
She takes another step closer, and this time she puts an arm around me, but my shoulders are stiff and unforgiving. “My Millie, my sweet Millie. They passed on your audition tape. They said no for a reason.”
I take a step back, out of her reach. “Then I at least deserve to know why.”
Her expression hardens. “I forbid this,” she says. “I forbid you from driving to Austin with that girl—the same girl who destroyed your uncle’s place of business—in the middle of the night.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to hurt my mom, but I don’t know how else to make her understand. “This isn’t about me,” I tell her. “That’s not why you’re trying to stop me. This is about you and trying to shape me into the person you always wanted to be. But I’m not you. I love you. But I’m not you. I can’t spend the rest of my life obsessing over diets and searching for the miracle fix.”
My mother is shocked. She looks like I just slapped her in the face with a frying pan.
“Mom,” I say. “Think of all the energy you’ve spent trying to lose weight. It’s who you are. It’s your whole identity. But it doesn’t have to be. Dad loves you. And I do too. And it’s certainly not because of your low-carb lasagna.”
Her whole face looks like she’s about to either erupt in anger or crumble entirely. “This discussion is over,” she says, overenunciating every syllable through gritted teeth. “Back inside. Your father will drive Callie home. And we will certainly have a word with her parents.”
“No.” My voice is firm. “I can’t live with the person you want me to be. Especially not when I know exactly who I want to be.”
“Millicent. Amethyst. Michalchuk,” she says through furious tears now.
“Millie,” my dad says.
I almost forgot he was there.
“You have money for gas?” he asks. “Meals?”
I nod, trying my best to conceal my absolute glee. Mom might be wrong, but there’s no use rubbing it in her face. “Yes, sir.”
“You go there. Stop if you get tired. I don’t care if you have to charge a hotel room to your emergency credit card. I want a phone call every hour. I don’t care what time it is.”
I nod, forever thankful to him for this one moment. Dad has never been the type to speak over Mom or undermine her parenting decisions, but if he’s going to step on her toes, I’m so glad he chose this moment to do so.
My mother guffaws. “Todd, you can’t be serious.”
He turns to Mom. “As serious as I was the day I married you.”
Oh, he’s definitely sleeping on the couch tonight.
I hug my dad. “Thank you,” I whisper.
My mom stands there, her lips stiffly pursed and her arms crossed.
I hug her. It’s like hugging a dang stone pillar, but I hug her. “I love you, Mom.”
She doesn’t say anything back.
I get in the van and back out of the driveway, always careful to watch my mirrors.
“Buckle up,” I tell Callie.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I wave to my parents as my dad closes the garage door. The moment they’re out of sight, I hit the gas. “Yes.” I wipe away the last of my tears. “I’m okay.”
She rolls down the window. “Austin or bust!” she howls.
I roll down my window, too, and take one hand off the wheel, which I rarely do. My arm hangs out the window as it slices through the warm air, and I leave town with Callie Reyes under the cover of night. I’m okay.
Callie
Thirty-Six
For the first two hours of the drive, the energy pulsing between the two of us is absolutely tangible. I navigate and play DJ while Millie belts along to old Britney Spears, Destiny’s Child, and even a little Dolly Parton, which Millie swears helps her channel her bravest self.
Around hour three, we stop for gas and a few snacks, including one of those bouquets of Tootsie Pops. I’ve made this drive a few times with my family, so I know that there’s not much but flatness and a little bit of hill country just outside of Austin, but making this drive at night feels like we’re speeding through a velvety black hole. Out here there’s nothing but the random town every once in a while, and sporadic truckers making the long drive across Texas.
As we’re pulling back out onto the road, Millie reaches for the volume to turn the music back up, but I hit the power button. I don’t want to distract her from the task ahead, but I also have something to say.
“I shouldn’t have blown up at you the way I did,” I tell her.
“But I should’ve just told you. Early on. I could’ve gotten it out of the way.”
“I can see how you would be nervous to do that, though. I’m not what you would call easygoing.”
She laughs. “Well, yes. But that’s exactly what I like about you. You’re intense, and you don’t care if other people know it.”
I laugh. “I don’t know that most people would call those desirable qualities.”
Millie shakes her head resolutely. “Do you know how many people spend their whole lives pretending they don’t care? You’re not like that.”
I sigh. “Well, I do care a little bit, I guess. I just wish I hadn’t released that list of secrets.”
Millie’s lips turn downward. “Me too. I feel awful about that, I do.”
“It’s not like those girls didn’t screw me over. They let me take the blame for the whole team. But . . . I don’t know. What I did . . . was wrong.”
“Maybe you could make it up to them,” says Millie.
I laugh. “Like how? Become their water girl?”
“I do think you’d make a really cute water girl, but no, I mean something different. Like, it sucks that the gym had to drop its sponsorship and it sucks that y’all reacted the way you did, but neither of those things are the real problem.”
“Try telling Inga that,” I mutter.
“The real problem is that the school board budgets so much for the football team and all that’s left for everyone else is peanuts! The Shamrocks have the best competitive record of any team on campus. Y’all should have been way better funded. Frankly, it’s bull—”
“Shit!” I shout. “It’s bullshit!” She’s right. That is the real problem. I’ve been saying it for years. The whole team has. But no one would listen.
“Well, I was going to say bologna, but it is also bull doo-doo.”
“But what can I even do about that?”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned from watching local politics, it’s that decisions are made by those who show up.”
“Okay?”
“And no one shows up to school board meetings,” says Millie.
We spend the next few hours hashing out talking points if I do decide to speak in front of the school board. I’m doubtful, though. To them, I’m just the girl who trashed a local business. Why would they listen to me? When I change the subject and ask Millie about her mom, she goes quiet, which is entirely out of character, but I don’t push.
Soon we’re lowering our visors and reaching for sunglasses as we drive into the sunrise and closer to our destination.
The traffic in Austin is awful, and I’m not just saying that because I live in a town where the biggest traffic jams are caused by school zones and the rare busy drive-through lane overflowing into the street.
Mama says Austin was made to be a tiny-big city, but now it’s trying to be a big-big city in tiny-big-city pants, which actually makes some weird kind of sense.
Millie is the model driver, of course, and turns down the music. Both hands are wrapped so tightly around the wheel her knuckles are turning white.
When we finally do exit for the university, Millie and I both marvel at the size of the campus.
“I think this place is as big as all of Clover City,” I say.