2003
The last three years had both worn Jude down and sharpened her. She hadn’t known how terrifying life could be until the first time she handed Zach and Mia car keys and watched them drive away. From that moment on, she’d begun to be afraid for her kids. Everything scared her. Rain. Wind. Snow. Darkness. Loud music. Other drivers. Too many kids in a car.
She’d issued her kids cell phones and instituted rules. Curfews. Accountability. Honesty.
She paced when they were minutes late and didn’t breathe easily until they were safely in bed. She’d thought that was the worst of it, the freedom that came with a driver’s license, but now she knew better.
It had all been a prelude to this: senior year of high school. The semester had just begun, and already it was a pressure cooker, a Rubik’s Cube of deadlines and paperwork. College loomed on the horizon like a nuclear cloud, tainting every breath of air. Years of driving back and forth to sporting events, practices, play rehearsals, and performances was nothing compared with this.
On the wall above her desk she had two giant calendars, one marked ZACH and the other MIA. Every college deadline was written in red ink; every test date was in bold-face type. Jude had spent years studying admission statistics and reading about the various universities, gauging which would be best for her kids.
Getting into college would be a cakewalk for Zach. He had entered senior year with a 3.96 GPA and a perfect SAT score. He could go almost anywhere he wanted.
Mia was a different story. Her grades were good but not great; same with her SAT. Even so, she had set her heart on the prestigious University of Southern California drama school.
Jude had begun to lose sleep about it all. She lay in bed at night, going though admission statistics and criteria in her head until she felt sick. She was constantly figuring out how to make her daughter’s dream come true. It wasn’t easy to get one kid into an ultracompetitive school, and Jude needed to get two in. The twins had to go to college together; any other outcome was unthinkable. Mia needed her brother beside her.
And now, as if all that pressure weren’t bad enough, the word she’d been dreading had just been said aloud.
Party.
Jude drew in a deep and steadying breath.
She was seated at the dinner table, with her family gathered around her. It was a Friday night in early October; the sky was the color of bruised plums.
“Well?” Zach said from his place at the table. “Can we go or not? Molly and Tim are letting Bryson go.”
Mia was beside her brother. Her blond hair had been braided wet and dried into crimpy zigzags. In the past three years, she had blossomed into a true beauty, with flawless skin and a smile that was marquee bright. Her friendship with Lexi had stayed as true as magnetic North, and it had given Mia a new confidence. Her daughter still wasn’t brave or extremely social, but she was happy, and that meant the world to Jude. “What about you, Mia? Do you want to go to this party?”
Mia shrugged. “Zach wants to go.”
It was the answer Jude had expected. They were a pair, these two, in every way. Where one went, the other followed; it had been that way from the moment of their birth and probably before. One could hardly breathe without the other.
“Did you hear that, Miles?” Jude said. “The kids want to go to a party at Kevin Eisner’s house.”
“Is there a problem with that?” Miles asked, pouring hollandaise sauce on his grilled asparagus.
“The Eisners are in Paris, if I’m not mistaken,” Jude said, seeing the twins flinch in unison. “Small island,” she reminded them.
“Kevin’s aunt is there, though,” Zach said. “It’s not like no adult is around.”
“Totally,” Mia added, nodding.
Jude sat back. She’d known this moment was coming, of course. She’d been a teenager herself, and senior year was the Holy Grail of teenhood. So, she knew what it meant when seniors wanted to “party.”
She’d had endless conversations with the kids about alcohol, told them repeatedly how dangerous it could be, and they swore not to be interested in drinking, but she wasn’t a fool. Neither was she the kind of woman who pretended her children were perfect. What mattered to her was protecting them from the risks associated with adolescence, even those of their own making.
She could say no. But they might defy her, and wouldn’t they be more in danger then? “I’ll call Kevin’s aunt,” she said slowly. “Make sure an adult is supervising the party.”
“Oh my God,” Mia whined, “way to totally humiliate us. We’re not children.”