Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Page B

come and go as he liked. He was back in school, working part-time at a garage that fixed foreign cars, and working off his community service volunteering at the Senior Center on snack detail. Sure, he may have “had some problems,” but he seemed to be on the right track now. I wasn’t worried, even if my mother was.
    Now she walked across the room, brow furrowed, and moved the County Squire doll closer to the magazine rack. “I just think ...” she began in her light, passive-aggressive way, then trailed off, waiting for someone to take the bait.
    â€œWhat?” my father said, folding the paper and laying it on the end table beside him.
    â€œYou had a very long day today,” she said to me, still bustling around. “I’m worried you might be tired.”
    â€œI’m not,” I said. “I’m fine.”
    â€œYou have that big game on Monday afternoon,” she added, reaching to smooth the skirt of the Ladies’ Choir Soloist, whose mouth was posed in a wide, creepy kind of O, mid-note. “Not to mention Homecoming on Friday. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had some extra practices this week.”
    â€œMom, it’s only Saturday,” I said, as the light dropped to green again, through the trees.
    â€œWell, I’m just saying,” she said, glancing at my father before crossing the room to sit on the couch, her hand already reaching out to slide a row of glass thimbles there a bit to the right, “that I don’t think this is a good idea.” The last two words she said in a clipped, even voice, her eyes on my father, waiting for his response.
    Bingo. He looked up, at her, then at me. “Caitlin,” he said, as the light turned red again. “Maybe this isn’t the best night for you to go out.”
    â€œIt’s Saturday night,” I protested, turning away from the light to look at him. “Dad, come on. I did school stuff all day. It’s the weekend.”
    â€œYou have a math test on Monday, too,” my mother added in a low voice, picking up one of the thimbles and examining it. I felt an itchy uncomfortableness climb up the back of my neck, hating that she was this involved in my life, knowing my cheerleading schedule, my classes, my every move, as if we were somehow one person. This was the way she’d been with Cass, so proudly taping every schedule to the fridge. I’d always thought Cass liked it: I’d almost envied her. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
    My father picked his paper up again, unfolding it to the sports page. “Be home by curfew,” he said, into a picture of the university football coach lifting his hands in victory. “And study tomorrow. Right?”
    My mother, on the couch, turned and looked out the window, but she couldn’t see the stoplight, turning from yellow to red again.
    â€œRight,” I said. “Okay.”
    Rogerson showed up exactly at seven, pulling to a stop at the end of our walkway. Our hall clock was chiming as I stepped outside. I didn’t look back to see if my mother was watching as I started down the walk: I wanted this to be all mine, not part of any schedule or plan she could claim as her own. I wondered if Cass had felt the same way when she’d slipped out the door on that August morning and started toward a car idling there, waiting, for her.
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    â€œHi,” I said as I got into the car, shutting the door behind me.
    â€œHey,” Rogerson said. Then he put the car in gear, turned around in the McLeans’ driveway, and headed to the highway and the light I’d been watching all night. It was solid green as we coasted under it, and I looked over at Rogerson, wondering what he thought of me. He was in a brown sweater, jeans, and old scuffed loafers, a cigarette poking out of one side of his mouth. He didn’t talk to me, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to start a conversation that wouldn’t sound even