Katy Upperman - How the Light Gets In

I never used to be the kind of girl whod hotbox her bathroom.

Perched on the counter next to the porcelain sink, I lose myself in a haze that distorts the flower pattern dancing across the shower curtain. My bare feet bounce against the cabinet below. I absorb the staccato thumping until it permeates flesh and muscle, vibrating into my bones.

Pipe to mouth. Deep inhale. Hold the smoke until my chest sizzles. Exhale.

My junior year at North Seattle Prep ended today, and Ive been driftinga wisp of cotton in a summer breeze. The last day of school used to mean celebration. A break from the demands of private school: quadratic equations and chemical reactions and accessorizing my uniform just right. I used to spend summers with my sister, giggling over romance novels, all brawny men and luscious women. We used to shop and swim. We used to eat grilled food and drink iced mochas with extra chocolate and stay up late, gazing at the stars.

This summer, I wont spend my mornings at the pool, panting through grueling sets, and I wont squander my afternoons in a lounge chair. Instead, Ill hide out in the house. Ill avoid my parents, and Ill avoid Isaac, whos due back from his freshman year at UCSD any day.

Ill avoid life.

Pipe to mouth. Deep inhale. Hold the smoke until my chest sizzles. Exhale.

Thats what Im doing when my dad comes knocking, a sharp rap that makes me jump.

Fanning the air, I slide from the counter and empty the bowl of my pipe into the toilet, mourning the loss while the water whirlpools away. I spray perfume, splash drops into my eyes, then peek reluctantly at my reflection in the mirror. My hair looks washed out, dry as wheat, and my eyes are sunken and shadowed.

The old me is so far gone, I hardly remember her.

Dads face crumples when I open the bathroom door. He sees her, toothe hopeless girl who stared at me in the mirror a moment ago. I sigh; a family meeting is the unavoidable next step, another pseudointervention during which Dad will threaten me with therapy.

I went once, nearly a year ago, at his insistence.

It didnt help.

We sit in his office, where the air is clear, though Im sufficiently blazed. Hes in a navy version of the standard suit he wears daily to the University of Washington, where he teaches ancient Greece using the textbooks he spent the bulk of his adult life writing. Hes seated in the thronelike leather chair behind the mahogany desk, looking two parts disappointed, one part heartbroken. Mom is in the paisley wingback beside mine, her cooked-spaghetti hair held back by a thin plastic headband. She wears her favorite terry cloth robe. Once a deep crimson, now its faded and dull, the color of rust.

Nearly a minute of silence drags by. Dads gaze bores a hole through me. Mom picks a ragged cuticle, checked out as usual. I stare at the small cherry wood clock displayed prominently on the desk, a Fathers Day gift personalized with a silver plaque. Its engraved with my dads nameDr. Arthur Ryanand, smaller, Love, Callie and Chloe.

Chloe.

I concentrate on the chipped polish on my fingernails as a wave of sorrow rises in my chest. Pulling in a wheezy breath, I struggle to shove memories of my sister down.

I need out of this office, but Dads watching me like a warden.

There are choices, and he presents them like gifts on a platter: Wild Expeditions, a Montana wilderness camp for troubled teenshostile, disobedient, performs below potential, according to the glossy brochureor Oregon with Aunt Lucy, Dads younger sister who, early last year, bought a run-down Victorian that teeters on a coastal cliff. Shes been working to renovate it into a bed-and-breakfast and, according to Dad, would love my help again this summer.

Choices.

Youve lost your motivation, he says, tapping the Wild Expeditions brochure. I think you need distance to find it.

All at once I feel too stoned. Underwater, every movement slow and deliberate. Dads muffled voice sloshes around in my head as I swallow the threat of a sob.

Thats it? I say. Montana or Oregon? Prison camp or indentured servitude?

Dont be dramatic, Calliope. Mom and I are trying to do whats best. He gestures between himself and my mom, who might as well be comatose. You need a change of pace. Your grades have gone to hell, youve quit swimming, and more often than not, youre high. He spits the word like it tastes rancid.

A petulant huff escapes me. Its just weed.

Dad slams a fist down on the desk. I wont tolerate it!

A hand slips into mine. Cool, slender fingers, a ring with a diamond the size of a blueberry. Mom squeezes my palm; the gesture feels like solidarity, like shes worried about being sent away, too. For the first time in ages, I feel a kinship with her that extends beyond grief, beyond mutual substance abuse, beyond the crushing weight that accompanies failing Arthur Ryan.

If you choose Montana, Dad says, youll fly out this weekend. If you choose to go to Lucys His voice falters. He pauses until hes composed himself. Ill drive you to Bell Cove tomorrow.

Bell Cove. A tiny Oregon beach town. I visited last summer with my sister, right after Lucy bought the Victorian she lovingly refers to as Stewart House. Shed gone through an ugly divorce the year before; her Los Angeles movie producer husband had trouble keeping his pants on, which resulted in a generous settlement, which turned Lucy into a homeowner. She invited Chloe and me to come, pitch in, swim, spend some time away from our parents, away from Seattle. We thought Lucy was glamorous, an enigma. We jumped at her invitation.

I cant go to Montana, but I cant go back to Oregon, either.

Dad, please.

Im sorry. He glances at my glassy-eyed mom and sighs. Its just too hard.

I get itI do. Its torture for my parents, looking at me every day, an older, blonder version of the daughter who was taken from them. No wonder Dads exhausted, losing weight, tense. No wonder Mom cant wade out of her merlot sea. They lost one daughter, but that doesnt mean they wont set the other loose for the familys greater good.

Theres got to be another way, I say, panic blooming in my chest. Let me stay. Ill do whatever it takes!

Callie, youre not being punished, Dad says, his tone gentle now. Mom and I love you, but something has to change. Think of this summer as an opportunity to work on yourself.

He rises from his chair and circles his desk, headed for the door. With a hand on the knob, he turns, looking far older than his forty-four years. He gives his head a sad shake. Sending me away might break him, but I know my dadhis convictions are unwavering.

Youll let me know what you decide first thing in the morning, he says before walking out of the office.

Every night, I sneak into the memorial that was Chloes room. I lie on her bed and pretend I can still detect her scentclean lilac with a trace of swimming pool chlorine. I talk to her, though she doesnt talk back.