I retreat to my room with Anna Kare

I retreat to my room with Anna Karenina tucked under my arm. I’ve already read it. It’s a freaking downer. My parents’ library is full of books they keep for appearances, not pleasure, but I love the feel of the pages between my fingers, of slipping into a world different from mine. Of sliding into the skin of someone different from me. Anyone different from me.
I can’t go to the public library, so I’ll take what I can get.
  My mind is still spinning with the conversation I just had with the random guy who wandered down the hall from my mother’s room, wearing pants speckled with paint and a shirt that didn’t quite hide some sort of tattoo on the side of his neck. Daniel, not Dan or Danny or Danielle. I don’t talk to a lot of people, not if I can help it, but I walked out of the library room and he was right there, his shaggy blond hair hanging in wisps over his eyes, looking like he owned the place.
He probably thinks he has every right to feel that way, since I’m pretty sure he’s screwing my mom. I hope he knows how quickly she gets bored of things.
I realized long ago that my parents live in the same house, but they’re not really together, unless you count obligatory social gatherings.  Dad doesn’t even sleep in their room anymore. And he, at least, doesn’t bring his mistresses home. Unlike my mom. For a moment, I get distracted trying to think of the male equivalent of a mistress. A mister? I know that’s not it, but it’s pretty funny, and God knows I need the laugh.
I flop onto my bed. It’s king-size, and that never used to bother me, but ever since I’ve been home, it feels way too big. Everything feels too big. I’ve spent most of the last few weeks fighting the urge to curl into a tight ball and stay that way. My parents don’t get it. They think I’m doing badly. What they don’t understand is that I’m doing the best I can. What they don’t understand is … well, everything.
“Knock, knock,” sings my mother.
I look over my shoulder to see her standing in my doorway, wearing silk pajamas. “Why do you always say that instead of, I don’t know … knocking?”
She rolls her eyes and sashays over to sit on the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling? Any better today?”
She always asks me that, as if I’ve got a case of the flu instead of a straight-up faulty nervous system. “Fine, Mom. Everything’s in working order.” Except my brain.
“Want to go for a walk?”
The hysterical laugh twists in my chest, fighting to break free. We do this every. Single. Day. “No.”
“We could head down to that little bakery near the boardwalk? The one that makes the ginger scones?”
“You’re wearing pajamas.” I’ll take any excuse, and I’m trying to keep this pleasant.
She plucks at the red silk over her belly. “I’d change, obviously. And so would you, unless you want people to believe I’ve raised a girl who thinks it’s okay to wear yoga pants outside a yoga class.”
“I want to read this next chapter.”
She groans. “Estella, you’re getting worse. You were willing to walk there a few weeks ago.”
I was—until I realized I wasn’t safe, even on familiar ground.
Her fingers smooth over my comforter. “We could talk, you know. I mean, you could tell me …  if something did happen to you and you’re embarrassed about it … if someone hurt you …”
“Mom, I’ve told you. Nothing happened. No one did anything to me.”
Honestly? I think all of this would be easier if I could point to one thing, one moment, one person, and say this is why. I could explain it, then. Understand the why of it. Blame it on something other than myself. If I were a victim, maybe it would keep everyone from being so frustrated with me. On a few occasions, I’ve even considered making up something, just to see the sympathy that flashed in my mom’s eyes a second ago, just to have her be patient with me for more than a minute at a time. But I’m not a liar, so instead I get the frustrated, calculating way she’s glaring at me now. I’ve seen it so many times before. It’s a look that makes my stomach ache.
“Come on,” she says abruptly. “We’re going. I’ll get you a hot chocolate, too.”  She grabs my arm and playfully tries to tug me up, but I don’t move. I’m too busy trying to avoid a major freak out. It’s all right here, a millimeter beneath my surface, the prickly current of panic, the memory of being so sure I was dying, the wide eyes of the people around me, the way my heart was beating so hard that it hurt. It actually hurt.
 “No, Mom,” I whisper.
She keeps tugging. “No,” I say louder, even as I’m wondering if I should go. Maybe I shouldn’t try to hide what happens to me, because then she would see. Then she would know why I can’t. But that means I’d actually have to go through it again, and … I can’t. “I’m sorry. No.”
She frowns and yanks so hard that her fingernails sink into my skin. “Come on! God, why are you so stubborn?”
I rip my arm away from her before I do something worse. “No!” I shout, glancing down at the red marks she’s left on my arm. “Why are you so stubborn? I’m twenty years old, and if I say I don’t want hot chocolate, I don’t want fucking hot chocolate!”
She sits back, a shade paler. “I’m just trying to help you. You used to love that bakery,” she says quietly.
I still do. Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of spending my days in a place like that, surrounded by the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, flour on my hands.  “Hey, I was thinking of asking Willa to get me some candied ginger so I could make those scones myself.” Our housekeeper is pretty accommodating, and doesn’t ask me why I don’t simply drive to the grocery store and get what I need. “I found a good recipe.” I smile, trying to lighten the moment, trying to fix this even though I can feel the tears glazing my eyes. “Or … I made a batch of muffins this morning. Banana coconut. We could have tea here.”
There’s a bitter twist to her mouth as she says the same thing she’s said to me so many times before: “That’s missing the point. If I wanted to eat here, I’d have Willa make something for us.”
She’s missing the point. I feel calm when I’m in the kitchen, when I know I can make something good and not mess it up, when I can create something that I can actually offer to other people—something that will make them happy. I was the bake sale go-to girl in high school, and I used to make things in the dorm kitchen at Wellesley before everything fell apart—cookies before exam weeks and cakes for birthdays. People used to joke that I should open a bakery, and I laughed along with them even though I couldn’t stop thinking about how awesome that might be. But girls don’t go to Ivy League schools so they can make pastries for a living. It was ridiculous to even consider.
Mom sighs. “You’ve smeared goo on your shirt again.”
“It’s batter.”
“Is there a difference? It’s still not the best way to spend your time.”
“Better than staring at the walls.”
“Not much.”
I snort. “Very much. When I’m baking, I feel good, Mom. When I’m reading—” I tap my book. “I feel good.”  It’s one of the only ways I can see the outside world at this point. “When I’m arguing with you? Not so good.” My knees start to lift to my chest, my body trying to fold in on itself as I think about how my life is now, how it will have to be from now on. “So maybe you could just let me do those other things?”
“Your little hobbies aren’t helping you. In fact, I think they’re making you worse.” She nudges my shoulder with hers, like she’s saying something friendly instead of implying that everything I enjoy is stupid. “I have something I want you to try. Something better than baking or reading.”
Uh oh. “Mom, seriously, I’m not going to—”
“I know! You’re not going anywhere! You’re not leaving the house! You’re going to be Howard Hughes and Woody Allen and, I don’t know, some-other-famous-yet-crazy-hermit all rolled into one! And this is my life—I have one daughter who’s graduated from Harvard law, and another who wants to spend her days doing things my housekeeper could do.” She smirks at my expression, like she’s happy she’s poking needles into all my sore spots. “No worries. I don’t have the time or energy to fight you on that today.” She sweeps her gleaming auburn hair over her shoulder. “But I think you need a chance to express yourself, Estella.”
“I express myself just fine in the kitchen.”
“You should be doing something more cultured than smearing batter on your clothes!” she snaps before taking a breath and softening her tone. “And you need to do something more therapeutic than baking cupcakes.”
“You need to stop telling me what I need.” She has no idea what this feels like. If I were to express what’s inside me, it would basically be one long, shrill scream.
She sighs. “Isn’t that my job? Anyway. Art. It’s the perfect outlet to help you get those feelings out so you can get back on track. I take painting classes at the artists’ co-op, and they have wonderful teachers.”
“And I will never go to the co-op, so—”
“One of the teachers is coming to you, darling,” she says with a crocodile grin. “He’s a talented painter, and he’ll give you private lessons. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“You signed me up for lessons with some art teacher without asking me if I actually wanted them?” What the hell is this? I have interests … and they’ve never included painting pictures of bowls of fruit. “You’ve wasted your time.”
Mom pushes herself up and stares down at me. “You’re going to give this a chance.”
I glare at my book, tears blurring the lettering on the cover. “No, I’m not. Stop treating me like a child.”
“Stop acting like one, then. If you don’t take the lessons and work on your problems, we’re going to have to talk about your needs. I’ve been looking up a few private treatment facilities.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Her expression is utterly solemn.

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 1:

Aku mundur ke kamarku dengan Anna Karenina terselip di bawah lengan saya. Aku sudah membaca itu. Ini adalah freaking downer. Orangtuaku Perpustakaan penuh buku mereka tetap untuk penampilan, bukan kesenangan, tapi aku suka merasakan halaman antara jari-jari saya, tergelincir ke dunia yang berbeda dengan saya. Geser ke dalam kulit seseorang yang berbeda dari saya. Siapa saja yang berbeda dari saya.Aku tidak bisa pergi ke perpustakaan umum, jadi aku akan mengambil apa yang saya bisa. Pikiranku masih berputar dengan percakapan saya baru saja dengan acak orang yang berjalan menyusuri lorong dari ruang ibuku, memakai celana berbintik dengan cat dan kemeja yang cukup tidak menyembunyikan semacam tato di lehernya. Daniel, tidak Dan atau Danny atau Danielle. Aku tidak berbicara dengan banyak orang, tidak jika saya bisa membantu, tapi aku berjalan keluar dari ruang perpustakaan dan dia di sana, nya rambut pirang shaggy yang menggantung di gumpalan matanya, tampak seperti dia milik tempat.Dia mungkin pikir dia memiliki hak untuk merasa seperti itu, karena aku cukup yakin dia adalah selingkuh ibuku. Aku berharap dia tahu seberapa cepat ia bosan hal.Saya menyadari lama yang lalu bahwa orangtua saya tinggal di rumah yang sama, tetapi mereka tidak benar-benar bersama-sama, kecuali jika Anda menghitung wajib pertemuan sosial. Ayah bahkan tidak tidur di kamar mereka lagi. Dan dia, setidaknya, tidak membawa selir miliknya rumah. Tidak seperti ibuku. Sejenak, aku bingung berusaha memikirkan setara dengan laki-laki Nyonya. Mister? Saya tahu tidak hanya itu, tetapi cukup lucu, dan Tuhan yang tahu aku butuh tertawa.I flop onto my bed. It’s king-size, and that never used to bother me, but ever since I’ve been home, it feels way too big. Everything feels too big. I’ve spent most of the last few weeks fighting the urge to curl into a tight ball and stay that way. My parents don’t get it. They think I’m doing badly. What they don’t understand is that I’m doing the best I can. What they don’t understand is … well, everything.“Knock, knock,” sings my mother.I look over my shoulder to see her standing in my doorway, wearing silk pajamas. “Why do you always say that instead of, I don’t know … knocking?”She rolls her eyes and sashays over to sit on the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling? Any better today?”She always asks me that, as if I’ve got a case of the flu instead of a straight-up faulty nervous system. “Fine, Mom. Everything’s in working order.” Except my brain.“Want to go for a walk?”The hysterical laugh twists in my chest, fighting to break free. We do this every. Single. Day. “No.”“We could head down to that little bakery near the boardwalk? The one that makes the ginger scones?”“You’re wearing pajamas.” I’ll take any excuse, and I’m trying to keep this pleasant.She plucks at the red silk over her belly. “I’d change, obviously. And so would you, unless you want people to believe I’ve raised a girl who thinks it’s okay to wear yoga pants outside a yoga class.”“I want to read this next chapter.”She groans. “Estella, you’re getting worse. You were willing to walk there a few weeks ago.”I was—until I realized I wasn’t safe, even on familiar ground.Her fingers smooth over my comforter. “We could talk, you know. I mean, you could tell me … if something did happen to you and you’re embarrassed about it … if someone hurt you …”“Mom, I’ve told you. Nothing happened. No one did anything to me.”Honestly? I think all of this would be easier if I could point to one thing, one moment, one person, and say this is why. I could explain it, then. Understand the why of it. Blame it on something other than myself. If I were a victim, maybe it would keep everyone from being so frustrated with me. On a few occasions, I’ve even considered making up something, just to see the sympathy that flashed in my mom’s eyes a second ago, just to have her be patient with me for more than a minute at a time. But I’m not a liar, so instead I get the frustrated, calculating way she’s glaring at me now. I’ve seen it so many times before. It’s a look that makes my stomach ache.“Come on,” she says abruptly. “We’re going. I’ll get you a hot chocolate, too.” She grabs my arm and playfully tries to tug me up, but I don’t move. I’m too busy trying to avoid a major freak out. It’s all right here, a millimeter beneath my surface, the prickly current of panic, the memory of being so sure I was dying, the wide eyes of the people around me, the way my heart was beating so hard that it hurt. It actually hurt. “No, Mom,” I whisper.She keeps tugging. “No,” I say louder, even as I’m wondering if I should go. Maybe I shouldn’t try to hide what happens to me, because then she would see. Then she would know why I can’t. But that means I’d actually have to go through it again, and … I can’t. “I’m sorry. No.”She frowns and yanks so hard that her fingernails sink into my skin. “Come on! God, why are you so stubborn?”I rip my arm away from her before I do something worse. “No!” I shout, glancing down at the red marks she’s left on my arm. “Why are you so stubborn? I’m twenty years old, and if I say I don’t want hot chocolate, I don’t want fucking hot chocolate!”She sits back, a shade paler. “I’m just trying to help you. You used to love that bakery,” she says quietly.I still do. Ever since I was little, I’ve dreamed of spending my days in a place like that, surrounded by the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, flour on my hands. “Hey, I was thinking of asking Willa to get me some candied ginger so I could make those scones myself.” Our housekeeper is pretty accommodating, and doesn’t ask me why I don’t simply drive to the grocery store and get what I need. “I found a good recipe.” I smile, trying to lighten the moment, trying to fix this even though I can feel the tears glazing my eyes. “Or … I made a batch of muffins this morning. Banana coconut. We could have tea here.”There’s a bitter twist to her mouth as she says the same thing she’s said to me so many times before: “That’s missing the point. If I wanted to eat here, I’d have Willa make something for us.”She’s missing the point. I feel calm when I’m in the kitchen, when I know I can make something good and not mess it up, when I can create something that I can actually offer to other people—something that will make them happy. I was the bake sale go-to girl in high school, and I used to make things in the dorm kitchen at Wellesley before everything fell apart—cookies before exam weeks and cakes for birthdays. People used to joke that I should open a bakery, and I laughed along with them even though I couldn’t stop thinking about how awesome that might be. But girls don’t go to Ivy League schools so they can make pastries for a living. It was ridiculous to even consider.Mom sighs. “You’ve smeared goo on your shirt again.”
“It’s batter.”
“Is there a difference? It’s still not the best way to spend your time.”
“Better than staring at the walls.”
“Not much.”
I snort. “Very much. When I’m baking, I feel good, Mom. When I’m reading—” I tap my book. “I feel good.”  It’s one of the only ways I can see the outside world at this point. “When I’m arguing with you? Not so good.” My knees start to lift to my chest, my body trying to fold in on itself as I think about how my life is now, how it will have to be from now on. “So maybe you could just let me do those other things?”
“Your little hobbies aren’t helping you. In fact, I think they’re making you worse.” She nudges my shoulder with hers, like she’s saying something friendly instead of implying that everything I enjoy is stupid. “I have something I want you to try. Something better than baking or reading.”
Uh oh. “Mom, seriously, I’m not going to—”
“I know! You’re not going anywhere! You’re not leaving the house! You’re going to be Howard Hughes and Woody Allen and, I don’t know, some-other-famous-yet-crazy-hermit all rolled into one! And this is my life—I have one daughter who’s graduated from Harvard law, and another who wants to spend her days doing things my housekeeper could do.” She smirks at my expression, like she’s happy she’s poking needles into all my sore spots. “No worries. I don’t have the time or energy to fight you on that today.” She sweeps her gleaming auburn hair over her shoulder. “But I think you need a chance to express yourself, Estella.”
“I express myself just fine in the kitchen.”
“You should be doing something more cultured than smearing batter on your clothes!” she snaps before taking a breath and softening her tone. “And you need to do something more therapeutic than baking cupcakes.”
“You need to stop telling me what I need.” She has no idea what this feels like. If I were to express what’s inside me, it would basically be one long, shrill scream.
She sighs. “Isn’t that my job? Anyway. Art. It’s the perfect outlet to help you get those feelings out so you can get back on track. I take painting classes at the artists’ co-op, and they have wonderful teachers.”
“And I will never go to the co-op, so—”
“One of the teachers is coming to you, darling,” she says with a crocodile grin. “He’s a talented painter, and he’ll give you private lessons. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“You signed me up for lessons with some art teacher without asking me if I actually wanted them?” What the hell is this? I have interests … and they’ve never included painting pictures of bowls of fruit. “You’ve wasted your time.”
Mom pushes herself up and stares down at me. “You’re going to give this a chance.”
I glare at my book, tears blurring the lettering on the cover. “No, I’m not. Stop treating me like a child.”
“Stop acting like one, then. If you don’t take the lessons and work on your problems, we’re going to have to talk about your needs. I’ve been looking up a few private treatment facilities.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Her expression is utterly solemn.

Hasil (Bahasa Indonesia) 2:

Aku mundur ke kamar saya dengan Anna Karenina terselip di bawah lengan saya. Aku sudah membacanya. Ini adalah downer panik. Perpustakaan orangtuaku penuh buku mereka tetap untuk penampilan, bukan kenikmatan, tapi aku suka merasakan halaman antara jari-jari saya, tergelincir ke dunia yang berbeda dari saya. Geser ke dalam kulit seseorang berbeda dari saya. Siapapun yang berbeda dari saya.
Saya tidak bisa pergi ke perpustakaan umum, jadi saya akan mengambil apa yang aku bisa.
  Pikiranku masih berputar dengan percakapan saya hanya punya dengan pria acak yang berjalan menyusuri lorong dari kamar ibuku, memakai celana berbintik dengan cat dan kemeja yang tidak cukup menyembunyikan semacam tato di sisi lehernya. Daniel, tidak Dan atau Danny atau Danielle. Saya tidak berbicara dengan banyak orang, tidak jika saya bisa membantu, tapi saya berjalan keluar dari ruang perpustakaan dan dia ada di sana, rambut pirang shaggy menggantung di gumpalan di atas matanya, tampak seperti dia dimiliki tempat.
Dia mungkin berpikir dia memiliki hak untuk merasa seperti itu, karena aku cukup yakin dia meniduri ibuku. Saya berharap dia tahu seberapa cepat dia bosan hal.
Saya menyadari lama bahwa orang tua saya tinggal di rumah yang sama, tapi mereka tidak benar-benar bersama-sama, kecuali jika Anda menghitung pertemuan sosial wajib. Ayah bahkan tidak tidur di kamar mereka lagi. Dan dia, setidaknya, tidak membawa kekasih pulang. Tidak seperti ibuku. Untuk sesaat, saya terganggu mencoba memikirkan setara laki-laki dari gundik. Sebuah tuan? Saya tahu bahwa bukan itu, tapi itu cukup lucu, dan Tuhan tahu saya perlu tertawa.
Saya flop ke tempat tidur. Ini king-size, dan yang tidak pernah digunakan untuk mengganggu saya, tapi sejak aku sudah pulang, rasanya terlalu besar. Semuanya terasa terlalu besar. Saya telah menghabiskan sebagian besar beberapa minggu terakhir melawan dorongan untuk meringkuk menjadi bola ketat dan tetap seperti itu. Orang tua saya tidak mendapatkannya. Mereka pikir saya melakukan buruk. Apa yang mereka tidak mengerti adalah bahwa aku melakukan yang terbaik yang saya bisa. Apa yang mereka tidak mengerti adalah ... baik, segala sesuatu.
"Tok, tok," bernyanyi ibu saya.
Saya melihat melewati bahu saya untuk melihatnya berdiri di ambang pintu saya, mengenakan piyama sutra. "Mengapa kau selalu mengatakan bahwa alih-alih, saya tidak tahu ... mengetuk?"
Dia memutar matanya dan sashays lebih untuk duduk di tepi tempat tidur. "Bagaimana perasaanmu? Lebih baik hari ini?
"Dia selalu bertanya kepada saya bahwa, seolah-olah aku punya kasus flu bukan sistem yang rusak saraf lurus-up. "Baik, Bu. Semuanya dalam rangka kerja. "Kecuali otak saya." Ingin pergi untuk berjalan-jalan? "Liku tertawa histeris di dadaku, berjuang untuk membebaskan diri. Kita lakukan setiap ini. Tunggal. Hari. "Tidak" "Kita bisa kepala ke yang roti kecil di dekat pantai? Salah satu yang membuat scone jahe? "" Kau memakai piyama. "Aku akan mengambil alasan apapun, dan aku mencoba untuk menjaga ini menyenangkan. Dia mencomot di sutra merah di atas perutnya. "Aku akan berubah, jelas. Dan demikian juga Anda, kecuali jika Anda ingin orang-orang percaya aku mengangkat seorang gadis yang berpikir tidak apa-apa untuk memakai celana yoga di luar kelas yoga. "" Saya ingin membaca bab berikutnya ini. "Dia mengerang. "Estella, Anda semakin parah. Anda bersedia untuk berjalan di sana beberapa minggu yang lalu. "Saya-sampai saya menyadari saya tidak aman, bahkan di tanah asing. Jari-jarinya memuluskan selimut saya. "Kita bisa bicara, Anda tahu. Maksudku, kau bisa katakan padaku ... jika sesuatu terjadi pada Anda dan Anda malu tentang hal itu ... jika seseorang menyakiti Anda ... "" Bu, aku sudah bilang. Tidak ada yang terjadi. Tidak ada yang melakukan apa-apa dengan saya. "Jujur? Saya pikir semua ini akan lebih mudah jika saya bisa menunjukkan satu hal, satu saat, satu orang, dan mengatakan ini adalah mengapa. Aku bisa menjelaskannya, maka. Memahami mengapa itu. Menyalahkan pada sesuatu selain diriku sendiri. Jika saya korban, mungkin itu akan membuat semua orang dari menjadi begitu frustrasi dengan saya. Pada beberapa kesempatan, saya bahkan sudah dianggap membuat sesuatu, hanya untuk melihat simpati yang melintas di mata ibuku kedua lalu, hanya untuk memiliki dia bersabar dengan saya selama lebih dari satu menit pada suatu waktu. Tapi aku tidak pembohong, jadi bukannya saya mendapatkan frustrasi, menghitung cara dia menatapku sekarang. Saya telah melihat begitu banyak kali sebelumnya. Ini adalah tampilan yang membuat sakit perut saya. "Ayo," katanya tiba-tiba. "Akan. Aku akan membuat Anda cokelat panas, juga. "Dia meraih lenganku dan main-main mencoba untuk menariknya saya, tapi saya tidak bergerak. Aku terlalu sibuk berusaha untuk menghindari aneh utama keluar. Itu semua di sini, satu milimeter di bawah permukaan saya, saat berduri panik, memori menjadi begitu yakin aku sedang sekarat, mata lebar-orang di sekitar saya, cara jantungku berdetak begitu keras sehingga terasa sakit. Ini benar-benar melukai.  "Tidak, Bu," bisikku. Dia terus menarik-narik. "Tidak," kataku keras, bahkan ketika aku bertanya-tanya apakah aku harus pergi. Mungkin aku tidak harus mencoba untuk menyembunyikan apa yang terjadi padaku, karena kemudian dia akan melihat. Kemudian dia akan tahu mengapa aku tidak bisa. Tapi itu berarti aku benar-benar harus pergi melalui itu lagi, dan ... aku tidak bisa. "Maafkan saya. Tidak "Dia mengerutkan kening dan menyentak begitu keras bahwa kukunya tenggelam ke dalam kulit saya. "Ayolah! Tuhan, kenapa kau begitu keras kepala? "Aku merobek lenganku darinya sebelum aku melakukan sesuatu yang lebih buruk. "Tidak!" Aku berteriak sambil melirik tanda merah dia meninggalkan di lengan saya. "Mengapa kau begitu keras kepala? Saya berusia dua puluh tahun, dan jika saya mengatakan saya tidak ingin cokelat panas, saya tidak ingin sialan cokelat panas! "Dia duduk kembali, pucat warna. "Aku hanya berusaha untuk membantu Anda. Anda dulu suka roti itu, "katanya pelan. Aku masih melakukannya. Sejak aku masih kecil, aku pernah bermimpi menghabiskan hari-hari saya di tempat seperti itu, dikelilingi oleh aroma vanili dan kayu manis, tepung di tangan saya. "Hei, aku berpikir untuk meminta Willa untuk mendapatkan saya beberapa jahe manisan sehingga saya bisa membuat mereka scone sendiri." Pengurus rumah tangga kami cukup akomodatif, dan tidak bertanya kenapa aku tidak hanya pergi ke toko kelontong dan mendapatkan apa yang Saya butuh. "Saya menemukan resep yang baik." Aku tersenyum, mencoba untuk meringankan saat ini, mencoba untuk memperbaiki ini meskipun aku bisa merasakan air mata kaca mata saya. "Atau ... Aku membuat batch Muffin pagi ini. Pisang kelapa. Kita bisa memiliki teh di sini ". Ada sentuhan pahit ke mulut saat ia mengatakan hal yang sama dia berkata kepada saya berkali-kali sebelum:" Itu titik hilang. Jika saya ingin makan di sini, aku harus Willa membuat sesuatu bagi kita. "Dia hilang titik. Aku merasa tenang ketika saya di dapur, ketika saya tahu saya bisa membuat sesuatu yang baik dan tidak mengacaukannya, ketika saya bisa membuat sesuatu yang saya benar-benar dapat menawarkan untuk orang lain-sesuatu yang akan membuat mereka bahagia. Saya adalah penjualan kue pergi-gadis di sekolah tinggi, dan saya digunakan untuk membuat hal-hal di dapur asrama di Wellesley sebelum semuanya berantakan-kue sebelum ujian minggu dan kue untuk ulang tahun. Orang sering bercanda bahwa saya harus membuka toko roti, dan aku tertawa bersama mereka meskipun aku tidak bisa berhenti memikirkan bagaimana awesome yang mungkin. Tapi gadis tidak pergi ke sekolah Ivy League sehingga mereka dapat membuat kue-kue untuk hidup. Itu konyol untuk bahkan mempertimbangkan. Ibu mendesah. "Kau dioleskan goo di baju Anda lagi." "Ini adonan." "Apakah ada perbedaan? Ini masih bukan cara terbaik untuk menghabiskan waktu Anda. "" Lebih baik daripada menatap dinding. "" Tidak banyak. "Aku mendengus. "Sangat banyak. Ketika saya kue, saya merasa baik, Mom. Ketika aku membaca-"Aku tekan buku saya. "Saya merasa baik." Ini satu-satunya cara saya bisa melihat dunia luar pada saat ini. "Ketika saya berdebat dengan Anda? Tidak begitu baik. "Lututku mulai mengangkat dada saya, tubuh saya mencoba untuk melipat ke dalam dirinya sendiri karena saya berpikir tentang bagaimana kehidupan saya sekarang, bagaimana hal itu akan harus mulai dari sekarang. "Jadi mungkin Anda hanya bisa membiarkan saya melakukan hal-hal lain?" "Hobi kecil Anda tidak membantu Anda. Bahkan, saya pikir mereka membuat Anda lebih buruk. "Dia menyenggolku bahuku dengan miliknya, seperti dia mengatakan sesuatu yang ramah bukannya menyiratkan bahwa segala sesuatu yang saya nikmati adalah bodoh. "Aku punya sesuatu yang ingin Anda coba. Sesuatu yang lebih baik daripada memanggang atau membaca. "Uh oh. "Mom, serius, aku tidak akan-" "Aku tahu! Anda tidak akan di mana saja! Anda tidak meninggalkan rumah! Anda akan menjadi Howard Hughes dan Woody Allen dan, saya tidak tahu, beberapa-lain-yang terkenal-belum-gila-pertapa semua digulung menjadi satu! Inilah hidup-saya saya punya satu anak perempuan yang sudah lulus dari hukum Harvard, dan lain yang ingin menghabiskan hari-harinya melakukan hal-hal rumah tangga saya bisa melakukan. "Dia menyeringai di ekspresi saya, seperti dia senang dia menusuk jarum ke dalam semua tempat saya sakit. "Jangan khawatir. Saya tidak memiliki waktu atau energi untuk melawan Anda pada hari ini. "Dia menyapu nya berkilau rambut pirang bahunya. "Tapi saya pikir Anda membutuhkan kesempatan untuk mengekspresikan diri, Estella." "Aku mengekspresikan diri dengan baik di dapur." "Anda harus melakukan sesuatu yang lebih berbudaya daripada mengolesi adonan pada pakaian Anda!" Dia terkunci sebelum mengambil napas dan pelunakan nada suaranya. "Dan Anda perlu melakukan sesuatu yang lebih daripada terapi kue cupcakes." "Anda harus berhenti mengatakan apa yang saya butuhkan." Dia tidak tahu apa ini terasa seperti. Jika saya harus mengungkapkan apa yang ada di dalam saya, itu pada dasarnya akan menjadi salah satu yang lama, jeritan melengking. Dia mendesah. "Bukankah itu pekerjaan saya? Bagaimanapun. Seni. Ini outlet yang sempurna untuk membantu Anda mendapatkan perasaan itu keluar sehingga Anda bisa kembali ke jalur. Aku mengambil kelas melukis di seniman 'co-op, dan mereka memiliki guru yang indah. "" Dan aku tidak akan pernah pergi ke co-op, jadi- "" Salah satu guru datang kepada Anda, Sayang, "katanya dengan seringai buaya. "Dia seorang pelukis berbakat, dan dia akan memberikan les privat. Dia akan berada di sini besok. "" Anda menandatangani saya untuk pelajaran dengan beberapa guru seni tanpa meminta saya jika saya benar-benar ingin mereka? "Apa-apaan ini? Saya memiliki kepentingan ... dan mereka tidak pernah termasuk lukisan gambar mangkuk buah. "Anda sudah menyia-nyiakan waktu Anda." Ibu mendorong dirinya dan menatap ke arahku. "Kau akan memberikan ini kesempatan." Aku memelototi buku saya, air mata mengaburkan tulisan di sampul. "Tidak, bukan aku. Berhenti memperlakukan saya seperti anak kecil. "" Berhentilah bertindak seperti satu, kemudian. Jika Anda tidak mengambil pelajaran dan bekerja pada masalah Anda, kita akan harus berbicara tentang kebutuhan Anda. Aku sudah mencari beberapa fasilitas pengolahan pribadi. "Kepala saya terkunci up. "Apa?" Ekspresinya sama sekali serius.