Like A Charm

'Is this for me?'

'Isn't it adorable. Try it on! We're celebrating you getting into Eastlake, silly. I found it at that cute antique store at the Plaza where they have all that funky old stuff and it just called out to me. It's got charms, see?'

My mom is always super sweet like that. Always giving me gifts when I get down at heart. I don't have her cheery temperament. I don't have her naturally upbeat personality, so she gets me little gifts, she loves me so much.

'Don't you adore it? Now why are you pulling so hard on your hair? That's got to hurt, Megan. Stop it, please.'

I picked up the bracelet and let it dangle, clinking the charms together. One, a small gold puffy heart, glinted in the down-beam of the fancy recessed lights Mom had chosen with her decorator. I examined the heart more closely, noticing it had a tiny jewel, as Mom kept on talking about Eastlake and refilled her own glass.

Along the edge of the heart I detected a fine seam. This was too cool. The puffy heart was a locket! I tried to prise my fingernail into the creased edge, but it just slipped off. It was no use. The locket was maybe welded shut. Totally stuck. And my fingernails are pathetic, really. My fault. I bite them – isn't that gross? Ugly nails. Ugly hands.

Mom's voice: 'Honey, are you zoning out on me? I was talking about how you're going to have to do your part. Give Eastlake your best effort. You can do it.'

'Mom…' I fiddled with the little heart, unable to open it, unwilling to let it alone.

'Yes, dollface?'

' Eastlake…'

'Yes?'

'It's a very tough school.'

My mother held her drink between her two beautifully manicured hands and smiled. 'So you'll work harder.'

You know how you can be fine one minute and then suddenly the next minute you find some dumb thing is happening, like tears are pouring out of your eyes? That's the sort of thing that happens to me all the time, lately. For no reason. And it began happening right then. Somehow, my face was just all wet. Lucky my hair was hanging down or my mom would have been really worried, wondering what was wrong with me now. I turned to get her more ice from the freezer and wiped my face with a dishtowel when she wasn't looking.

Mom was happy about the fresh ice. 'So what have you been up to while I was out?'

'Me? Just drawing.'

I pulled my sketchpad from the corner of the breakfast nook table and opened it to the page.

Mom slowly took the pad. 'Is that me?

It was a sketch using oil pastels. I'd made my mother's skin a little too peachy, I realized, having coloured it without her there to look at while I drew. And I hadn't remembered just how light were the golden highlights in her hair. But other than that, I thought it was maybe not too bad. I had gotten her chin just right.

Mom took a while to tell me what she thought of it. And while I was waiting, standing in the cool kitchen, I realized that I got her nose wrong. Completely. And her eyes. My neck started hurting again. And I couldn't wait any longer. I wanted to snatch the sketchbook out of her hands. Grab it. And rip out the page, punch it into a ball and throw it away. Fast.

'Do you like it, Mommy?'

'It's just fine.'

Fine? No. It was awful. The eyes were horrible. I'd gotten the nose all wrong. What was I thinking? My mother's eyes were a million times prettier than I had drawn them. I could just kill myself for showing her that picture.

'It's just… honey, I don't think this artsy stuff is for you. I know you met the art teacher at the public high school.'

'Miss Sanchez. She said…'

Mom put her hand up gently. 'She tells all the kids they have talent, honey. That's her job. I will not have you attending the public high school simply because one teacher appealed to your vanity. So just get that idea right out of your head. Next thing you'll be telling me you want to drop out of the honours programme and hang around with a lot of troubled kids, is that right?'

How could I keep on letting my mom down like this? I was way too selfish. My mom once said I had my father's selfish gene and I guess that's so. I made a secret promise right then to stop thinking like this. To stop disappointing my mother.

Mom looked at me closely. I wondered if she could see I was going to try harder, because I really, really was. 'You need to be more positive, sweetie. You'll do fine at Eastlake. I've gotten you this far, haven't I?'

My mom's smile faded immediately when she saw my face.

I stopped looking at her; stopped breathing, even, for a few seconds. It was the thing we never talked about.

I pulled my hair down over my face, which I know I shouldn't since she doesn't like it, but sometimes I can't help it. My grades are a subject that's tricky. It's like something we can't talk about, because we both know it's been my mom who has been earning all my As at Pasadena Country Day, practically doing all my homework and projects and papers since kindergarten. Everyone in my sixth grade class suspects it. My teachers know it. And so do I. That's why when the rejection letter from Eastlake came in the mail, I wasn't surprised. I was kind of expecting it.

Are you worrying again? About the letter?'

'No. Honestly.' I gave her the kind of smile she deserved, real nonchalant and carefree.

Last Saturday was like a funeral around my house. My father glared at my mother. My mother was so trembly she asked me to fix her a drink at noon! Even with Daddy at home.

Are you worrying, Megan? Please don't. I'll help you, sweetie. You'll love Eastlake.'

She held out her glass and I got up to refill it, making it mostly Diet Coke this time, hiding behind my hair.

When the letter came and Mom was so disappointed, I realized something. She regrets having me. I know she does. I could tell by the look on her face. And you know something else? I can't blame her one bit. She's right. I'm just a screwed up kid and she deserves so much better. As much as I always try to be just perfect for her, I always find some supremely stupid way to muck it all up. Typical me. Instead of making her happy, like I always, always try, I just end up embarrassing her. How screwed up is that?

And parents aren't very tolerant, you know? They hate being embarrassed. They just hate it. It's like when I feel embarrassed only a thousand times worse because she's a grown-up and has worked terribly hard and all. I wish I could be good enough to make her proud, I really do. Then she could be happy. Or maybe it would be better to wish for something else. I looked at the bracelet on the counter. Maybe if I were just gone, my mom wouldn't be so sad.

The first thing she said, after reading the rejection letter from the Eastlake School, was what was she going to tell her friend, Carrie? Carrie's daughter Zoë is in sixth grade at Country Day, too. When I showed up to school on Monday, I wasn't surprised to learn that Zoë got accepted to all the schools she applied to. She was going to go to Eastlake, of course.

'Carrie?' My mother was already on the phone as I handed her the fresh rum and Diet Coke. 'Guess what? I just spoke to Mrs Williams at Eastlake.'

I guess my mom couldn't wait to call Carrie. I heard her laugh for the first time in a week. She said, 'So if they give the girls four hours of homework every night and make them work on projects all weekend, the girls will do it. I know the school is academic, Carrie, but so are our girls.'

I stood in the kitchen, feeling pretty much like throwing up.

Mom, what if I just can't keep up at Eastlake? What if I fail all my classes? What if I can't breathe there? What if I let you down, again and again and again?

My mom didn't hear me, though. I wasn't really talking out loud.

My mom put her hand over the telephone and whispered, 'Put on the bracelet, doll. It's so you.'