Harsh Pink with Bonus Content (27 page)

On my fifteenth birthday, she surprised me — not by making a cake, not by getting me a present or even a card, but instead by hitting me with this: “God told me you are not to date until you turn eighteen, Haley Michelle.”

Too shocked to respond, I just chalked it up to one more weird and fundamentalist thing she’d learned from her women’s group. I hoped it was only a phase, something she’d get over by the time a real opportunity to date occurred. But the no-dating rule only seemed to snowball. Not only was I not allowed to date until I was of voting age, I was not allowed to go to dances or other social gatherings where boys were present. Naturally that covered almost everything at my high school.

Even though I rarely even had a conversation with a guy, I was lectured regularly on the evils of boys in general and was spied on more times than I can remember. It came to a head at the end of last school year.

It was one of those delicious spring days, and I actually felt like a normal girl for a nice change. Bryce Thurston (my first and only boyfriend) was walking me home from school, and we were laughing and joking and holding hands — acting like what I assume normal teens are supposed to act like. And it was so fun!

Of course, I had no idea my mom was hiding behind the Schulers’ hedge as Bryce and I passed by. Seriously, whose mom does that? I nearly had a heart attack when she leaped out from the shadows.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, shaking her finger at me.

After recovering from the shock, I went into embarrassment mode when I noticed she was wearing an ugly old Christmas sweater and matted pink fuzzy slippers. Naturally, Bryce excused himself and took off in the opposite direction.

That was the day Mom decided she would find a way to afford the tuition at her church’s private academy — a pathetic little school with about twenty unfortunate kids between the ages of five and eighteen.

A few days later, I did some online legal research and discovered that at sixteen, I was old enough to petition a judge for the right to live with my other parent. And that’s exactly what I did. Much to my mom’s displeasure, after I presented my case, the judge ruled in my favor. It helped that my grades were high and I’d never been in any kind of trouble. I even presented some letters from my teachers and school counselor. Also, the judge seemed familiar with Mom’s church and she didn’t agree with forcing one’s religion onto one’s young adult children. But it’s a bittersweet victory.

As we get closer to the California border, I feel myself drifting off to the sound of my dad’s favorite band, the Eagles, playing “Hotel California.” “Such a lovely place … such a lovely face …” I imagine those lyrics are for me and hope I will be welcome here “any time of year.”