Did I have fun? I know I did all the things that are supposed to be fun. I danced and played drinking games and took a thousand pictures in my tiara.

I also know I avoided fooling around with Chase as much as possible and spent most of the night thinking about Jasmine until I drank enough to stop thinking about anything at all.

“I won queen,” I say instead of answering her question.

“And was that fun?” she asks, because my mother is very smart.

I hug my covers to myself. I want to tell my mom the truth. I want to tell her about Jasmine and how confused I am, and I want her to stroke my hair and call me Larotchka and tell me everything is gonna be okay and to just listen to my heart.

I want to, but I am fucking terrified.

“Of course,” I lie.

My mother always knows when anything less than the truth is falling from my lips; it’s why I have to text if I’m being slightly dishonest about where I’m gonna be. My face shows everything. And I wonder what it’s showing that’s making her give me that “Oh, honey” look.

But she doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand.

And I fall apart.

My mother holds me while I cry into her shoulder, not moving even when I’m definitely getting snot all over her shirt. The hair stroking I’d been hoping for happens like clockwork, and I know that I’m running the risk of feeling it for the last time.

I can’t bear that.

My mother is pretty literally my everything. It’s why I barely complained about going to North Carolina for the summer. It’s why I didn’t argue with my father about me going to a state school. It’s why I’ve never fought her having full custody.

It’s why I have to tell her the truth, even though the very thought sends me into another round of tears.

“Larotchka, what happened? Did he hurt you?”

That’s enough to make me pick up my head and wipe my nose. “No, God. No. Chase was great. Chase is always great. It’s me. I’m a mess.”

“You’re not a mess; you’re my wonderful daughter who is not fully escaping punishment for missing curfew, but that’s beside the point for now.” She gently wipes a tear from my cheek with a neatly manicured fingernail. “What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath, and another, until I can talk without breaking into sobs. “I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to hate me.”