Karl shook his head sadly, but his voice remained impassive. "The girl I knew—the girl I was willing to take on as my daughter—would never betray me the way you did. I've been breaking my back to try to get you into Northwestern. You think your teachers will recommend you now?"
"The way I dress shouldn't matter to them," I said.
"But it does. You think they'll want you on a college campus looking like that?"
We were having the wrong conversation. I wasn't a real emo girl. I would never dress like this at college. But no explanation I could offer would make things any better.
"Maybe," I said. "Colleges love diversity."
"Do they love drug addicts, Cara?" Karl asked. "Do they love alcoholics? Do they love teen pregnancies?"
What?
"Karl, that's not what I—"
"How do I know? I don't know who you are anymore. I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what you've done. How long have you been sneaking around behind our backs, Cara? What else have you been lying about?"
"Nothing! I'm sorry—I made a terrible mistake. I shouldn't have lied to you, and I shouldn't have gone behind your backs. But I swear, I'm not leading some secret double life. I'm the same person I always was."
"I don't believe you," Karl said. "But if—if—you're going to continue to live under my roof, here's what you will do: you will go to school, you will come home, you will do your homework. You will not have a credit card, a car, a phone, a television, a computer, or any life whatsoever outside of school. When you are in my house, I don't want to see you except for meals. You are to remain in your room and out of my sight."
I couldn't believe this was happening. Had Karl really said "if" I continue to live under his roof? Had I really messed things up that badly?
"For how long?" I asked.
"Lucky for me, you'll be out of the house in a year and a half, right? Now please go up to your room. After you give me your cell phone."
My insides felt shredded, but Karl looked just fine. He almost seemed happy. A smug smile played on his face. I stared at him, then handed over my cell phone and went up to my room.
My doorless, journal-less, computer-less, TV-less room. I wanted to change out of my emo-garb, but oh yeah: no clothes. Every drawer and my closet had been emptied.
What could I do? I lay back on my bed and listened to Mom and Karl scream at each other downstairs. Or to be more accurate, I listened to Mom scream, plead, and cry while Karl gave her the same disinterested attitude he had given me. At one point he even turned on the TV.
They both seemed to agree that I was horrible. It was the degree of horribleness and the extent of the consequences that had them banging heads. Mom thought stripping away every bit of choice in my life was a touch extreme. Karl thought it was the only sensible way to deal with a stranger in the house. Mom thought the demotion from "daughter" to "stranger" was also a touch extreme. Karl said if "Harriet" didn't like it, then she and "her daughter" could go live in someone else's house and leave him alone.
It went on for a really long time. At a certain point I crawled under the comforter, pulled it over my head so their voices were muffled, and cried myself to sleep.
I woke up at two. Mom was sitting on the bed next to me, rubbing my arm. Her face was puffy from crying, but she laughed when I sat up to look at her.
"You really need to wash your face. Go take a shower. We'll talk afterward."
I felt even fuzzier and drunker than when I'd had the beer with Nate, but I managed to get up and stagger into the hall. On the way, I noticed my computer was back on my desk, all my clothes were stacked on my dressers, and my door—while not reattached—was now leaning in the hallway next to the jamb. I cast my eyes under my bed and saw with relief that my giant plastic bin of journals was back in place. At least at first glance, they looked beautifully untouched.
I winced against the light in the bathroom as I peeked at my face. No wonder Mom had laughed: I looked like a badly beaten mime.