Off the Record Camryn Garrett (best book club books txt) 📖

It’s impossible to understand my parents. One minute they’re talking about college, and the next minute they’re telling me I don’t fool around enough. I’m not sure what they expect me to do. Sure, sometimes I scroll through Instagram and get jealous when I see everyone at parties or going into Atlanta together. On the other hand, I don’t know what I would do if I actually hung out with them. I hear Jordan and Sadie talk about sports and dances and how much weight people need to lose at lunch. I’m lost about sixty percent of the time, and I have no desire to catch up.

“It’s not that simple,” I say. “I spend a lot of time with kids my own age. Lots of other kids work at Cora’s, remember? Lots of kids I see in school, like Josh Sandler and Liv Carroll. You remember them?”

I leave out the fact that Josh is annoying as hell and I spend most of my shifts staring at Liv and her super-tight uniform shirt while she waits on customers, but I figure they don’t need to know that.

“But you never go out,” Dad says. “You don’t go to school dances or clubs. You don’t bring anyone home. We aren’t trying to corner you. But maybe it’s something we should discuss with Laura.”

I press my lips together. My therapist and I have had many conversations about the kids at school and around town. I don’t need Mom and Dad to take up a chunk of our time with whatever this is. We have more important things to talk about.

I’ve accepted that I probably won’t have close friends in high school. I’m just glad I’m almost done. But there’s no way to explain that to Mom and Dad without them worrying more. I don’t even want to try it.

“I think I need to clear my head,” I say, resting my hands on the table. “Can I go out for a drive?”

@JosieTheJournalist: i figured my rebellious teenage phase would be cool but all i’ve managed to do is watch Tarantino movies behind my dad’s back (not worth it)

The best part of finally being seventeen is driving. I can’t leave whenever I want, since I don’t have my own car, but I feel better as soon as I get my hands on the wheel. Driving reminds me that there’s another world out there. Life isn’t just our town and high school, no matter how much it feels like it.

There’s also the Dairy Queen ten minutes away from our house.

I’ve always loved writing, but the fact that I get paid for my articles now definitely adds to the fun. I don’t have to beg anyone to buy me a milkshake and hide the evidence. I try, I really do, but this diet Mom’s pushing doesn’t work. I’ve done it all: counting points, tracking calories, cutting out dairy or wheat, and making this “healthy lifestyle change” Mom’s now into. None of them work. Either I lose a max of fifteen pounds (gaining it back after two months) or nothing changes. It’s not worth it. I wish Mom understood.

I’m still full from dinner, so I fly past Dairy Queen and head onto the main road. Warm Southern air flows through the open windows; the radio plays in the background. Mom hates listening to music when she drives, but when I’m behind the wheel, I blast it.

My phone’s sharp ring makes my eyes snap to the passenger seat. I never have the volume loud enough for me to hear at home, mostly because I’d rather text than talk on the phone. The only reason it’s up now is because it’s one of Mom and Dad’s rules. I pull over and park the car.

It’s Monique.

For some reason, I thought it might be the contest. My heart momentarily sinks before the anxiety ramps up again. Monique probably read my last piece. Already. God. It starts again: the shallow breathing, the racing thoughts, the mental block.

It’s okay. It’s okay. She’s going to say something nice.

Yet I can’t help but wonder if she’s calling for another reason. Maybe she hated what I wrote. Maybe it was so bad that she doesn’t want me to write for her ever again, and then she won’t write a progress report for me for school and I’ll have all this horrible work and no progress report and fail senior year.

It doesn’t even have to be something big and horrible. Just awkward silences make me anxious. I hate them in face-to-face conversations and on the phone. I never know what to say. I never know how to sound. And then the silence beats down on me, harder and harder, until all my air is gone.

The ringing stops. I tighten my grip on the wheel, glancing down. It barely takes a second for it to start ringing again. I force a deep breath. Before I can chicken out, I accept the call and hold the phone up to my ear. The faster we get talking, the faster I’ll feel comfortable. Maybe.

“Hi,” I say. My voice cracks. Ugh. Hopefully she didn’t notice.

“Hey, Josie!” Monique’s voice is big and loud. I worry so much about how I sound, but it’s like she doesn’t care at all. “Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time.”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “I’m just hanging out after dinner. How are you?”

“Having a lovely time at home, finally,” she says, laughing. “We’ve been in the office for a long time, trying to finish deadlines before the holiday, and New York in the winter is most definitely not like in the movies. But speaking of deadlines, I wanted to talk to you about the piece you sent me earlier.”

“Oh.” Something in my stomach burns, my fingers gripping