Chapter 3: Daughter in a Gilded Cage

“He even touched my daughter’s hand—if that’s not seduction, what is?”

“I didn’t!” Tyler protested.

I tried to explain, my voice trembling, “It was that day when I borrowed a paper from Tyler and our hands accidentally touched.”

“Shut up!”

Mom slapped me, furious.

“I sent you to high school to study, not to fall in love. I don’t care—if Tyler hadn’t touched your hand, would this have happened? He seduced you.”

“Enough, stop talking.”

I shouted, desperate.

“What’s with that attitude? I’m doing this for your own good, and you’re afraid of being talked about after what you’ve done?”

Mom threw down her bag and stormed out, leaving me standing there, humiliated.

I went from being invisible in class to the center of gossip in the whole school. Everywhere I went, people stared. Even during breaks, students from other classes would peer in through the back window, pointing and laughing. They mocked me, ridiculed me, insulted me. The malice was enough to drown me. I wanted to disappear.

“Heh, how can someone be awkward and dumb and still want to go after someone like that?”

“Yeah, still fantasizing about others liking her—who would?”

For the first time, I resented Mom. Why did she have to do this? Was I her enemy or her daughter?

My hard-won progress in grades slipped back to the bottom. But I still wasn’t kicked out of the honors class. Why? Because the school was afraid Mom would cause trouble—they were scared of her.

My classmates disliked me even more. They said I was dragging them down, taking up someone else’s spot. I should know my place and leave. Maybe they were right.

I gritted my teeth and told myself to hang in there. Just one year, four months, and I’d be out of here.

“All right, that’s the end of this lesson. Use the last 15 minutes to do the exercises at the end of the chapter.”

After a brief commotion, the classroom filled with the sound of flipping books and scribbling pens. I reviewed the lesson in my head while writing quickly. I couldn’t let myself relax, not even for a second.

Math is my worst subject. I’m slow, slower than everyone else, and never finish the test on time.

“Let’s have someone come to the whiteboard to write out the steps.”

As soon as I heard this, my heart raced. “This row.” Of course, fate wasn’t on my side. Our row was picked. The people in front of me walked up briskly with their books. I followed, legs weak. When I got to the front, the whiteboard was already full. No space left for me. A boy turned and gave me a smug look.

“Hm~ No more space, Emily, you can go back.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to return to my seat.

“Don’t, teacher—others can squeeze, there’ll be space.”

“Yeah, let Emily do it.”

“Emily is so smart—she can’t possibly not know how to do the end-of-chapter exercise.”

A few boys took the lead, just trying to get back at me for Tyler. They were Tyler’s buddies. I’d overheard them say they wanted to get back at me for Tyler. I’d been anxious for days, but nothing ever happened. Maybe they were afraid of being associated with me. Now, every boy in class avoided me, afraid my mom would accuse them of seducing me.

“Why are you bullying my daughter—are you trying to get her attention?”

They mimicked my mom’s tone. Everyone cracked up.

“What’s the commotion—do you want class to end or not? Jason, you were the loudest, you do it on the whiteboard. If you get it wrong, copy the problem a hundred times. Emily, go back to your seat.”

I stepped down from the platform, as I walked past Jason. He whispered, “Little loser.”

My hands shook. I cursed myself for being useless. The problem was simple—I knew how to do it, but on the whiteboard my mind went blank. I watched Jason finish in no time, joking with the teacher.

“Did I get it right? If not, do I have to copy it a hundred times?”

Mr. Sanders smiled, “No, copy it a hundred times.”

They bantered, the classroom relaxed and lively—if only I wasn’t there. I could feel I was the class’s landmine. Whenever I was called on, the atmosphere turned cold. Even the teachers looked at me with sympathy, calling on me so carefully. Even the homeroom teacher never spoke to me alone again. Not only did my classmates dislike me, the teachers were afraid I’d bring them trouble.

I thought all I suffered would make Mom feel a little guilty. Instead, she just got worse.

I told Mom I didn’t want to go to school anymore. She still acted like she cared. She asked if classmates bullied me, if teachers were mean to me. I blinked back tears, feeling a trace of comfort. But before I could pour out my heart, Mom’s next words crushed me.

“My daughter was bullied? I’m going to expose them all online.”

So you did know what I might face after that day. Too bad, at most, they just told a couple of truths. “In the honors class, no one would bother to bully me.” I swallowed the rest of my words and just said it was because my grades were bad. Mom, disappointed, put down the camera she’d just picked up and pushed my head.

“Did badly on the test and now you don’t want to go to school? Can’t you try harder?”

So I stuck it out in this class for another year. My classmates ignored me, but at least no one brought up the past. That was fine by me.

When there were 100 days left until the SATs, Mom’s video titles became “High School Breakfast—100 Days to Go,” “How Many Practice Tests Does a Top 50 Student Do at Night,” “A High School Mom’s Day—How Hard Is It Really?” By then, I didn’t even know what videos Mom was making. I had no time to look at my phone—I just needed to study a bit more every day. This time, it wasn’t for Tyler, but for myself.

A hundred days flew by, so fast it felt like someone had stolen my time. The night before the exam, I was memorizing model essays. Mom came in and put a cup of hot milk on my desk. She didn’t leave, but sat on the bed, looking at me with a gentle expression. She said she knew she’d messed up all these years.

“After I finish recording this last video, Mom won’t film anymore. Can you help Mom one more time?”

It was the best news I’d ever heard. Whatever she wanted, I’d go along.

“It’s just… could you pretend to forget your admission ticket at home, and then I’ll go back to get it for you? I’ll post a video like that online—on the first day of the SATs, it’ll definitely go viral. Don’t worry, we’ll get to the test site early, it’ll be fine.”

I thought Mom was insane. How could you joke about something like this?

“I won’t do it.”

She wanted to say more, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed her out of the room and locked the door for the first time.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Honey, listen to Mom, I’d never hurt you. Do you know how much money this video could make? You’ll never make that much in a year, even after you graduate.”

I ignored her, reading my essay out loud. At some point, the banging stopped. I put down my book and walked to the window. The night sky was dotted with stars. After studying so long under the stars and moon, I asked myself, “Was I willing?”

The answer was yes. Nothing and no one could stop me from chasing my future. A strange calm settled in my heart. I slept soundly that night.

The next morning, Mom didn’t mention the video again. She seemed to have given up. On the way to the test site, I was still reciting essays every chance I got. Mom kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, wanting to say something. When we arrived, she told me she’d secretly taken my admission ticket out of my pencil bag.

“Oh no, what now? Hurry back and get it!”

I stomped my foot, pretended to cry.

“It’s my fault, all my fault for not checking your pencil bag properly.”

After Mom finished, she slapped herself twice. In just a few seconds, she was already in character. Her eyes were red, her voice choked—she really looked like an anxious, loving mother. I peeked through my fingers, watching her act for the camera with interest. It’s a shame Mom never went into acting—the entertainment industry lost a triple-award actress.

Just then, a traffic cop on a motorcycle passed by, saw Mom crying by the curb, and hurried over to ask what was wrong. Mom wiped her tears and sobbed that I forgot my admission ticket. A local news reporter rushed over, documenting the first student in the 2023 SATs to forget their ticket. Seeing things had gone this far, if I didn’t say anything, Mom would have ridden off on the motorcycle. I took out the real admission ticket I’d hidden in my pocket yesterday and waved it at Mom. “Mom, I’m going in!” And just like that, I left her behind.