I pass by.
“How was your day, Lucinda?”
I take a deep breath before turning around. A few nights ago, I begged Mom to stop treating me like a child. Her response was “Of course, Lucinda. I will never call you Lucy again.” She knows I hate my full name. By using Lucinda, she picks at the fresh scab. I take another deep breath. I am so not in the mood for this.
I turn around to face her. “Fine.” I force myself to smile at her with all the pleasantries of a stranger. I can’t handle this if it doesn’t go smoothly. “How was yours?”
“Great.” She motions to the table for me to sit with her. I opt to remain standing, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. “What’s wrong?” she prods.
“Nothing’s wrong. Why do you always assume something’s wrong, Mom?” I uncross my arms, attempting to appear casual. In control.
She brings her hands together in front of her center as she breathes in slowly through her nose. Therapeutic breathing. I get lots of this.
“Well,” she begins, “as your mother, I’m in tune. I know what that look in your eye means. What happened?”
My blood seethes. She’s in tune? No way. “Maybe you’re just imagining this look so you have an excuse to talk to me?” I roll my eyes before I grab an apple to toss around. “Nothing’s wrong, okay? And even if there was, I wouldn’t dream of telling you.” My stomach ties in a knot. That was a total bitchy thing to say, but it’s the truth. She has no right to know everything going on in my life.
“Lucinda, now that isn’t fair. I’m your mother. If something is wrong, I need to know.”
“Nothing is wrong. And you don’t need to know my problems,” I snap back, harsher than I intended. I look at the door out of the corner of my eye. My exit isn’t far.
Mom glares back at me before standing up and crossing the room where a vase with pink carnations and white lilies sits on the counter. “Fine.” She forces a smile back at me. “These came for you today.” She pulls the card out and hands it to me. I quickly examine the envelope’s seal. It hasn’t been broken.
“Thanks,” I say slowly, for both handing me the card and, for once, not violating my privacy.
The card is embossed with roses bordering some scratchy, boy handwriting. “Lucy, I can’t wait for our date tonight. I’ll see you at 7. ~ Zach”
See, Zach is a great boyfriend. I wish Justin was here so I can shove the flowers in his face.
“Will you at least share who the flowers are from?” Mom asks as she wipes the mud off her boots and the floor.
I opt for honesty, knowing that a refused answer would only land me in a situation where we would fight over whether I would be going on the date.
“Zach.” I hand her the card. “My boyfriend,” I add for emphasis.
“Oh,” she scans the card. “And where are you going?”
“Romano’s.”
Mom wanders over to her bowl of bulbs and garden potions. “Well, since you have been working at painting and are being accountable for your whereabouts, that should be fine.”
I clench my jaw. I haven’t asked her permission, yet she feels obligated to give it. I don’t need her permission. Thankfully, reason comes to my rescue. She’s giving me permission. I take a deep breath, holding in my real response. If I fight this, I definitely won't be sitting in a secluded corner with Zach and a plate of Chicken Marsala.
This isn’t a battle worth winning. So I simply nod and make my exit.
***
“Hey, Pretty.” Zach smiles at me and my stomach flips over.
“Hey, you.” You? Is that really the best I can do? “Thanks for the flowers.”
“No problem. I think I was due to send you some.” He winks at me. I catch Dad and Eric watching us pull away through the living-room window. Eric waves. I don't wave back.
“So, what did you do today? Pool time with Marissa?” Zach begins.
“I wish. But my painting job totally ruined those summer plans.”
“Right, right. How’s
“How was your day, Lucinda?”
I take a deep breath before turning around. A few nights ago, I begged Mom to stop treating me like a child. Her response was “Of course, Lucinda. I will never call you Lucy again.” She knows I hate my full name. By using Lucinda, she picks at the fresh scab. I take another deep breath. I am so not in the mood for this.
I turn around to face her. “Fine.” I force myself to smile at her with all the pleasantries of a stranger. I can’t handle this if it doesn’t go smoothly. “How was yours?”
“Great.” She motions to the table for me to sit with her. I opt to remain standing, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. “What’s wrong?” she prods.
“Nothing’s wrong. Why do you always assume something’s wrong, Mom?” I uncross my arms, attempting to appear casual. In control.
She brings her hands together in front of her center as she breathes in slowly through her nose. Therapeutic breathing. I get lots of this.
“Well,” she begins, “as your mother, I’m in tune. I know what that look in your eye means. What happened?”
My blood seethes. She’s in tune? No way. “Maybe you’re just imagining this look so you have an excuse to talk to me?” I roll my eyes before I grab an apple to toss around. “Nothing’s wrong, okay? And even if there was, I wouldn’t dream of telling you.” My stomach ties in a knot. That was a total bitchy thing to say, but it’s the truth. She has no right to know everything going on in my life.
“Lucinda, now that isn’t fair. I’m your mother. If something is wrong, I need to know.”
“Nothing is wrong. And you don’t need to know my problems,” I snap back, harsher than I intended. I look at the door out of the corner of my eye. My exit isn’t far.
Mom glares back at me before standing up and crossing the room where a vase with pink carnations and white lilies sits on the counter. “Fine.” She forces a smile back at me. “These came for you today.” She pulls the card out and hands it to me. I quickly examine the envelope’s seal. It hasn’t been broken.
“Thanks,” I say slowly, for both handing me the card and, for once, not violating my privacy.
The card is embossed with roses bordering some scratchy, boy handwriting. “Lucy, I can’t wait for our date tonight. I’ll see you at 7. ~ Zach”
See, Zach is a great boyfriend. I wish Justin was here so I can shove the flowers in his face.
“Will you at least share who the flowers are from?” Mom asks as she wipes the mud off her boots and the floor.
I opt for honesty, knowing that a refused answer would only land me in a situation where we would fight over whether I would be going on the date.
“Zach.” I hand her the card. “My boyfriend,” I add for emphasis.
“Oh,” she scans the card. “And where are you going?”
“Romano’s.”
Mom wanders over to her bowl of bulbs and garden potions. “Well, since you have been working at painting and are being accountable for your whereabouts, that should be fine.”
I clench my jaw. I haven’t asked her permission, yet she feels obligated to give it. I don’t need her permission. Thankfully, reason comes to my rescue. She’s giving me permission. I take a deep breath, holding in my real response. If I fight this, I definitely won't be sitting in a secluded corner with Zach and a plate of Chicken Marsala.
This isn’t a battle worth winning. So I simply nod and make my exit.
***
“Hey, Pretty.” Zach smiles at me and my stomach flips over.
“Hey, you.” You? Is that really the best I can do? “Thanks for the flowers.”
“No problem. I think I was due to send you some.” He winks at me. I catch Dad and Eric watching us pull away through the living-room window. Eric waves. I don't wave back.
“So, what did you do today? Pool time with Marissa?” Zach begins.
“I wish. But my painting job totally ruined those summer plans.”
“Right, right. How’s
Similar Books
