White Lady by Jessica Bell Page B

know what? Mia is my trophy. And the only trophy I’ll ever need. Maybe I didn’t make it to the AFL, but I made it somewhere. And this place? It’s so much more special than a career that would probably have lasted a decade, if that.
    The fact that I “made it” as Mia’s father is enough.
    I can’t lose her.
    I just can’t.
    I go to the laundry; grab a plastic bin bag, the brush, and pan; return to the living room and scoop up the shards of glass. They hit the bottom of the plastic bag like I-told-you-sos. I leave the bag by the front door for the next time I go out.
    In the kitchen, I open the fridge, grab myself a light Carlton Draught, and contemplate ordering some takeout. Vegetarian pizza maybe. But what about Mia? She shouldn’t be eating that stuff—even the garden variety. I’ve gotta be strong for her. I’ve gotta be strict, even if she hates my guts and lashes out. So what? I’ll be her punching bag. Crikey, that’s what parents are for.
    I stare at the blank chunky ’90s TV screen, swig my beer, listen to the rain stop and start like God’s got prostate cancer. I switch the TV on for some background noise. I need to change clothes, but I head to Mia’s bedroom first, my wet footsteps as heavy as my heart.
    I knock on her door.
    No answer.
    I knock again. Call her name. Jiggle the handle. Call her name.
    Do I force it open? Or leave her alone? I have to confront her about her behaviour before she damages herself.
    There’s movement, sound, like beads moving around a glass bowl, her wardrobe door swinging shut, a rustle of clothing, humming. As I reach for the handle again, the door swings open. Mia is lip-syncing, earphones in. Thick black shadow lines her eyes; her mouth is glossed red like fresh blood. Mia tries to push past. I block her, gripping the frame of the door on each side.
    “Take them out,” I say, jutting my chin towards her earphones. Mia stares at my mouth; the corner of hers turns up. She raises her brow as if to say “fuck off,” jittering with an urgency I have never seen before.
    “Please,” I mouth.
    Mia clenches her jaw; looks at my left hand; whacks it down with both her arms, buckling my elbow; and slips past me. I grab her by the back of her T-shirt, pull her so hard it looks like she’s about to choke from the collar tight around her neck. I spin her around to face me. She gasps, eyes open wide. I breathe into her face, holding both her shoulders taut, yank her earphones out, and push her into the wall, just hard enough for her to know I mean business.
    “What’s going on? Tell me now.”
    “Piss off.” Mia spits in my face. I can’t believe it. I back up, glare at her, wipe her spit off with the hem of my wet T-shirt.
    Mia glances towards the front door, at my chest, then at the floor. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I … I shouldn’t have—”
    I flare my nostrils and put my hands in my pockets, open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I want to yell and scream and shake the shit out of Mia, tell her to show me some respect, but I don’t. It’ll only make things worse. Plus, she just apologized. Even if it was motivated by a threat of not being let out of the house, she still did it. That says something. I should let it slide. Get to the bottom of what really matters here.
    “Where you going?” I say on the exhale.
    “Out.”
    “Where out?”
    “Just a friend’s house.”
    “It’s a school night.”
    Mia shrugs. “Maybe we’ll study.”
    I shake my head. Mia’s eyes are glazed. Reflecting the shame I feel for all the crap I let Celeste put us through. We were a family. A happy one. Then all of a sudden Celeste decides we’re not good enough for her and runs off with a rich prick who treats her like a rich prick’s wife. What was she thinking? And now? Why? What’s the point of telling me now? Is this a part of some scheme to try to get custody of Mia?
    Mia glares at me, flushing saliva back and forwards between her front teeth. She seems high.