Ditching Greek | editing

07| Erica Van Meer

"Hello Nabela," was all the voicemail had to say for me to know who it was. My stomach dropped and I mentally prepared myself for the worst possible news. It was--disappointingly--my latest step-mother, Erica Van Meer. A.K.A. the wicked bitch from the west.

No really, she was from the west of France and my dad, being the gold digger magnet he has always been after the death of my mother, ran into Erica while he was scouting a location for a future headquarters to add on for his co-owned company. He was 50% of Osmani and Dubois, a multimillion dollar company that manufactured aircrafts. From helicopters to jets, they made the parts to about everything you could think of. The best airlines in the world did business with him and his partner, Fred Dubois.

When dad met his current wife, Erica was a beautiful moron and dad was still grieving from wife number three and her sudden desire to divorce him. Erica distracted him during the time of the finalization of his divorce from Sarah O'Malley--his last wife and Tommy Hilfiger model. And the second my dad was a single man, he wasted no time to tie the knot for the forth time.

"I know you're busy with everything going on at the Portland Trubine," Erica's recorded voice had went on, cooing in her thick accent, "but that doesn't mean you should forget all about your family," My step mother emphasized on the last word, holding onto it longer than necessary. I snorted a laugh. As If she knew anything about family. The second my dad married her, she cut all ties with her family in France. Every call was ignored and each letter they sent her way was burned. "We've been worried sick about your wellbeing. Your father especially. It's okay though because Sarah, your father, and I are coming up this Sunday. I tried to call you earlier, but that phone of yours just kept dropping my calls," She sighed a frustrated breath into the phone. "No worries though, we'll be there by dinner and you can tell us all about your break. I hope we can see Brandon."

"Brandon isn't in the same state as her, Erica," another voice in the background corrected her. Most likely my little sister, Sarah. She was the only one who ever actually kept tabs on my life and asked about how I was doing. She was also the only one who tried to stay in contact with me; half of the reason being because she needed some one to vent about wife number four about.

"Shit," Monica hissed, "Sunday is today."

I groaned, slamming my palm against my forehand and crumbled onto the couch, "Ugh, I don't have the patience for that woman."

Erica was around for my dad's money, obviously, but that didn't stop her from picking and prying in my life. She was more overbearing than my biological mother was when she was alive.

Whenever Erica judged my choices in life, I would only imagine what my real mother would do, and how she would've dealt with the situation herself. My heart ached for the slightest of seconds as I recalled her warm smile and easy laugh. Her energy could fill up a room. She could make anyone smile, be it a enemy or a complete stranger. She was that kind of a person all her life. Her short life.

Hazel's voice pulled me out of my thoughts before the pain in my heart took over the rest of my mood. "Patience is the last thing you should be worrying about, Nabela."

"Why?" I asked, muddled at what she meant.

She motioned to the bandage on my cheek I had completely forgotten about, "Well I don't know. Maybe that big gash on your face might raise a few questions."

My hand flew to my cheek as a gasp left my parted lips. I sprung onto my feet and dashed for the restroom. Flipping on the light, I glanced at my reflection. My eyes grew larger as I observed my current state. Dark bags were formed under my brown eyes. My full, puffy lips were cracked and my curly mane of hair was in a messy bun, small curls fell out of the hold of the hair band. I ran a finger around the perimeter of the stained gauze.

"How the heck am I going to hide this?" I yelped. Eventually, both Hazel and Monica walked into the restroom and stood at the frame of the door, not quite inside.

"We can always just not open the door," Hazel offered. Monica and I snapped cold looks her way, making Hazel shrink in her shoes. "Hey I'm only giving reasonable options here. Consider them."

Monica rolled her eyes, "We're not going to wait for them leave, that's childish."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Hazel mused. Before any of us could respond to her statement, her eyes lit up, "Wait I've got an idea!"

I turned around and faced them, "Is it any better than the hiding idea?"

She nodded. "Way better."

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