how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

13. social workers & whores

updates are every other day now hollaaaa

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"Claire Tierney: social worker and part time English teacher."

I lift the needle of the tableturner and glower - unintentionally - at the customer. Not exactly customer, unless you count a lanky woman with a pan suit and heap of binders as a customer. Everything of hers seems, well, sharp. Her blazer is ironed out so the points stick out, her the edge of her hair looks like a cookie cutter -- she just seems sharp, as it is. I rub my hands together. Business affairs never end good, I think unhappily, staring at her hand which she thrust forth with too much vigour for my taste.

"Uh, Maricruz Colorado... Music shop owner and part time Shadowhunter?" There goes my good impression. Nice one, Mari. Nice.

Claire Tierney's cheeks are pale and stretched over her bony face, her hair trimmed tight around her neck and thin lips pressed into an unappealing smile. It's the smile I've recognised from all the parent-teacher conferences before the teacher slips me my terrifyingly bad report card. The falseness of it twists my stomach. She stares at me with stern, grey eyes, despite her mouth curling up into a supposedly welcoming grin. It looks horrible, and I decide I won't requite it.

She sets her binders atop the counter, the ebony cases matching her inky blazer. Her authoritative aura stands out like a glare on a blade, and from how pointed her heels are, they could probably cut better than one, too.

"I just wanted to discuss some things with you. Is it okay if I come in?"

"Sure, I guess."

I open the staff gate warily and she walks in, picking up her binders and moving to the kitchen. She doesn't even falter, despite the large stack occupying her frail arms. I wonder how old she is, while I follow her into the room. Her stilettos click on the tiles and I swallow. No matter how wide of a tacky smile she'll give me, nothing will cease the flames in my chest until I know for certain this social worker has nothing against me. That's too scattered of a wish to hope for. I sigh, sitting on the opposite side of the table she planted herself on.

Ms. Tierney taps her nails on one of the binders. She starts when the kettle begins to hiss. "May I have a cup of tea?"

I hope you brought your own flask. "Of course." I fill a large mug for her and set it on the place mat. I loiter awkwardly beside her chair. I feel more like a barista than a potential screw-up girl. "Anything else?"

She laughs around the rim of the mug. "Don't be so terse, sweetie. You're not in trouble." That means I am in trouble and she's going to diagnose me with some mental disorder for God knows what. I'm such girlfriend material.

I sit down once again. "Any significant matters?"

"A few, actually." She flips open the binder. It looks like some high-class detective work dealing with an unsolved murder case. I bite the inside of my cheek. This isn't calming my nerves in the least. "Just to clarify, how old were you when you moved to Australia?"

"Fifteen," I blurt. I crack my knuckles together and look up at the buzzing kitchen light. Can this thing just fall on us, like, right now, so I don't have to do this? Ms. Tierney already looks half-dead and skeletal as it is, so perhaps the coroners will think she was mysteriously killed some other way.

Her face scrunches up. "Oh, honey, don't crack your knuckles. I hate it." 

I crack them again, watching her with a raised eyebrow.

Finally succumbing to my insolence, she continues. "So, you left school at that age? When you were fifteen?"

"Yes."