Stumbling Over Love | ✓

Chapter 7

_Chapter 7~ Cookies_

"No, Mom."

   "Yes, Reina."

   "No!"

   "Yes!"

   I shook my head, craning my neck to look up at the short statured lady hovering above me. "It's the weekend. I don't need to socialize."

   Pursing her lips, Mom had that look on her face that told me I didn't have a say. "You are baking cookies and delivering them to our new neighbours, no argument."

   "They live like, down the street!" I whined.

   "So? Get your lazy butt up!"

   Puffing up my cheeks, I did as told before I could get a beating. "But, Mom—"

   "If you stay home you are cleaning this house until it shines," she warned, glaring.

   "But—"

   "Cleaning!"

   "Fine," I murmured in defeat, knowing full well that if I even tried to disagree, she would've taken away my phone too. It was finally winter break; obviously I could have more freedom, right?

   Wrong. At school I was constantly scrambling for my life while at home I was constantly cleaning and doing work. It was never-ending. Everyone in this world were such slave drivers I swear. Couldn't I have just one day to do absolutely nothing, without the fear of dying by the hands of agitated delinquents or my mother?

   "I'm heading there ahead of time," Mom said, letting out a breath. "I already promised to be there at three to set up for the party so come by four with chocolate chip cookies, understood?"

   I frowned. "Yeah, sure."

   She gave me a look. "Reina."

   "What?" I asked, not meeting her eyes.

   "Look at me."

   "Why—"

   "I said look at me."

   Sighing, I did as told and met her eyes. Identical features stared back at me, including her puffy light brown hair that lay by her shoulders. Weary wrinkles were spotted on her face but I barely paid them any attention because when Mom scowled, I knew what was coming.

   "They better not be burnt this time," she ordered, "We only have enough brown sugar for two batches."

   "I know, I know," I muttered bitterly. "Jeez, if you care so much, make it yourself."

   "Oh, sweetie," my mom smiled, her entire persona doing a 180° flip, "But you know I can't bake."

   I shook my head, knowing not to argue. The lady herself knew it. She cooked really well, yes. But baking just wasn't her forte so I was always the one doing it. It wasn't like I minded baking, but no matter what I made, Mom always commented and reviewed them like how the chefs would on T.V. Frankly put, it was annoying. And yet she always had that condescending tone like she could look down on me when she couldn't even bake anything half as decent as mine.

   "Dress up in something fancy, okay?" Mom continued on regardless of my obvious discomfort.

   "Okay."

   "Straighten your hair too."

   "Okay."

   "And don't forget perfume—"