No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Twenty-Three

The one day I plan to do nothing. Which happens to be the last day of break. Doesn't include Mom barging in my room. And giving me more news I should know in advance.

I'm spacing out my thoughts because I'm mad.

"I never said I would take on an internship!" I tell her, my hands clenched. "Dad just told the guy some shit about me and passed me off as a potential intern."

Mom's as mad as I am. "Mr. Ashby took a day off from work today so he can meet you," she says icily. "It's very rude to decline after he generously accepted Dad's offer to come over for dinner."

"It's also rude to make plans involving your kid without letting them know," I seethe. My fury is gonna go from zero to sixty if I don't reel it in.

She takes a step forward. In response, I step back, knocking into my desk.

"If I told you ahead of time," she reasons, "then you would bail and leave me and Dad look like idiots. And we don't need that crap."

All three of my comebacks are kept in the back of my mind.

"He'll be over by five," Mom continues, "and then we'll have diner by five-thirty. The whole time you're going to engage in the conversation. You're going to smile. Don't do any of that emo shtick you like to pull. Am I clear?"

As clear as shattered glass, maybe.

She holds up a finger lightning fast when I open my mouth. "No ifs, ands or buts. You use those words against me, you're facing getting grounded."

She leaves my room with the door wide open. I slam it shut and lean against it. As expected, I hear shouting from downstairs.

"Slamming the door will get you grounded, too!"

Of fucking course.

It's noon, and the day's been lightening up in the last fifteen minutes. A sliver of the light slides into my room through the window. It reaches to my feet, which I pull back. Whatever this symbolizes, I don't care to know.

What I care to know is why Mom acts like the way she is. Her own parents didn't raise her the same way. They're the kind to buy those 'how to raise your child' books; Mom leans towards the 'how to keep a hostage' genre.

One time in third grade, she told me not to say what goes on at home -- I think this was when I was in the phase of talking about everything to anyone. And if I did say anything about home, then she'll get a concerned call from school and wouldn't be happy.

She snapped at me when I asked how or why that would happen. And then took away my dessert for the week when I pushed for information.

I know I'm not likeable, but am I really not worth the effort to be a good parent for?

I get up when my thoughts get too comfortable in my memories. There needs to be something else to focus on.

My phone chirps at me, fully charged. Taking it off the charger, I unlock the screen. The notification tells me Ikra sent a text at three in the morning.

Made a tat appointment for the end of the month. Can you drive me there?

Finally. About time I get asked instead of told.

Sure. Remind me, though.

Plan to anyways.

__________

Mr. Ashby hasn't looked my way since he arrived. The most he's done is talk to Dad about their jobs and compliment Mom on her dressed-up appearance.