Mom’s been working the last two days and hasn’t mentioned Mr. Hill’s visit. Today’s her day off, and I’ve got a feeling she’s going to bring it up.

  Yesterday, after I left class early because of Selena and her group going after me, I went to the office and told the nurse I had stomach pain and came straight home. Mom was home and noticed I’d gotten back early, but she didn’t ask many questions at the time. Today, though, I know they’re coming. School might be an escape from her interrogation, but I can’t bring myself to go.

  I tried to avoid her by sleeping in, hoping I’d miss breakfast, but unfortunately, she waited for me so we could eat together. She always says her days off are one of the few chances we get to sit down and eat together. I didn’t really have a choice but to go downstairs when she knocked on my door around eleven.

  As I sit down, tucking one leg beneath me, she places a bowl of pasta in front of me. I steal a quick look at her while she serves herself. She looks worn out. The shadows under her eyes seem darker than usual, and more strands of grey are showing in her hair.

  The girls’ words echo in my head, how easily they called a hardworking woman a whore. That hurt more than the drawing of me on the whiteboard ever did. If I tell her what’s going on at school and why I’m staying home, it’ll shatter her.

  “You should think about colouring your hair,” I say casually after we’ve been eating in silence for a while.

  She doesn’t answer right away. After a moment, she says, “I’ve been saving some money. Maybe we could take a vacation in a couple of months. We haven’t done anything together in a long time.”

  A vacation sounds nice in theory, but I can’t imagine being alone with her for days. I’d rather stay home and read.

  “I’ve got a lot to study. I can’t miss too much school. I don’t really want to go anywhere. You could use that money for the salon. Or maybe the gym.”

  She looks at me for a long moment. Then she sets her spoon down and pushes her half-eaten pasta away.

  I know it’s about to start.

  I stare at my plate, pretending I’m enjoying the food. “This is really good.” I try to change the subject, but she’s not letting it go.

  “Listen,” she says carefully. “I ran into Oliver’s dad in town the other day.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Of course you did.

  “He told me about Oliver. About him coming here and standing outside in the rain. Why didn’t you tell me? Why do you treat me like I’m your enemy? I work so hard for you. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Don’t start with how hard you work for me, Mom. I tell you all the time to rest. To take care of yourself.” I pause. “I’ve been looking for small jobs here and there. I’m thinking about getting my babysitting certification. I can handle myself.”

  Silence fills the room. Pain flashes across her face.

  “Scarlet,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m living for you. Everything I do is for you. You’re my only hope. I don’t want you working. I can take care of you. All I want is for you to study hard and get a good job.”

  “Mom, please. Don’t expect something in return for everything you do.”

  “Why are you acting like this? Why do you hate me so much? Is something happening in your life that makes you take it all out on me?” I stay quiet, eating my pasta. She continues, “Why do you stay in your room all the time? Why don’t you have friends?”

  “You don’t know, Mom? You really don’t?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “When I wanted friends, you pushed them away. Said they were bad influences. You pushed me toward books instead. I never joined dance, sports, or music because you wouldn’t let me. And now you suddenly want me to be involved? I’m not interested anymore.”

  “Scarlet, we didn’t have the money back then. We still don’t. You should be grateful you have a roof over your head and food to eat.”

  “I am grateful,” I say, making air quotes. “Grateful we have a roof over our heads. Also grateful you made sure it’s just the two of us under it.” My voice drips with sarcasm, the words aimed at the empty spaces where Dad and my sister should be.

  “We’ve had this conversation so many times,” she says quietly. “And I’ve told you I’m not going to talk about it. It’s in the past. It wasn’t good. I don’t want to pass that trauma onto you.”

  “Well, then I don’t have anything to say either.”

  “I still have to answer people,” she says. “Especially when they come to me and tell me things. How bad does it look when I don’t even know what’s happening in my own daughter’s life?”

  “You’re talking about Oliver’s dad. I don’t know why he has to tell you everything. It’s between Oliver and me. There’s no reason for him, or you, to get involved.”

  “Why didn’t you open the door for him? You don’t like him?” she asks.

  “What did his dad actually say?”

  “Nothing much. He apologized for Oliver’s behaviour and said he wouldn’t bother you again. He doesn’t think you two are a good match.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s a good match for me either. That’s why I didn’t open the door. He’s dating someone else. I’m probably his second, third, maybe even fourth choice.”

  “I’m not sure I buy that,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “He seems like a good boy.”

  “Everyone else is good enough for you except me,” I snap, pushing the chair back and getting up.

  I wash the dishes, feeling her eyes on me the whole time, and then head to my room, without looking at her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I turn around and announce, “Just so you know..., I don’t want to talk about Oliver or any such topics anymore. Keep track of your own friends. I don’t need help with mine.”

  Then I take the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door shut.