Page 11 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Why?” she demands.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but before I can even come up with something, she’s on the attack again.

“Has that club decided to extend their hours for the trashiest lunch service in town?”

I can say Gatsby’s isn’t trashy for the hundredth time, or I can pivot. There’s a rational choice to simply not argue here. I don’t make it. “It’s not trashy.”

Even the most reasonable former Dallas debutante will never be convinced that working as a bottle girl—no matter howupscale the club—is anythingbuttrashy. As far as “reasonable former Dallas debutantes” go, my mom is two of those three things.

“It’s certainly not the life we brought you up for,” she says.

That’s exactly the point. But I don’t bother making it. “Do you need me for something specific, Mom?”

“I’m so unwell, Madison.” She makes her voice weak and thin. “You better come by the house. In case.”

Never ask “in case of what.” Just don’t. “I wish I could, but I’m in my gross gym clothes, and I stink.”

“Go take a shower and change. I can wait—a little. And put on something nice. Jennifer heard I wasn’t feeling good, and I believe she and Benson might stop by.”

Thereit is. Jennifer from the country club and Benson, her thirty-year-old son. Benson, who has sat in my section at Gatsby’s and who was so handsy I had to pin his wrist to the table and hiss in his face to stop it before I had him thrown out. No doubt he’ll pretend he has no memory of his behavior. Great. All this tragedy needed was for Wickham to appear.

I would like some of the good Austen characters, please.

Failing that, I’ll act like a bad one too. “I’ll be over soon, Mom.”

“That’s good, honey. Can’t wait to see you.”

I put the car in reverse and get on the road to my parents’ house, gym hair and sweaty workout clothes still damp. When I pull onto the main highway, I cut my air conditioner and roll down the window, letting the heat whip inside and turn my cheeks a shade of tomato. I flick a glance at my side mirror and relax at the hot mess in the reflection.

“Can’t wait to see you either, Mom.” It’s true. It’s thirty minutes to my parents’ place in an elite enclave overlooking Lake Austin. I’ll arrive looking like I got dragged behind my car the whole way. I wish I’d worn mascara this morning so I could smudge it for the perfect bedraggled touch.

I take their neighborhood turnoff and check in with the guard at the gate. I’m on a permanent list to come and go, but I’ve wondered how much I could bribe a guard to delete me from the system. Then I could truthfully pull up to the gate, find out I don’t have a pass, make a U-turn, and call my mom on the way back home to say I couldn’t clear security.

Except she’d get whoever was protecting the rich people of Waterfront Estates fired, but only after hopping into her Rolls-Royce to drive down and give the guard a lecture, which would probably be worse than getting fired.

I have to drive almost another mile past the guardhouse before I get to their driveway. The house I grew up in is stupid big in the same way that this weather is stupid hot. You can’t wrap your brain around it. My mother’s Rolls is parked in the six-car garage of a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house. Our family of four has never needed fifteen thousand square feet to live in. And now it’s down to only my parents since my sister lives near campus. Two people definitely don’t need all this space. But in a neighborhood like this, not needing it but having it is the point.

I pull into the circular driveway and park beside another Mercedes. Jennifer Wallace’s, I’m sure. Marta has one of the huge double front doors open before I reach it.

“Hey, Marta.”

She nods. “Hello. Welcome. Your mother is in the family room.”

I walk into the main entertainment area of the house—not that you could do anything entertaining in it. My mother’s design aesthetic is “don’t touch.” Everything looks expensive but not inviting. The heavy gold drapes framing their lake view cost about four thousand dollars—per window—but the fabric is stiff. The chairs are wood and brocade, carved to look fancy but they only look fussy. The difficulty in dusting them will be the reason Marta finally quits.

I think the vibe is supposed to be Georgian era, but it makes no sense in a mansion on a Texas lake.

My mom sits in a silk-upholstered armchair that looks as if it were stolen from aBridgertonset, whisked from the home of one of those dowager characters who loathes color. A chenille blanket covers her lap, and she’s wearing a fur vest. Her version of loungewear, I guess. Neither of these things makes sense in the heat, but how else can she communicate she’s sick?

I suppress an eye roll as I walk in. Jennifer Wallace and her spawn are indeed on the sofa—settee?—and Miss Jennifer smiles. “Hey, Madison. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen you.”

My mom’s mouth presses into a thin line as she takes in my sweaty hair and red face. “You didn’t have to rush over.”

“Of course I did. I was worried about you.” We are not a hugging and kissing family, so I skip that. Wearegenerally a “sit on the furniture” family, but I plop down on the floor even as Miss Jennifer makes a soft cooing noise at Benson. It meansLook how thoughtful she is, worrying about her mother.

I stretch my legs out and lean back on my hands. “How’s it going, Ben?”

Benson gives me a blank look.

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