Page 12 of Betting on the Brainiac

My mom’s expression goes even flatter. “He goes by Benson, Madison Leigh. You know that.”

“Do I?” I cover a yawn. “Sorry about that. Anyone else need to yawn nonstop after a workout?”

“You look fit and healthy,” Miss Jennifer says. “Benson enjoys working out too.”

He might. He’s got a pretty good build, but there’s a softness around his middle that says his drinking outpaces his exercising. Too bad I know from experience that his tipping doesnotkeep up with his drinking. Benson is coming out on the wrong end of all these equations.

I should respond to Miss Jennifer with more polite conversation, but I fake and cover a big yawn again. “Whew, sorry about that.”

I swivel to my mom with a sugary smile that turns into a real one when I catch her eye. Her gaze is giving murder. Only her pageant manners prevent her from chewing me out.

Miss Jennifer is no fool. Reading the room, she clears her throat and says, “We should get going. We’re meeting Robert for lunch. It was good visiting with you, Cynthia. I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. I’ll send over my favorite soup recipe for Marta to make for you. It always helps.”

“Thank you, Jennifer.” My mother’s voice is faint now, and I almost want to applaud the performance. Not because it’s good but because she’s committed. “Why don’t you see the Wallaces out, honey?”

They pause after rising, but I lean farther back and give them a lazy smile. “They don’t want to have to wait for me when they know the way. See y’all later.”

Miss Jennifer’s smile is stiffer this time, but Benson could not care less. “Let’s go, Mom. Dad hates waiting.”

They walk out, and it’s silent between my mom and me until we hear the distant sound of the door closing.

“What is wrong with you?” she snaps, her eyes narrowed.

“I told you, I’m hot and tired and busy today, but I’m here anyway because apparently something is wrong withyou. What’s the diagnosis, Mom? Is this the big one?” My tone is dry, not mean, because as much as she gets under my skin, I do love my mother. But I also struggle with the constant manipulation. The woman never met a boundary she couldn’t—wait, no. She’s just never met a boundary because she doesn’t recognize them.

Anyone who didn’t know us well might find my behavior appalling. They would say the same of hers if they paid enough attention, because I learned my snark from the best.

“Your concern is heartwarming. I appreciate the . . .” She stops, an exaggerated look of surprise crossing her face as she glances down at her empty hands. “The nothing. You brought your sick mother nothing.”

Good old Cynthia Armstrong always holds her own. “You made it sound so urgent that I figured bringing myself would be enough, but I can go yank some irises from the landscaping if you’d like.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Sure. Learned that from the best too. “Do you need a ride to the hospital or anything? If not, I should get back to the rest of my day.” I climb to my feet. Like most people do, she assumes I work three nights a week and spend the rest of my time at the gym or shopping. Like most people, she’s wrong. This detour is keeping me from some commitments.

“You don’t need to be ugly.” Her voice is sharp and strong. I raise an eyebrow, and she gives a delicate cough into her fist before slumping against the chair. “I probably should go to the doctor.”

“Great, you do that.” My parents have concierge medical service. They pay an obscene amount of money for Dr. Nunce to see them whenever my mom has a tickle in her throat. “Text me if it’s bad news.”

I head out of the room, but she calls my name before I clear the doorway.

“You’re coming for Sunday supper.” It’s not a question.

“Sorry, can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Other stuff to do.”

“Like what?” she challenges me.

I like this question because I have a ready-made set of responses when she asks it, but before I can rattle any of them off, my sister, Kaitlyn, appears from the east wing hallway.

She frowns. “You’re leaving? When did you get here?”

Nothing I love more than a double-team. “Fifteen minutes ago. Off to my interview at Johnny’s Roadside Jerky. I get to wear pants there if I get the job.” My mother has it in her head that I don’t wear pants to work. Not because she thinks I wear dresses. She seems to think I make my tips by serving drinks in my “briefs,” as she called them once. I would like to never hear lady panties called “briefs” again, but I could give my mom my entire trust fund when I inherit in a few years, and she still wouldn’t say “panties.”

Not that I serve drinks in my panties, either. I admit that doing an image search for bottle girl uniforms can feel more like stumbling into the wardrobe closet of a music video girl—the kind that would send my mother into a full-blown coma. But Gatsby’s offers us three options for our outfits, and even the skimpiest one still shows a fair amount of class.

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