Page 2 of The Trick

“Nothing, it’s just a slippery slope is all.” I can tell by the way her brow furrows at her own words that she is as confused with her response as I am. Before I can ask her to elaborate on what exactly she means by that, she has the plate of cookies secured in her hands and is already halfway to the other side of the kitchen.

Taking that as my cue to head back into the living room, I’m about to get up from the stool I’m sitting on when a clattering noise steals my attention. Adjusting my posture, I lean my elbows forward onto the island so I can get a better look at where my mom’s manicured hands are now shaking against the plate.

“Everything good?” I ask, meaning to sound more caring but the sarcasm that my tone usually defaults to is ripe.

Her spine straightens and the sound of ceramic bumping against granite ceases as she presses a firm, steady grip on either side of the platter. Back still turned to me, I notice her stiffen as she responds. “Yep, just perfect,” she bites. Her response is wildly unconvincing which only piques my curiosity more, forcing me to initiate one of my least favorite things ever…small talk…with my mother…fuck.

“So…” my voice drags, trying to think of something to get this conversation moving so I can figure out why she's acting so strange. Since my gaze falls back on the cookies that I am still pissed that I don’t have, I decide to go with that.

“Fresh baked cookies for your favorite holiday,” I tease, because any time we’ve had pumpkin or ghost cookies in the house it’s because me or my dad has made them, not her because she hates Halloween. “What’s the occasion?”

Her shoulders rise and fall before she pivots her stance back towards the island I am still sitting at. “Your father and I have plans,” she deadpans.

“Oh, fun. Something Halloween themed, I assume?” I ask, inching my neck forward in the direction of the damn platter she seems to be holding onto for dear life.

She doesn’t reply. Fuck, this is painful. I’m used to most of our interactions being strained, but this is about as pleasant as a root canal without Novocaine.

“No,” she quips, swallowing so hard it’s audible even with the movie still playing in the background. “We are going to Ms. Glinda’s.”

Ah, Ms. Glinda Campbell, the rumored black widow of Sleepy Hollow. It’s impressive how this woman, despite her perpetual RBF and sour personality, seems to bag husband after rich husband and somehow, they all end up dead, and she ends up richer than before.

“It’s a difficult day for her, if you remember,” my mom continues, sounding defensive.

I bet.

“For her or dead husband number five? Or is it dead husband number six? I mean, who can keep track at this point.” I grin, though my mom’s stoic and pissed off expression shows no sign of beingamused by my sarcastic jab. I’ve never understood their friendship; my mother prides herself on how others perceive herto a fault, and Glinda Campbell is about as socially messy as wearing an upside down crucifix at a baptism would be.

“Blair, stop being so–” she stops herself. “So, so…” she begins again, becoming increasingly flustered.

“So what?” I press.

“So typical of you,” she finally responds, jaw tense and eyes protruding with visible anger.

Good one, mom.

“Anyway,” she begins, trying to collect herself and return to hertypical poised bullshit demeanor. “I saw her at church this past Sunday and she invited your father and I over for dinner at her place. We will be back late, no need to wait up.”

Skepticism washes over me as I watch my mom approach the threshold of the kitchen. I believe it was just yesterday that I overheard her going on about how she needs to start going back to church since it’s been years, yet “church” is where she recently ran into Glinda.Right.

I try to dissect my mom’s strange behavior in my head when my dad's tall silhouette emerges from the unlit entryway she’s now standing in, pulling me from the internal jigsaw puzzle I’m trying to solve.

“Hey Blair Bear,” my dad greets, waving in my direction.

Returning my dad’s hello with a quick grin, I’m about to part my lips to tell them to have fun tonight when my mom abruptly begins clearing her throat.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Blair,” she begins with a stern voice that contradicts the noticeable apprehension on her face. “For once in your life, I want you to listen to me. Stay home tonight, please.” She shoots a quick glance at my father before turning her attention back to me. “And lock the doors.”

Conjuring up my best forced grin, I walk towards my mom, slipping my hand under the thin layer of plastic wrap that separates me from those damn cookies I have been smelling for the last ten minutes. “Yes, ma’am” I respond, saluting her with a cookie before bringing the sugary gold to my lips.

“I mean it,” my mom begins to scold, causing a boisterous laugh to erupt from my dad.

“Oh, come on, Lorraine. You need to lighten up. Blair is a good girl. We’ll only be gone a couple hours, what could possibly go wrong?”

She ignores my dad, not looking convinced.

“Lorraine,” his voice drags, “we need to get going or we’ll be late.”

---