Page 8 of All I Ask
The one thing I’ve worked extremely hard at is our relationship. I try not to keep things from her, and tried to emulate being both a friend and a mother at the same time. She’s always been an open book, so this is strange for her to hold back.
“Would you rather I shorten it to Titty?”
She snorts. “If I had any that would be better.”
I fight back the smile and wait for her to laugh, but I get nothing. “What has you so angry?”
“Nothing.”
Right, this glowing new version of herself is clearly a product of nothing.
“I’m going to keep asking,” I warn her. “I have no boundaries.”
“Oh, Iknow.”
“So, you should probably spill it.”
“There’s nothing to say, people are stupid.” Chastity pushes the food around on her plate. “I hate people.”
“We know that’s true. Is it a boy?”
She drops her fork and glares at me. “Really, Mom?”
“What?” I raise my hands in surrender. “Most of the time, when a girl is this…fine…it’s usually about a boy. They’re kind of dumb, you know?”
I can’t make out what she says under her breath but I swear it was something about mothers are too.
“It’s not a boy.”
“Is it your teachers?”
Chastity is often frustrated by them, since she’s pretty advanced. She’s in the gifted program and still she’s bored. It’s one of the things I despise about living in a town with very few kids, a lack of options—and funding.
“No, Mom, stop. I’m fine. I just…I had a bad day and Ireallyhate people.”
I can understand that sentiment.
“Hopefully tomorrow is a better day.”
She huffs and starts eating again.
I start to eat my meat loaf and a few moments pass before Chastity slams her fork down. “You know what I hate? Girls. They’re so mean.”
And here we have it. “What happened?”
“She thinks she’s so perfect and pretty. She’s not. She’s not perfect!”
Chastity has never fit in. No matter how many playdates I set up or sports I tried to get her to try, she never enjoyed it. Instead of makeup, she’d rather study the ingredients of makeup to let me know all the hazardous things inside of them. When I tried to get her to do cheerleading, we quickly learned that clapping and doing any other motion at the same time was not her strong suit.
I’ve always described her as an old soul. She doesn’t understand why things fascinate the kids her age. She wants to talk about politics, animal rights, and spend her time learning instead of gossiping.
Her hand taps on the table, reminding me I haven’t asked her who she’s talking about.
“Who?”
“The new girl.”
Someone new? How did anyone move into this town without a bulletin going out? “We didn’t have anyone new move in.”
