Page 13 of Right Place, Right Time (Second Chances)
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As I’d suspected, I aced my O. Chem. exam. The exam was electronic, so it was graded instantly. We’re able to log right into our accounts after the exam and see our results. Mine’s a ninety-eight. Not a perfect score, but it will do.
I’m heading across campus to my car when I hear the hum of a motorcycle engine. My heart speeds up as I look around, trying to locate the bike. Then I realize what I’m doing and roll my eyes. Jay isnotthe only person in California with a motorcycle.
As I’m walking, enjoying the warm spring air, my cell phone starts ringing theJawstheme music. The ringtone I have set for mymother. Why is she calling me?
“Hello, Mother,” I answer.
“Katherine,” she replies in her take-no-prisoners attorney tone. It’s her only tone, really. “How was your exam?”Of course.She has copies of all my syllabi. She knows when I have exams, when I should be studying, when I should be in class.When I’m on break…not thatthatmatters.
“I got a ninety-eight,” I tell her, proud of myself.
“Did you not study?” she asks, her voice stained with disgust. I can picture her cold stare and curled lip.
“Yes, I studied, Mother.”
“I expect you to do better next time. Does this professor offer extra credit? You know how I feel about extra credit, but if you can make up those points…” she keeps talking, but I stop paying attention. I’ve reached my car, but instead of getting inside—where I’d be able to hear my mother in surround sound thanks to Bluetooth—I lean against the side and watch the other students ambling about.
They’re smiling and laughing, talking with their friends. They’re all probably elated to have finished their exams and passed. Maybe some of the ones on cell phones are talking to their parents, and instead of berating them for not achieving a perfect score, their parents are praising them for having passed at all. I allow myself one moment, just one, to imagine what it might be like if I were one of them.
Normal.
Regular.
Average.
“Katherine! Are you listening to me?”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Did you hear what I said?” she asks, plainly seeking an opportunity to call me out on yet another mistake.
“No. I’m sorry, Mother.” I don’t try to make an excuse. None would be acceptable.
Adelaide Dumont expects the very best from her only daughter. Nothing below perfection is allowed. Perfect grades. Perfect health. Perfect looks. Once, when I was in the third grade, I’d gotten sick. She’d insisted that I continue to go to school until I eventually ended up hospitalized with pneumonia. Even then, she’d had a school-approved tutor at my bedside, breathing mask and all, every day until I returned to school—just so I would still have perfect attendance. The tutor pitied me. Instead of working on math problems, she’d read me stories from some of her favorite children’s books. Mother never let me read children’s books. Janine Darcy was the tutor’s name. I never saw her again, but I’ll never forget her either.
“I said your father and I will be spending two weeks in Los Angeles. We’ll expect to see you for dinner one night.”
Two weeks and they only expect to see me one night. Anyone else see what’s wrong with this picture? I mean, I get it. Really, I do. My parents never wanted kids. They’d admitted that much to me years ago. They had me to keep up appearances and pass on their legacy. Maybe they would have liked me better if I was a boy. I was raised by nannies and spent more time with the help than I did with my parents. I’ve never known them as “Mom” and “Dad” like my classmates knew their parents. They were always “Mother” and “Father.” While some children’s first words were “Mama” or “Dada,” mine was “Baba”—an attempt at saying my nanny’s name, Bonnie. Those things considered, why would they want to spend time with me? It’s nothing new for me; I’d gotten used to it long ago. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting every once in a while.
“Of course, Mother. Just let me know the date, and I will make myself available.”
She lets out a derisive laugh. “Make yourself available…as if you’re even busy. You’re a student, It’s not like you have arealjob.” I don’t say anything because, really, what is there to say? Nothing that won’t get me chastised or mocked. “I’ll be in touch. Don’t forget the extra credit,” she says just before I hear the click of her disconnecting the phone.
I drop my cell back in my bag and take a deep, cleansing breath. Peeking into my backseat, I see that I have my gym bag. Perfect. I unlock the car, hop in, and start the engine. Careful not to run over any of my happy classmates, I back out of my parking space and head over toward Sand Hill Road. I’m thinking a kickboxing class, followed by some yoga, is just what the future doctor ordered.
