Page 30 of Collision
“How was the law office?” I ask, resting my head on the armrest and stretching out my legs.
“Oh, fine. They hired a new intern yesterday; it’s her first job.”
“Why didn’t you tell me they were looking for staff? I would have applied right away. I’m good with tasks that require precision,” I grumble regretfully.
“And why would you ever do that?” she asks, a little miffed, as she turns the pages of her magazine.
“To contribute to expenses. I need to get myself out there, and Iwant to start being more independent,” I tell her in what I hope is a convincing way, fiddling with the wet hair near my ear that has escaped from my turban.
“There’s no need. I manage all the expenses very well, with Victor’s help. You just think about studying.” She smiles at me and adds, “Besides, your résumé would have been trashed anyway.”
“Why?” I frown.
“They don’t hire family members of their employees to avoid nepotism.”
“Well, in any case, I do plan to get a job, so…”
She pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose and interrupts me. “I don’t want you getting a job. It would hold you back in your studies, and that cannot happen, not after all the effort I’ve put in to get you this far.” She scowls.
Here it comes. She’s butting into my life as usual.
“I am perfectly capable of balancing school and work. Lots of students do it. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I don’t care what ‘lots of students do.’ You do as I say,” she retorts testily, emphasizing the last two words.
“Mom, I’m almost twenty years old. You do realize that you’re treating me like I’m twelve, don’t you? I’m going to get a job, end of story,” I snap, giving her a look that brooks no dissent. I’ve had enough of people trying to control my life for one day.
She tightens her lips into a hard line and looks at me, enraged. She is about to explode, I can see it in her eyes. But I am ready—more than ready—to face all her wrath. In fact, I can’t wait. I’d like to let off some steam of my own. But then, to my enormous surprise, she heaves a giant sigh and pronounces, “Fine. Whatever.”
“R-really?” I stammer incredulously.
“Yes. You’re an adult now. If you think you can handle it all, I don’t see why you shouldn’t try.”
I look at her, stunned. I must have wound up in some sort of parallel dimension or something. I can’t think of any other reason she would just give in like that.
“Okay, well…thanks,” I murmur confusedly.
“You’re welcome.” She dismisses me and returns her gaze to the magazine.
I stare at her skeptically for a few seconds, still put off by her sudden reasonableness. I turn to the television in the hopes of finding a distraction, but all I do is fall into a pit of negative thoughts. One in particular stands out among the rest: Thomas. The spite and shamelessness with which he uttered those disgusting words, his face full of scorn.
I can’t help feeling bitter, hurt, reduced to an object. If he had found me appealing, would he have used me for that? Just to get off? And is he assuming that I would have let him, without batting an eye? But since I didn’t get his dick hard, he decided instead to use me to goad Travis by putting on that whole charade about wanting to be my friend. How stupid was I to believe his intentions were good? It explained his sudden change of heart when he asked me to stay there with him. He must have planned everything from the start. He knew that Travis would come out shortly and see us together and, like an idiot, I walked right into his trap.
“Are you all right?” my mother asks without looking away from the magazine, bringing me back to reality.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I hasten to answer in as indifferent a manner as possible.
“Are you sure? You were staring off into space like you were in a trance.” She tilts her head toward me, looking into my eyes.
“Yes, Mother. I’m sure. When is dinner ready? I’m hungry,” I say trying to change the subject.
Fortunately for me, the oven timer trills just then, and my mother gets to her feet. “Now,” she says.
Silence hangs heavy over the table during dinner, interrupted only by the small sounds of cutlery on plates. I can occasionally sense my mother’s inquisitive glances and wish with all my heart that I wasn’t such an open book.
“I’ve been wondering,” I say after a while, hoping to throw her off the scent, “when did you realize things weren’t working with Dadanymore?”
She gives me a sideways look, her cutlery suspended in midair over the plate. “Why do you ask?”
