Page 6 of Tell Me When It's Over

My mouth goes dry when I study the huge house set back from where we’re parked. I try to pay attention to the things Mom says to the man in a black uniform standing outside, but the mansion staring back at me is too stunning. It’s a mixture of dark wood and glass, sleek and vibrant, and reminds me of the modern-styled homes I saw in the magazines hoarded in our two-bedroom apartment back in Phoenix, Arizona.

According to Mom, the landlord kicked us out because he had family moving to the city and needed a place for them. Even though Mr. Navarro always gave me the creeps and never smiled, I don’t think that’s the real reason. The envelopes all stacked up on the counter were never opened on time and I was always home from school before she was from work to see the letters taped to our door. Warnings, final notices, and then the eviction statement in big, embarrassing bold letters.

I’m still not sure why she packed what little we owned—all which could be fit into our beat-up 1999 Lexus—and drove us to California. What confuses me even more is why we’re in a fancy gated community trying to get access to the intimidating home. We don’t belong here. I may be young, but I know that people who have nothing of value shouldn’t be at a place like this.

“Ma’am, for the last time—”

“Ma’am!” My mother’s shrill shriek makes me wince in the passenger seat. “Do I look over the age of forty?”

The poor man sputters. “Well, no, of course not, but—”

Mom nods once and gives him a look that makes me feel sorry for him. “I thought so. Now, I’m asking you one more time to make sure you heard me correctly. Tell Harry Bishop that he’s going to want to see Katherine Grier. Understood?” The man’s sigh makes me brace for whatever argument Mom is about to retort with, but before he can even speak, she says, “I have something he’s going to want to see, you can be sure of that. Leighton, pass me the folder.”

The folder. The pristine manilla folder that she practically made me death grip since passing the faded “Welcome to Los Angeles” sign. I do as she says, passing it to her and watch her tilt her head at the man. “I do believe this will make him very interested. And don’t think you can just say you’ll give it to him so you can get rid of me and that paper. I have the original and other copies.”

It’s my turn to stare at her, confusion contorting my face. In the five hours we’ve been on the road—well, six and a half after a bad accident that blocked traffic and the many pit stops for pee breaks and food—I’ve asked her twice about where we’re going. Not once did she enlighten me on anything involving our spontaneous road trip. Knowing better than to ask a third time, I remained quiet and listened to whatever the radio had on, usually classic rock since Mom hates the Pop100 station I love, or her rants about life that made me want to roll my eyes because most of it was about the last guy who dumped her.

“Well?” the determined woman sitting beside me presses, crossing her arms on her chest. She’s wearing one of those shirts that makes her boobs look really good, which is something she tells me is important. “You may not have them yet, but trust me, Leighton, they’re going to be assets when you’re older.”

Right now, the small sports bra I’m wearing makes my tiny boobs look nonexistent in my favorite band tee. It’s faded from so much wear and stained with who knows what from over the years, but I love it. It’s my comfort shirt when Mom drags us places, which I’m not unused to.

The man sighs again and starts talking into some sort of earpiece. He lifts a finger and tells us to wait there while he walks into a little booth-like building and picks up a phone.

When Mom finally looks at me, it’s with a smirk I know too well. She gets it when one of our former neighbors comes to the door after ten o’clock at night and says he needs to borrow something. She thinks I don’t know what they really do when she lets him in, but I know a lot. More than I want to.

She reaches out and brushes a loose piece of hair behind my ear and caresses my cheek like she used to do when I was little. I can’t help but lean into her touch and absorb the few seconds of warmth her palm offers because I don’t know when I’ll get the comfort again. “Today is a big day for the both of us, sweetie.”

Sweetie. When was the last time she called me that? It’s usually just Leighton, sometimes Lenny if she’s in a good mood. Oftentimes, it’s nothing. She’ll tell me what to do, maybe ask me how my day is, and otherwise not address me at all. The thing is, I don’t mind. I’ve never thought that maybe I should.

“Why is it a big day?” I find myself asking, pushing away the nerves that creep up my spine. They’re the same ones I get when she tells me about a new guy. Bill was the first who always looked at me funny, then there was Mike, who I actually didn’t mind until he started drinking and saying weird things to me when Mom wasn’t around. I’m not sure where she found them, but they all seemed to be the same.

Before she can answer, the man begrudgingly says, “Mr. Bishop will see you. He has a busy day ahead of him, so…”

I swallow when the gates begin opening inward after the man waves at something on the other side, and Mom’s lips stretch into a scary looking smile. One of victory. She flips her hair, wiggles her fingers at the man, and drives down the wide paved driveway that circles around a huge flower garden and fountain leading to the house’s entrance.

“Mom, I’m not so sure—”

“Hush, Leighton,” she chides, putting the car in park. It looks so out of place considering what’s surrounding us, and I know we do too. I look down at myself, my cheap Walmart jeans that are too short since I’ve hit a growth spurt, and the t-shirt that I love but suddenly feel self-conscious about. My feet are covered with knockoff clearance rack moccasins that are about a year old, and the soles have started coming undone.

Mom, of course, looks beautiful. She always dresses to impress, which she says is force of habit because of her former career as an actress. Though this is my first time in California, it’s not hers. She did commercials as a teenager, and eventually did a few small acting gigs in B-rated indie films in her early twenties that led her to Hollywood. She never talks about the career she misses so much because it involves me as the sole reason for it failing, something I wonder if she resents me for when she stays out and leaves me alone more than I like. She got pregnant at twenty-three, abandoned by my father by the time I was born, and left to care for me with no help from her family.

I should have known that something big was happening when Mom put on her skintight shirt with the deep V-neck and her extra slim jeans that hugged her hips. They’re the same black jeans that have men catcalling her when we’re walking somewhere. She’s next level pretty, something I aspire to be, because her confidence makes her glow.

I examine the way her dark brown hair lands in loose waves past her shoulders. It’s only a shade or so lighter than mine, more a dark brown than black, and I can only imagine my curls come from the other person I share my DNA with. She rarely wears her hair down because of the Arizona heat this time of year

, but it’s styled to make sure not one frizzy strand is out of place. The makeup on her face isn’t so different than any other day, contoured with skill I don’t have, lipstick bright red, cheeks a pretty pink, and brown eyes shaped with black liner and mascara to make her already long lashes look longer.

It makes me touch my hair, split into two fluffy pigtails that rest over my shoulders, and itch to pull down the visor to look at my naked face. Sometimes I’ll put on cherry Chapstick and a little eyeliner, but I always manage to make one eye darker than the other, and by the time the day is done, the makeup melts off me from the awful heat anyway.

Mom takes the keys out of the ignition and grabs her purse from the floor by my feet. It’s one of her expensive ones, the ones she tells me she gets at thrift shops even though the price and brand logo clearly states where she really bought it. It makes me wonder why she keeps it on the dirty floor even though it cost more than our utility bills combined, but I never ask.

“Our lives are about to change,” she says, excitement in her tone. Setting the purse on her lap and digging through it until she produces a tube of Ruby Red lipstick, she applies it carefully while checking herself out in the rearview mirror. She caps it, rubs her lips together, tosses it in her purse, and turns to me. Her eyes look almost like the milk chocolate candy I keep stashed away, firm and steady. “I need you to be on your best behavior. Do you understand?”

When am I not? I nod. “I understand.”

She opens the door. “Come on.”

I wet my lips. “Who is Harry Bishop?” She gets out of the car, leaving me sweating a little. Not knowing what else to do, I get out too and walk around the front. “Mom? Who is Harry Bishop?”

---