Page 9 of Broken Lines

“From my generous offer of infinite sandwiches and zero dollars? No, not at all.”

“Those sandwiches good towards my half of the rent?”

“Yeah, you know what? On second thought, definitely go with the journalism gig.”

A laugh bubbles from my lips.

“So, do you have a story to do yet?”

“Oh yeah,” I mutter. “But…” I frown as the elevator doors open to a familiar hallway. “I actually gotta let you go. I’m at Judy’s.”

“Oof. Good luck. Fill me in on the story later?”

“For sure.”

“Later.”

I hang up and slip the phone into my pocket. Then, with a heavy sigh, I raise my hand and knock on the door.

“Heygirlfriend.”

A plume of acrid tobacco and weed smoke surrounds her like a smoldering halo as the door swings open. I resist the urge to gawk at the plunging—and I do mean fuckingplunging—neckline of what could only generously be described as a top and not intimate lingerie.

“My God, Melody, what are you wearing?” She makes a face.

I look down at my very basic black slacks and white blouse business-casual outfit from the interview earlier.

“Are you working for the cops or something now?”

I sigh as I raise my eyes back to her.

“Hi, Judy.”

“Mom. It’smom,” she mutters, moving back to let me in.

I step into the large, light-filled West Village apartment. As is her custom, my mom pats the frame that sits over “To Judy Blue. Xoxo,” written in sharpie on the wall above the fairly famous signature of Will Cates.

The note on the wall is the “card” that came with the gift of this very apartment, back when I was eight and Will, the now deceased rhythm guitar player for Velvet Guillotine, and my mom were dating. He ended up running off with a Victoria’s Secret model two years later. But the huge apartment was in my mom’s name and paid for in full.

It’s weird, knowing that those hit Velvet Guillotine songs you hear in almost every bar are the reason I grew up—from at least aged eight on—with a roof over my head. Not in a car, or in the back of random tour busses, or in hotel rooms, or crashing with “friends” of Judy’s. Which is what I remember from those years before we moved here.

I shut the door behind me and follow my mom’s swaying, shuffling steps down the hall. In the living room, I grit my teeth, keeping my eyesawayfrom the wall above the couch.

Aka, one of the top reasons I never brought friends home from school. Aka, the source of relentless teasing growing up, and scorned looks from other parents.

Aka, thegigantic, framed print of my mother’s Playboy Centerfold shot.

Judy sighs when she sees the way I’m fastidiously staring at the opposite wall.

“I don’t know how I managed to raise such a prude.”

“And I’m not sure where you found your definition ofraised, but here we are.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t start, Mel. It’s exhausting.”

I also have no interest in going down this road with her for the millionth time. Because it never fixes anything. It never changes a thing about the fact that I grew up in this weird shrine to her own narcissism, oftenwithouther even here for extended periods of time. It doesn’t change that I learned to cook when I was nine, because Judy went to a concert and just “decided” to hop on the band’s tour bus for the next five days.

In her mind, she was a “cool” mom. She was “avant guard” and “a free spirit”.

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