Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
ANNIE
“I can’t believe we’re even arguing about this!” Cameron yanks open the front door to the Drizzle office and impatiently waves me through.
“I’m not trying to argue, Cameron.” He’s the one who asked to ride with me to Drizzle only to spend the drive giving me the third-degree about my new tutor. “This really isn’t a big deal.”
"If it’s not a big deal, then just let me hire you a different tutor.” Cameron follows me past the reception desk. Anya, who works the desk on weekdays, looks right past me to smile at Cameron.
I always feel self-conscious walking in with the boss’s son. “You know I’m not comfortable having you pay for things like that.” I already have to listen to sorority girls call me a gold digger under their breath when they see me with him at the Friday night frat parties.
“I don’t see how it’s any different than me getting you this job.” His voice is loud enough to catch the attention of a couple of interns whose desks we’re passing, and I wince as they look over at us. “There are perks to dating a guy like me, Annie. Take the perks.”
We stop next to the conference table in the center of the main office. This is where I work when I come in, surrounded by buzzing cubicles. Some of the regular writing staff for Drizzle work seven days a week in their cubicles writing pop culture articles for the site. Part of me envies them getting paid to write. The other part judges them for working so hard to be writers only to settle for publishing fluff pieces about celebrities, reality television, astrology, and modern skin care.
“Seriously, Cameron?” I’ve told him so many times I’m self-conscious about him helping me get a job. He still insists on holding that over my head any time we argue… Which seems to be more and more these days.
Cameron grabs the front hem of my blouse and tugs me forward so he can plant a lingering kiss on my lips. “You need to relax,” he murmurs. “Girls like you don’t have to stress this much, babe.”
Girls like you .
“Right,” I say, even though I don’t feel good about his words. He smiles and wanders off, probably to see if his dad is in his office.
When Cameron and I met at a youth scholars camp last summer, he appreciated my ability to hold a serious, well-thought-out conversation. How have I managed to find myself reduced to the role of arm candy girlfriend? I’m not exactly the hot blonde trophy wife with a good pedigree that usually fills the stereotypes.
My bloodline might have been more fitting in different circumstances. My parents both came from well-respected New England families but got pregnant as teenagers and my mom refused to be married off to my dad for the optics. He wasn’t that interested in being a father or husband, either. As the outspoken one, my mom garnered most of the judgment over the pregnancy and lack of a shotgun wedding.
My dad was spared the responsibility of a kid and most of the blame.
My mom has been estranged from her family since my birth. My dad’s involvement in my life has been one large check to help my mom start her own business and a yearly birthday phone call that always came late and stopped altogether by the time I hit middle school.
I always thought I must be better off not having him around if that’s the kind of person my dad is. I didn’t miss him. Sometimes I do feel wistful wondering what might have been if I came from a more normal background. If we hadn’t been all alone, just Mom and me.
Mom raised me as a single parent in a small town in Connecticut an hour south of where she was raised. The town is only thirty minutes further North than my college campus, though I’ve never ventured up there.
I’ve never seen the house my mom grew up in, and I’ve never met my grandparents.
“Oh Annie, I’m so glad to see you.” Eloise looks over the partition of her cubicle with a wide smile. “We have two hours to compile a list of the fifty most famous Taylors. Start with Swift and work your way backward!”
“On it.” I get my laptop from my backpack and set it up on the conference table.
Why dream of being the next Connie Chung or Jane Austen when we can all sit around debating which D-list celebs named Taylor are noteworthy enough to be listed alongside the world’s most famous pop star?
“Finally!” Mom excitedly launches herself toward the door as I let myself into our motel room. “Where have you been? Working a street corner? Selling illicit substances? Running an illegal, underground gambling ring?”
I check my phone to make sure the time is still only seven o’clock. “Mom, I’m like thirty minutes late for dinner. Not showing up after curfew.”
“You never had a curfew,” she points out.
“Exactly.” Because I’m trustworthy and always show up at home well before any curfew she would have set anyway. Even on Friday nights, I leave Cameron’s frat parties well before most people even arrive.
“I guess that means you won’t be turning into a Narcos plotline anytime soon then?” She manages to sound disappointed by the possibility.
“Correct because this isn’t the eighties and I’m a college student, not a drug tycoon.” I brush past her so that I can put my bag down on the small desk in the corner, the one safe spot in the room not taken over by my mom’s stuff. “What do you think about Chinese food and coffee for dinner?”
I jump out of my skin as Mom gasps dramatically.
“You are my child.” She clutches her chest with a dramatic sigh of relief. “I was starting to worry that I might have to sue the hospital for switching you at birth.”
I consider this as Mom and I make our way out of the room together. “I don’t know; that seems awfully risky. What if you wound up hating the real daughter and could never switch back?”
“Why couldn’t I switch back?” Mom pulls the door shut behind us.
“Because I’d be with my real family, too. I might even end up loving them.” These hypotheticals always wind up getting out of hand between the two of us. I think my mom probably should have seen a psychiatrist at some point. She would make an awfully interesting research subject if nothing else.
“No way.” She loops her arm through mine as we turn towards the row of shops on the other side of the motel where our favorite cheap Chinese place is. “Your real family would be these obnoxiously smart snobs with no sense of humor at all. You’d miss me…and Chinese food. Your genius parents would totally be weird vegans or something.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit.
As much as my mom’s manic pixie dream girl personality sometimes irks me… I wouldn’t trade my mother for anyone else’s. The most secure, normal, nuclear-style family in the world doesn’t seem so appealing when my mom gives me all the love that I could ever ask for.
“Coffee first?” Mom asks, slowing her steps as we near the corner gas station that has the least offensive late-night coffee that we’ve managed to find so far.
“Definitely.” I want to get started on my essay tonight while my outline is still fresh in my mind. I’m going to need the caffeine boost to keep me going.
As we head for the gas station store, my mom launches into a detailed description of her new boss’s scowling expressions. Apparently, he has three different scowls depending on his level of annoyance.
Of course my mom has already managed to elicit three different scowls from the man after only two days at the new job.
Once we’re in the gas station, Mom’s attention immediately wanders. “Oh, you know what sounds good? Twizzlers. Twizzlers make such a fun snack. I bet they’ll make a great follow-up to Kung Pao Chicken.”
I laugh under my breath as she wanders off. Taking her into a store is like wrangling a toddler after you’ve given them pixie sticks.
While my mom follows her every whim, I head for the corner where the coffee makers are set up. The timestamp is relatively fresh and I whisper, “Yessss,” under my breath as I grab two cups.
“I’ve never seen anyone this excited for gas station coffee before.” Professor Parks’ unwelcome voice disturbs me just as I start to pour coffee into the first cup.
I jerk with a gasp and then hiss with pain as steaming hot coffee drips over my hand. A bright red splotch spreads over my scalded skin. I set the half-filled coffee aside and yank a handful of napkins from the dispenser to hold to my stinging skin.
“You’re quite the nervous girl, aren’t you?” Professor Parks chuckles softly as he steps closer to me at the coffee counter. His side brushes against me, and I take a side step to avoid the contact.
“Most people wouldn’t react well to being snuck up on while they’re pouring hot coffee,” I retort.
“Touché, Miss Kirkpatrick.” Professor Parks leans against the counter and drags his eyes down the length of me. “It’s late. Do you live around here?”
Goosebumps break out over my arms. Before I’m forced to respond, my mom materializes between the professor and me. She puts a hand on my shoulder and tilts her head at him.
“Why is a grown man in a gas station chatting up my nineteen-year-old daughter?” Her tone is icy and loud enough to draw the attention of a nearby man rooting through the doughnut case. He glances over at us with dread like he’s worried he might be stuck intervening.
Professor Parks chuckles and extends his hand. “I’m Perry Parks, your daughter’s Literature I don’t want her to blame herself.