Chapter Two #2
I want to smack my head against the refrigerator door. Obviously, Mom never discusses her life coaching clients’ problems with me—confidentiality and all that—but I can guess that poor Karen is crying crocodile tears because her kid got told off in class for being homophobic or something.
Mom’s clients aren’t ever from here. She makes it a point to work with Christian clients “around the world,” as long as that excludes Madre Maria.
But from the little sneak peeks I’ve gotten of her clients based on their social media testimonials, I know they’re all middle-aged straight white women who love Jesus, dote on their kids, and resent their ex-husbands. Just like my mother.
I’m biting into the second-to-last slice of pizza when Mom finally exits her office, stretching her arms. She’s got a bright pink blazer on, very Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, and she brightens when she sees me—and the pizza.
“You’d better be saving that slice for me,” she declares, grabbing herself the final slice along with some utensils. “I had three back-to-back calls today, and that meant no time for lunch. Helping other women is more important than food, you know?”
“You can’t help them if you’re low on energy, though,” I say, pouting. “Take care of yourself like you take care of them.”
“I’ll try, sweetheart.” Mom beams at me, then cuts a small piece of pizza with her fork and knife and daintily takes a bite. “How was your day?” she asks as I put my plate in the sink and run some water over it.
If she were open to the vastly different experiences of people from other cultures and faiths, I’d tell her about Mr. Rao’s tarot reading and how afraid I am of my Tower moment happening.
Instead, all I say as I walk back to the kitchen island is “School was fine. I went to Café Kismat with Natalie for iced coffee after and read a book.”
Mom tuts. “That café is so…eccentric. I don’t see why you like going there, honey. There are other places that serve coffee in town.”
Eccentric. A faux-polite way to say “people of color.” I study the edge of my nail. “They have the best coffee, Mom. That’s all.” And it’s my only link to my ex–best friend. But I don’t dare say that part out loud.
“You know”—she sets her empty plate aside and puts her hands on her hips—“I was so happy when you and that Meera girl stopped being friends. I don’t like her family or that café one bit.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say as my stomach drops. I take her plate and put it in the sink too. I grip the edges of the sink with my fingers, forcing my nervous system to calm down. Inhale…exhale. Inhale…exhale. Inhale—
“Anyway, your father called again today,” Mom says dispassionately. She picks some lint off her blazer and sighs. “I wonder if his new boo knows how often he calls me.”
My teeth clench. He called me last week too, but I let it go to voicemail and deleted the message without listening to it. I have no interest in talking to him or the woman he chose over us. I haven’t met her, nor do I ever want to. “Did you pick up?” I ask.
She huffs. “Yeah. Apparently, your grandfather passed away and left your father a good chunk of money. It came as a surprise to him too.”
My grandparents and Dad had a falling-out shortly after he graduated high school. Dad didn’t want to talk about it, and we never visited them, although they live in California too. Still, my heart pangs in my chest. I never got to meet Grandpa, and now I never will.
I swallow, then ask, “Are we going to the funeral?”
“No, he didn’t invite us.” Mom rolls her eyes. “I suppose he just called to rub it in our faces that he’s rich now.”
I tighten my hold on the sink. It’s not that we’re poor or anything. Mom’s business is thriving, what with the long hours she puts in, and the alimony checks help, but our designer clothes are all secondhand, and we’ve had to put off much-needed home renovations for a couple years now.
Good for Dad, though. He’ll probably be able to give his future kids not just his time and attention but also an Ivy League education.
Lucky them. Before he blindsided us, he was an incredible father, and I was the biggest daddy’s girl.
He surprised me with a new toy with each paycheck, took me to Disneyland every other month, and bought me cotton candy to cheer me up after an attendant said I wasn’t tall enough for the “big-kid rides.” He’d read bedtime stories to me, stroking my hair as I fell asleep.
He was the one who got me into the reading habit I’ll never let go of.
I guess that was all just an act.
“Well, honey, I’ll get back to work.” Mom gives me a kiss on the cheek before heading to her office for her next coaching call, and I unclench my hands and go upstairs.
My room is small but cozy, with plenty of natural light and breeze.
I draw the curtains open and let cool air drift into the room from my window.
I don’t hang photos or nail paintings anywhere, unlike Natalie, whose room is filled with posters of her favorite artists—Megan Thee Stallion, Beyoncé, Tyla.
My floral pink wallpaper decks up my bedroom well enough.
What does overwhelm my room is my white wooden bookcase crammed with literature of all kinds.
From classic works and romance novels to young adult and sci-fi, I’ve got quite the collection.
The one thing most of them have in common, though, is that they’re either written by Jane Austen or are inspired by her works.
Sushant can never understand how I read so much. Sometimes I manage to finish a hundred books a year while he’s read maybe four books in his whole life. He especially can’t figure out how I juggle it alongside cheerleading and school and, well, our relationship.
But until I can leave Madre Maria, books are my escape.
I fall onto my bed, snuggling into the white comforter, and take three more long, deep breaths until my heart stops racing. Then I grab my laptop. Like every day recently after coming home, I check the status of my application to NYU.
Nothing yet.
I bite my lip. I’ve applied to one other college here in California, UCLA, only because Mom said I needed to have “safety schools” and because she hates the idea of me leaving the state.
If I don’t get into the English lit program at NYU, I’ll move to the city with Sushant anyway.
Take a gap year, wait tables at coffee shops, babysit for young parents, pay my bills somehow—and then reapply the following year.
I’d do anything to get out of here and to New York.
Nowhere else. It has to be New York or no dice.
Someday I’m going to be a big-shot editor at a publishing house.
And, sure, I’ve done enough research to know there’s not much money in it, but there’s heart and hope and passion.
My biggest dream is seeing my name in the acknowledgments section of a wonderful book, acquired by me, written by an author I absolutely adore.
And New York can bring me closer to that dream than any other place can.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sushant. Check your email babe!
He’s sent me the list of restaurants he was showing me at lunch.
I text back a heart. I love that he’s as thrilled about New York as I am, but, gosh, it’s next to impossible for two college kids with no family money to go to any of these places.
I don’t even know if Mom has enough in savings to help pay for my college tuition and housing.
As for Sushant, his folks run a chain of small electronics stores in and around California, initially started by his late grandfather.
They’re doing well for themselves, and they’ve promised Sushant they’ll support him through college.
He once told me Indian parents don’t like the idea of their kids being independent and “leaving the nest” at eighteen.
But there’s a huge difference between paying for his room and board and paying for a New York City lifestyle, and I don’t want to put them through that. Sushant and I are starting a new life together. We love each other enough to find a way to fund it.
Love, unfortunately, doesn’t pay the bills.
Sighing, I open a fresh tab on Chrome and search for Madre Maria job listings.