Chapter 6 Survival Of The Fittest #2
Look, I don’t have an arsenal of therapy-approved mechanisms to war with my feelings of inadequacy, so I play dirty and turn the tables.
I don’t know anyone who hates talking about themselves more than my mom.
She’s always putting everyone else first, and I’m not going to stand by and watch her will to live atrophy.
“Mom, you know I’m worried about y—”
She analyzes the arguably flawless poultry on her ceramic dishware, hacking off a chunk and testing it with refined taste buds. “Do you think I added too much garlic? The chicken tastes a little bitter.”
My words refuse to take shape, and it feels like grease is clogging my esophagus despite the little food I’ve forced down. “I know you hate talking about this, but I really think we need to reevaluate your work schedule. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“Staten, I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” she declares with a shake of her head, sidestepping the elephant in the room as she eschews eye contact.
Suddenly, the dinner she slaved over doesn’t look appetizing in the slightest. Unimpeachable guilt crowds the spaces between my ribs, and if I don’t expunge it soon, bone rot will afflict whatever porous substance is left.
I never fight with my mom. Ever. We’re always on the same page. Nobody understands me better than her. The one downside of being carbon copies of each other? I inherited her bull-headed stubbornness.
A wave of frustration rankles down my spine, forcing me to drop my utensil and drag her attention by the goddamn scruff. The only way we’re going to get anywhere is if I start telling the truth, and the longer I hide this from her, the worse the aftershocks will be.
“My scholarship donor pulled out due to a lack of funds. I have to find two thousand dollars by the end of the semester if I want to stay enrolled in school.”
My mother finally lifts her head to look at me, her umber eyes rheumy with sympathy, lips agape like nothing she could say could bring me solace.
I hate when she stares at me like that—like I’m some incapable victim who can’t solve her own problems. I always appreciate how easy she’s made my life, but sometimes I wonder if I would’ve been better off clawing my way through the rubble of my seemingly fleeting hardships. More resilient, resourceful.
“Oh, Buttercup. I’m so sorry,” she sympathizes, rising out of her seat and rounding the table so she can envelop me in a hug.
It’s the first time that her embrace isn’t comforting, but I wrap my arms around her nevertheless, clinging to her like I’m still her little girl.
I had one job, and I failed. I failed my mom. My indignation banks as if it’s a sweltering, soot-colored storm waiting on the horizon to rule over the untampered heavens, exiled to the inescapable darkness.
“I feel like I did something wrong,” I whisper, blinking away the dew pearling in the corners of my eyes, finally mustering the courage to tether my hands into the back of her blouse.
Numbness has finally rooted itself in my body—a poison that softens my resolve like necrosis spidering through expired fruit.
My mom strokes the back of my head. “Shh, shh. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the school’s fault. I can’t believe…I can’t believe they’d let this happen. Without even telling us beforehand.”
I can’t see my mother’s expression, but maybe it’s for the best. Her voice drops an octave, steeped in an animosity that rarely ever shows itself.
Marjorie Renault is a gentle woman, yet when she’s mad, her anger can be felt by everyone in a ten-mile radius.
A flammable compound just looking for a fuse to ignite it.
“Oh, I’m going to have a strongly worded talk with them. This is unprofessional, unfair, and frankly, you shouldn’t be the one suffering just because a nonprofit couldn’t handle their funds correctly.”
Pulling back, I try to swan dive off the train tracks before her rage runs me over. “No, Mom. I don’t want to make this a bigger problem than it is. I spoke with the student employee office. They said I just need to pick up some more tutoring clients to make up for the lost money.”
She doesn’t even let the suggestion breathe. “Absolutely not. How are you supposed to juggle classes, work, your social life? Your roster is already full. They can’t expect you to double or triple your workload.”
“But—”
My mom slams her palms down on the table, scaring me back into my shell.
It’s a clinical kind of fury, tamed just enough to keep it from escalating.
“I’ll pick up extra shifts, Staten. It’s not even a big deal.
I was going to run the idea past you anyways.
I want you to have some extra spending money each month.
I know things are tight right now, and I wish I could say that they haven’t always been like this. ”
I can’t ask her to do that. I won’t fucking let her. My mother has sacrificed everything for me. There’s a clear solution to this whole fuck fest, and my ego is the only thing standing in the way.
There’s a certain brunet who’s at my beck and call right now—a certain brunet who made it very clear that he’d do anything to get into my good graces. Monetary compensation for my trauma included.
Sure, taking Knox on as a client would be as difficult as adding three other clients to my roster, but at least I have some leverage over the poor bastard.
He owes me. He owes me for running me over, for me not pressing charges, for insinuating I can’t flirt, and for being an overall pain in my ass.
Will I regret this decision? Maybe, but knowing that my mom is sleeping a full eight hours every night trumps an hourly dosage of his trifling vanity.
Something akin to hope burgeons low in my gut, and my brain begins to churn out all kinds of machinations that will aid me in my quest to not only humble MU’s biggest playboy but put me back on the path toward graduation.
I’m a good person, okay? I don’t like exploiting people’s guilt, but right now, my survival instincts are the only thing preventing me and my mother from going belly-up. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in this dog-eat-dog world, it’s that you have to look out for your clan first and foremost.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I reassure her, rallying my urge to fight. “I know exactly how to fix this.”