Potential opportunities to earn her praise were frequently dangled tantalizingly close, directly ahead of me, carrot and stick.
She was Lucy, I was Charlie Brown, and the football was her love.
I let her tee it up time and again, even when Iknewshe’d yank it away from me. It wasn’t until high school when I started to really pay attention to other kids and their parents and realized that what I endured wasn’t normal.
I checked out self-help and psychology books from the public library across the street from my high school and kept them stashed in my school locker. I wasn’t in a psychology class where I could explain them away.
Talking to the guidance counselor, a woman who I knew was married to one of the attorneys in Austin’s firm, was absolutely out of the question.
At best, I wouldn’t be believed.
At worst, she might tell my mother—or might mention something to her husband, who’d mention it to Austin, who’ddefinitelytell my mother—and then my life would become an utter living hell of worse magnitudes than I already endured.
By the time I reached high school, I’d hit a manageable cruise level with my mother. I could tell when she was looking for something to nail me on for no good reason, and I would simply give up and wait her out, all while doing the usual things that normally won my way back into what passed for her good graces.
Now the clock is ticking, until I graduate from college, law school, and pass the bar so I can be out and on my own. For now, I’m no longer under her thumb and available for her to take daily potshots at where there is no proof.
She can’t text stuff like that to me.
She can’t be bothered to call me, usually.
It’s no fucking wonder I love college.
It’s also no fucking wonder I find myself loving Carter and Susa.
* * * *
A little over four weeks into the semester, on a Thursday morning while I’m waiting for Carter to finish in the shower so I can take mine, I receive a text message that intrudes on what is becoming an increasingly perfect, cherished bubble.
A text that chills my soul.
Saturday afternoon, 5pm. Dinner at the house. Business casual. No shorts or sneakers. +1 if you want.
In total disbelief, I stare at my phone for a long moment. This isliterallythe first time since the semester started that Mom’s texted me first and not as a reply to a text I sent her.
It’s only the fifth text she’s sent me total.
Son of a fucking bitch.
Oh, right.
That would beme.
I guess I’m wearing a look, because when Carter steps out of the bathroom and glances my way, he stops and backs up, studying my expression.
“What’s wrong?”
There’s no use sugar-coating it. “You know how I said I’d trade doing your laundry to go visit my mom with me?”
“Yeah?”
“I might need to throw in that blowjob after all.”
He steps closer and frowns in confusion. “What?”
I show him the text on my phone.
He’s good at cloaking his emotions, but I’m watching his eyes when I see the mask drop into place.
