As soon as I get back to the living room, I realize the tactical error I’ve made.
My mother peers up at me over her glasses, a book open in her lap. “Honey, what are you wearing?”
My molars grind, but I try to form something that looks like a smile. “Shorts,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “Those look like underwear.”
“They’re not,” I grit out. I fear my smile may look more like bared teeth, but it’s the best I can do.
“And you really shouldn’t be wearing cropped shirts. They make your torso look short, and with the tight waistband on those shorts, well…” She waves her hands in the direction of my body. “The whole outfit isn’t doing you any favors.”
I take a slow, deep breath. “I don’t need my clothes to do me favors, Mom. I need them to cover my body.”
She laughs. “Well, they’re not doing a very good job of that, either.”
“Mom, please,” I say, trying to hang on to the last shred of my patience.
“What? I’m just trying to help,” she says. She looks genuinely baffled by my irritation.
“I didn’t ask for help.”
She throws up her hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry I said anything,” she says in that way that means she’s absolutely not sorry and is in fact waiting for me to apologize for shutting her down.
It’s a great personal victory that I don’t. As is the fact that I don’t tug on the hem of my T-shirt or hunch over to try to make it look a little longer, try to cover myself a little bit more. I don’t suck in and roll my shoulders back like she taught me to do because it makes me look “more fit” (translation: thin).
Instead, I stand up straight. I breathe in, filling my rib cage, and breathe out, ignoring the curve of my belly. Baby steps.
“Honey, can I be honest?”
There’s no indication that you can be anything else, I think. But I don’t say that.
“Sure, Mom,” I reply, and brace myself.
“Well, this new attitude of yours is concerning,” she says. She pulls off her glasses and studies me. “This just isn’t you. It’s not you at all, and I worry it’s the influence of this new crowd you’re running with. I just looked up those roller derby girls on my phone, and I am not impressed. I mean, all those piercings and tattoos! I don’t think this is who you should be spending time with,” she says, then folds her hands in her lap.
“Right. Okay, well, I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, and now I’m sure my smile really does look like that of a predator ready to attack. “In the meantime, I have practice. You’ll be gone when I get back?”
“What time will that be?” Her tone of voice sounds so much like it did when I was sixteen and going out with Grace. I half expect her to give me a curfew.
“Four,” I tell her.
“I won’t leave until five, since the concert’s not until seven. Maybe we can buzz over to Crimson ’n’ Cream. I want to get some muffins to take to Gladdie,” Mom says, slipping her glasses back on and returning to her book.
“Can’t wait,” I sigh, and head out the door.
CHAPTER 28
CARSON
“Remember—no elbows, no arms, no hands. Use the asses your preferred deity gave you,” Violet shouts from her coaching command center in the center of the track.
All the freshies are skating in two parallel lines, and for the first time, we’re going to hit each other—at speed—on skates. We’ve practiced in sneakers to get the movement right. We’ve done some stationary hitting on skates.
But now it’s time to go full-out.
I’m paired up with Jax, who is nearly a head taller than me but has half the ass.
“On my whistle!” Violet calls, her voice echoing around the rec center.
