I sling my Squirtle backpack onto my back and walk out of the call centre, humiliated.
The Golden Girls and some of the guys are in the lunch room as I leave. The women each give me a hug and we talk in euphemistic terms, as if I simply quit and I’m off on a new adventure. The guys give me a curt nod. I wish them luck with the tipping comp, but they seem to want me to leave as quickly as possible.
Footy isn’t masculine enough to compensate for fucking a guy. Nothing is.
It was humiliating to be fired, but I feel weirdly lighter than I did before. What was I thinking, studying a meaningless degree, working a job I didn’t like?
With an unplanned void in my day, and feeling like a drastic life change might help me, I toy with the idea of going to a gym. Jack has offered me a free PT session. But I get halfway through a text to Jack when an incoming call invades my phone screen.
My mother. Shit. I clean forgot my parents were back in Perth for that home open. I agreed to go with them – but that was before I changed my shifts to avoid clashes with footy.
‘Hey, Mum,’ I say, wincing.
My mother’s tone is the kind of sickly sweet that means she’s pissed off but going to dole it out in small, passive-aggressive doses. ‘Zeke, darling, we’re here to pick you up – where are you? Sabrina says you’re probably at work, but that can’t be right, because we arranged this with you the other day?’
The thought of my mother, hands-on-hips and sharply judgemental elbows, standing at the front door of Sabrina’s flat and ruining her work-from-home day, makes me cringe.
‘I was at work, sorry, my shift changed …’ My voice is passive. ‘I can meet you at the home open in about forty minutes?’
My mother clicks her tongue. ‘No, darling, that’s not going to work, is it? The home open is now, and only for thirty minutes. Honestly, Zekey, why didn’t you tell us you weren’t going to come? We really wanted you to see your new home.’
My skin crawls.
‘We’ll meet you at your flat in an hour,’ she says instead. Before I can tell her that’s a horrible idea, she barks, ‘Sabrina, that’s fine with you, isn’t it, darling?’
I hold my breath. I wonder if Sabrina will tell them we had a falling-out.
‘Of course, Anna,’ Sabrina’s voice wafts in the background. ‘I have some work to do, but just ring the doorbell when you’re back here. Or Zeke can let you in if he gets here first.’
‘Done,’ my mother tells me. ‘See you in an hour, Zeke.’
I swallow as the phone beeps to signal the conversation is terminated.
One way or another, the silence between Sabrina and me is about to end.
By the time I pull my Nissan into the alley behind Sabrina’s flat, my parents’ car is already in my usual place. I have to park up onthe road like a visitor. But my shoulders relax at the thought of having a buffer, like at my graduation – though this time it’s my parents I’m hoping will protect me from Sabrina.
The front door is open. When I step into the living room, my father’s flopped on the couch, his purple Perth Glory cap covering his face like he’s asleep, his black polo shirt dusted in broken pastry flakes. The TV news is on, volume low. On the coffee table are the standard gifts that accompany a parental visit: baked goods (a tray of cannoli, already attacked by my father) and anArchiecomic. The comic’s cover shows a crossover between Archie Andrews and Sabrina the Teenage Witch, which feels insanely deliberate.
‘Finally, he’s here!’ my mother’s voice scolds from the kitchen. ‘Zeke, what took you so long? Do you want a tea or a coffee?’
I sling my Squirtle backpack to the carpet and move into the kitchen to see my mother on her knees on the tiles, pantry open in front of her. Canned food, packets of pasta and cereal and biscuits, and the entire spice rack, are all arranged on the tiled floor: she has rubber gloves on both hands, a squirt-bottle of Spray n’ Wipe, and a blue Chux cloth in hand, aggressively scouring the pantry’s melamine surface to within an inch of its life.
Sabrina’s standing by the kettle, staring in utter bemusement between my mother and me, her eyes bulging like she’s just realised the magnitude of her error in allowing my parents into the space where I live – or used to.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’ I manage.
‘Well, I went to reorganise your shelves in the pantry, darling, because you had it all configured wrong – you should put your cereals down here, and your tinned goods up here – and then once I moved everything, I realised it’s filthy – no offence, Sabrina, love, I’m sure you do your best – but you need a good deep clean, both of you! I’ll be done in a jiffy, but Sabrina can make you a cuppa – do you want tea or coffee, darling?’
I swear she says the whole thing without taking a single breath.
As she goes back to wiping, I mouth, ‘I’m sorry’ at Sabrina, who raises her eyebrows clean through the ceiling.
‘I don’t need a cuppa,’ I say. ‘I’ve got this.’ I take the carton of spearmint milk from my backpack and shake it up.
My mother gives me a withering look that could instantly murder a houseplant. ‘Those drinks are so full of sugar, Zeke. No wonder you’re still so soft around the edges.’
Sabrina’s eyes flash, but I give her a desperate look ofplease don’t start. The last thing I need is them fighting about whether it’s better to fat-shame me or tell me off for fat-shaming myself.
