“You have to come,” she says as she rolls over to me with her chair.
“I can’t attend a student’s party,” I say, “It’s violating all sorts of rules at the same time.”
“No other students will be there,” she says. But I know how fast rumors can travel, from personal experience, and I will not risk everything for a party I don’t want to attend.
“It would be the perfect chance to spread your wings,” she says.
“I don’t have wings,” I say dismissively.
“Figure of speech. The wings your parents clipped to make you fit the expectations they had of you.”
I stop typing.
The wings your parents clipped to make you fit the expectations they had of you.
“Think about it,” she says and pushes herself off my desk to slide back to hers. “I just thought it would be nice.”
“Okay,” I say. I can’t tell what exactly made me say it, maybe her underlying attempt to connect, maybe a part of me wanting to be around her outside of work. As wrong as it is. But thingshave already happened. A past that can’t be changed. So what does it matter now? Rules were already broken.
“Okay, as in yes?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “If you agree to join me as Louise for my mother’s brunch invitation next week, she will stop nagging me.”
“Is she doing that every week?”
“Every second week when she’s not on call.”
“Oh,” she says.
“She doesn’t stop talking about you,” I add. “You might be her new favorite daughter, at least she tells me so daily.”
“Do you speak to her daily?” she asks, as if it were something bad.It isn’t, is it?
“Yes, of course,” I say, observing her reaction.
“Why would you talk daily to someone who doesn’t value you?” she asks, and my body straightens without my control.
“It’s not that—“ I begin.
“It is exactly that,” she says. “The way she talks to you, about you. It’s like you’re willingly putting your hand into open fire every day.”
I open my mouth to contradict her because she implies I am codependent on my mother, and I am not.
I am not.
Am I not?
I close my mouth again.
“Friday, 7 pm, my studio,” she says and goes back to her work. “Wear something casual chic, maybe that outfit you wore in the Tuesday lecture two weeks ago, with the silken blouse. You don’t need to bring anything, but El loves the brownies from Ramini if you want to give her something for her birthday.”
“You don’t need to tell me what to wear,” I say with slightly pursed lips.
“Oh, so you wouldn’t have a complete freakout on Friday afternoon because the dress code wasn’t specific enough?”
“I wouldn’t,” I say defensively, knowing very well she is completely right, but it scares the hell out of me how well she knows me by now. So I lie. She made me become a liar.
“Uh-huh,” she hums out, slaps the huge book in front of her shut, and gets up.
