by Amber Kay
“Can you believe her?” Mom asks. “Screwing around with that little boy? It’s sickening, if you ask me.”
“Sounds like she’s experiencing a midlife crisis,” I reply though I've only heard a bit of what she said, but it’s easy to fake conversation with my mother. She often talks about the same topics and I have a rehearsed reply for everything she says beforehand. It’s easy to appease her. I never have to hurt her feelings by letting her know that I wasn’t listening.
“A midlife crisis?”
“Some women approaching fifty might want to spice up their lives by taking a lover significantly younger than herself,” I say.
“I see you’re putting those studies to good use,” she says in a reproachful tone. “But I refuse to believe that a woman’s age determines when she’ll lose all self-respect and sleep with the first man that gives her a dirty look. I haven’t taken a teenage lover and I certainly wouldn’t dare try.”
“I'm sure you’ve thought about it at least once,” I tease while moving my finger across my mouse pad to place an Ace card atop a Spades card in my virtual Solitaire game. “It’s okay Mom, you don’t have to act so snooty. Dirty thoughts are healthy.”
“Cassandra,” she snaps. “I could never imagine myself playing house with a nineteen year old boy any more than you can imagine yourself with someone your father’s age.”
I sigh at her overreaction, but it’s not like I blame her. Mom is an old-fashioned woman with a heap of pride. She is not one to try new things and certainly not one to clam up when she has an opinion about something.
“Well, what if I did decide to date a middle-aged man?” I tease. “You wouldn’t want to meet him?”
“Don’t joke like that, Cassandra,” she says. “It’s not funny.”
I hold in my laughter as I imagine her cheeks blushing beet red.
“I think it’d be an interesting experience,” I say. “It wouldn’t be so weird. I’ve never had much in common with any guy my own age. What if I belong with someone older, someone worldlier, more…experienced.”
“If you’re going to talk smut, you might as well hang up the phone because I don’t want to hear it,” she says and I can’t suppress my laughter any longer. I cough out a chuckle that I'm sure she’s sneering at.
“Mom, don’t be such a killjoy,” I say. “No wonder Sasha thinks I'm a prude. I clearly inherited it from you.”
“A prude is a silly name you call a woman with standards,” she says. “If you ever think of bringing some perverted old man to dinner at my house as your boyfriend, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”
I sigh again. “You’d seriously disown me if I dated a man you didn’t approve of?”
“Of course not,” she replies after a meditative pause. “That doesn’t mean I won’t fight tooth and nail to get you see the error of your ways.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say. “At the rate I'm going, I will probably die a virgin.”
“Cassandra!”
“Mom, calm down, geez, you just finished preaching morality and standards to me. Aren’t you happy I'm not dating?”
With a deep breath, she calms and says, “I’d like you to be happy. Find a nice man with a pretty smile and I’ll be happy too.”
“And if this nice man does happen to be thirty years older than me…”
“Cassandra,” she mutters sternly, warning me not to push my luck any further.
“Relax mother,” I say. “I wouldn’t date any man who doesn’t earn your personal seal of approval first.”
“Speaking of which, Helen Collins’ son has asked about you,” she adds. “Should I tell him you’re visiting?”
“I already have Sasha acting as my matchmaker,” I say. “I don’t need you forcing men on me too.”
“I’m only trying to help,” she says. Just like Sasha, my mother has my best interest at heart in her own overbearing and totally irrational way. I can't fault her for not being able to shut off her maternal mode long enough to have a conversation with me.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I need to study and tomorrow is the first day in weeks that I’ll get the apartment to myself.”
“I’ve already mailed your plane ticket, so don’t worry,” she says. “Your father will pick you up from the airport and I’ll be waiting with dinner when you get here. I love you too much, baby. Take care of yourself.”
“Love you more, Mom,” I say with a smile until I hear a dial tone. I press end on the cell phone keypad while staring at the laptop screen as my game of Solitaire sits idle, awaiting my next move.
* * *
When I wake the next morning, I smell something unexpected. I rush into the kitchen to confirm my suspicions. Sasha stands in front of the stove fanning smoke seeping from the skillet in clouds of fog that shroud the kitchen.
Before the smoke detector has a chance to squeal, I quickly detach it from the wall then remove the batteries. She spots me in the kitchen doorway and waves me in after flipping something in the skillet with a spatula.
“Ooh, you’re awake,” she says. “Sit down. Breakfast is being provided by me.”
I fear what that means. Sasha is a prodigy with music, but cooking has never been her strong suit. I wonder if whatever is in that skillet is even edible. I’ve seen her past creations, most of which didn’t even resemble food.
To solidify our roles as equal-partner roommates, she decided that each of us should take turns doling out the meals. Though I’d much rather opt for pizza or Chinese, she’s insists on cooking. Bless her heart for trying.
I saunter into the kitchen, stretching my arms over my head with a yawn. With a heavy sigh, I'm anew like a fresh coat of paint on a chipped wall. It felt good to sleep through the night without the recurring dreams that kept me up before. Talking to Mom surprisingly took my mind off things.
After swiping the orange juice carton from inside the refrigerator and stealing a sip, I glance into the skillet, surprised to see four golden brown pancakes simmering lightly in a puddle of canola oil.
“Wow,” I say. “Those pancakes look…normal.”
Sasha scowls. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I just…well…you’ve never cooked anything without pissing off the smoke detector.”
“I'm getting better, aren’t I?” she says with the smile of a doting mother on her face. “It’s time I get more domesticated. I figured I’d try some recipes I saw on Food Network. Will you join me for breakfast?”
“Sure, I have nowhere else to be, but what about your Tai Chi classes?”
“Kaye called to tell me they rescheduled for ten since we’re getting a new instructor today. Poor Greta was pushing sixty. It’s no wonder why she finally broke down and accepted retirement.”
I pour myself a glass of orange juice and sit at the table as she places two pancakes onto a plate for me. While handing me the syrup, Sasha fixes herself a plate and I pour her a glass of orange juice.
“So,” she says after plopping into her chair at the dining table. “How is Diane?”
With a mouthful of pancake, I stop chewing to glare at her.
“How did you know I talked to my mother?”
“I heard you on the phone last night and she had hissy fit on our answering machine about you not returning her calls.”
I sigh and swallow my first bite.
“My mother is a drama queen,” I say. “It’d had only been a few weeks since we last spoke. She’s acting like I’ve had her name expunged from my birth certificate and moved to Italy under an assumed name.”
“Why are you getting so defensive?” she teases, but I ignore her accusatory tone and sip more orange juice.
“Shouldn’t you be heading to your Tai Chi class soon?” I ask. Sasha dips a piece of pancake into some syrup and eats like a pigeon pecking at breadcrumbs on the sidewalk. Her dainty manner of eating makes me feel like a pig for stuffing my face.
“You should come with me,” she says and I nea
rly choke on my next bite.
“What?” I say with a cheek full of food.
“It’ll be fun,” she says. “And you’re always in this apartment. You only ever leave to go to work or school.”
“Yes and I like that routine,” I say. “I don’t have to worry as long as everything stays on schedule.”
“Cassie, you’re nineteen and you live like a recluse cat lady.”
“I’ll never be a cat lady,” I retort. “I’m allergic to cats.”
I gulp my orange juice as she glares reproachfully at me in between bites of food.
“And I don’t have time to have fun,” I say. “Tuition, rent and bills need our attention more. I was thinking of spending today studying anyway. Or maybe I’ll go to work later on.
I doubt Frank would mind the extra help.”
“It’s your off day,” she reminds me. “Who the hell volunteers to work on the day their manager orders them to stay home?”
“He didn’t order me,” I say. “And it’s not like I don’t need the money.”
“You don’t…technically,” she replies after another bite. I stop to look at her, expecting an explanation.
“What do you mean? Of course I need the money.”
“Not with this around.” She places a familiar envelope atop the table. I recognize it immediately when I see my name written across the front.
“You kept that woman’s dirty money?” I ask. “Sasha, I wasn’t serious when I told you to spend it.”
“Money is money regardless of who offered it,” she says.
I guzzle the rest of my orange juice and devour a bigger bite of pancake.
“I don’t want that money,” I say. “I don’t want to feel like I owe that woman. We are not spending her money. Get rid of it or I’ll toss it all down the garbage disposal.”
Sasha frowns and proceeds to eat in silence. It’s an awkward kind of quiet that I'm not used to from her.
“Sas, don’t make me feel shitty for rejecting that money,” I say. “A couple days ago you outright accused the woman of being a stalker. Now you want to spend her money? Where did this mood swing come from?”
“My mom cut off my allowance,” she says. “She and Dad are foreclosing on the house back home. They filed for bankruptcy to pay for my tuition. We got into a big fight over it on the phone and she’s cutting me off.”
I frown as she recalls the argument she’d had with her mother. It’s like watching Annie Warbucks fall from grace all over again. Sasha Hawthorne having to get a real job means that things must be bad for her. Her manic reaction to Vivian’s money suddenly makes sense.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
“Since the start of freshman year,” she replies. “Daddy made some stupid business decisions and had to sell every company stock he had. I'm the one expense he had to cut loose to spare what’s left of the family savings. He’s been giving me allowance from his 401k for the past few months. He can't afford it anymore.”
I’ve lost my appetite. Poor Sasha. This girl has never had to lift a finger to fund her own lifestyle and now she’s working-class begging for minimal wage. I fear what will happen to her now. I take her hand in an attempt to show some genuine sincerity.
“It’ll be okay,” I say. “You know that. I’ll take of us.”
She smiles and squeezes my hand back, but quickly scowls after catching a glimpse of my arm.
“What’s that bruise on your forearm?”
I slide my sleeve over the handprint bruise.
“I must have bumped into something. You know how easily I bruise. I swear I'm a borderline hemophiliac.”
I try to laugh it off. Sasha doesn’t laugh with me.
“It looks like it hurts,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”
“I'm fine.”
She grabs my arm and yanks back my sleeve for more thorough inspection. When I try to pull away, she refuses to release me.
“It’s no big deal,” I insist. “Let go of my arm.”
“Are you kidding me? This looks like someone grabbed you. Cassie, did something happen at Frank’s last night?”
I'm hesitant to reply, cringing as Vivian’s face encumbers my thoughts. All I see are her eyes, those dispassionate eyes. My arm prickles at the memory. I want to bathe in the denial, but I know Sasha won’t give up without a real explanation.
“Cameron Blake and his followers came into the restaurant last night,” I say. “Things got a little heated.”
“Cameron attacked you and you didn’t report him?”
“Report him for what? Frank kicked him out before things could escalate. It’s no big deal.” I grab my plate and head into the kitchen to dump my leftovers into the garbage disposal. Sasha remains at my side like an extra shadow, crowding around me.
“I think you should report him,” she says beneath her breath. “Dean Whitman would totally kick him off the team for it.”
I listen as she blabs on and on about Cameron Blake, but I don’t hear the words. It’s like I'm hearing everything through a blender. The thoughts in my head have drowned her out as I gaze at the bruise on my arm.
“Cassie?” Sasha says and when she grabs my shoulder, I flinch out of my trance and stare listlessly at her.
“Huh?”
“You should come to Tai Chi with me.”
Before I can refuse, she replies, “Please? It’ll do us both some good.”
I can't say no when she begs me like this. The only thing she isn’t doing is groveling.
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know a damn thing about Tai Chi. I'm bound to embarrass us both, but I’ll go.”
Sasha tightens her arms around me in an embrace so sudden that I have to catch my breath when she knocks it out of me.
“Wear loose-fitting pants and your cutest tank top,” she says. “The new instructor could be a man.”
“Sasha,” I mutter in a weak, reproachful voice. Minutes later, we’re in her car, a fire red Corvette that I'm sure she’ll have to trade in for something more economical once her parents’ bankruptcy goes through. I’ll miss driving with the top down in this car.
Sasha must feel the same way because she instantly lets the top down and turns the radio up to better hear the sorrowful whines of a violin through the speakers. I can tell it’s her favorite piece because it’s one she’s practiced several times in rehearsal anytime I dropped by to eavesdrop on one of her sessions.
“This one is Giuseppe Torelli,” she tells me. “It took me months to perfect this piece.”
I nod, but she knows that I know nothing about classical violinists. I nod so I don’t feel like an idiot for not being cultured enough to know who the fuck Giuseppe Torelli is. Sasha giggles at the oblivious look on my face as we pull into a strip mall parking lot and find the first available spot in front of a storefront with the words, Wushu Tai Chi in bold blue lettering across the top.
From outside, we can see through the giant storefront windows that there is a group of women already in the middle of a class. I watch how the women move their arms, grasping with their hands at empty air.
“We’re not seriously going to do this, are we?” I ask Sasha as she checks her hair in the rearview mirror and applies an extra coat of lip-gloss.
“I know it looks stupid, but it’s fun,” she says. “You have been working and studying nonstop. This will be good for you.”
I glance at my frumpy clothes. I'm not in a pair of spandex yoga pants or a form-fitting tank top like the other women. I picked what I had in my closet. I probably won’t fit in wearing an oversized T-shirt and leggings.
“Sasha, I’ll stay in the car until you’re done.”
“You’re backing out on me? You promised.”
“I promised I’d come,” I clarify. “I didn’t say I’d join the class.”
“Cassie, come on, please?” she says. “It’s only a forty-five minute class.”
She exits the car. I remain in the pass
enger seat applying a coat of cherry lip balm and reassuring myself in the mirror. Eventually, I exit the car and notice that Sasha is several feet ahead of me.
As I start to saunter across the parking lot to catch up to her, I stop midstride to adjust my eyes to the sunlight. I’m certain of what I see in my peripheral, approaching from my left. For anyone else, this would be a coincidence. I call bullshit on that theory. No way could this be a random occurrence. The woman exiting the baby blue Porsche in the parking space behind Sasha’s Corvette, is Vivian.
5
Vivian hasn’t seen me yet.
My arm burns the moment I notice her. This woman is her own aura and the toxicity of it makes it impossible for me to breathe. I kneel against Sasha’s Corvette, hiding myself behind it like a skittish kitten. I want to make myself smaller, to curl up and simply disappear.
Vivian saunters by, stopping midstep then turning in my direction as if she can somehow sense me. I hold my breath, convinced that she can taste the scent of me in the atmosphere, as if my pheromones reek of sour milk. She knows I'm here.
I watch her enter the Tai Chi building and I stare incredulously through the storefront window as she greets Sasha in the lobby. Sasha is oblivious, but I don’t know whether to cause a scene. It probably wouldn’t do either us any good.
I’d like to storm into the studio and order her to leave with me. She’d likely ask for a damn good reason to and I won’t have one to explain myself. I’d sound manic. Insane. Without solid proof to justify my suspicions, I can’t start slinging accusations at Vivian. My only option is to endure the class. Sasha needs this. Moral support is what I promised.
I can ignore Vivian. I have to. Perhaps she won’t even notice me. She won’t if any of this is truly a coincidence. That, in itself, is an implausible theory. Chances of encountering the same stranger by “accident” on three separate occasions are probably astronomical. This is strategic. That woman is here on purpose.
Sasha’s initial theories taken tangible form, forcing me to consider them as a possible reality. Vivian could be stalking me. I march into the Tai Chi studio with my head high, refusing to look anywhere else, but at Sasha.