She lifted her issue of Vogue, flipping the pages casually. “Will you please uncover the yogurt, Sherlock Holmes, instead of interrogating me?”
“Okay, then.” I pulled out my phone, already dialing.
“What are you doing?” she questioned.
Ignoring her, I lifted the phone to my ear.
“Odette.”
“Mr. Greensboro, I’m sorry for calling so late, but I’ve decided to give up on—”
“Have you lost your mind!” She snatched the phone. “Charles, she’s just kidding...” Her face fell when she realized I hadn’t actually hit call. “You are not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I said back. “I’m just trying to remind you that it’s my money, it’s my life, and if you’re making plans, you need to tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
She exhaled and rolled her eyes, sitting back down. “Where is all this boldness when we’re in front of other people? You are always too timid and quiet with them. Then you come and act all tough in front of me.”
“You steal all the oxygen in the room. How can I get a word in?” I shot back. “Now, what are you planning?”
“Will you get the yogurt first? Then we’ll talk.”
“Fine.” I reached for my phone back, but she just held it to herself.
“I’m confiscating this for now.”
“Whatever, and take off the mask already, Mom. Your face is fine,” I replied, then walked around the coffee table and out of the living room to the kitchen to get her beloved fat-free, vanilla and fruit-blended yogurt.
I was about seven when I realized my mom wasn’t like other moms. Maybe it was because I was around that same age when I stopped doing pageants and spent time with “regular” kids, as regular as they could be, anyway. She’d had me at twenty, but my dad said she sometimes acted like a teenager. She was goofy, stubborn, vain, loud, and blunt—unapologetically blunt. When I gained weight, she was the first to let me know. If I were getting too skinny, she’d let me know that, too. If I woke up late for school because she’d let me stay up all night with her to watch a movie, she’d refuse to let me go to school until I was perfectly presentable. There was no such thing as a bad hair day. It was just something that stressed and lazy people made up so as not to put in any effort. She was strict in only one thing, appearance.
If I got a bad grade, all she would ask was whether or not I had tried, and when I said yes, she’d say, “Well, that’s all you can do. Good job.” My father, on the other hand, would lecture me for a solid hour until my mom came to save me.
When I was nine, she and I both realized I had a gift and love for the piano and singing. She put all her effort into making sure I had the best teachers and took classes. She became my biggest cheerleader, and every time my father would begin to voice his disapproval, she’d unleash hell. He’d said she was always too carefree with me. And she was. Even I noticed back then that most girls had issues with their moms as teenagers. But mine was more like my friend. I wanted to grow up to help her, to prove that she was a good mom, just different. But somewhere along the line, I think I became more of the parent, and I was stricter with her so she didn’t anger my dad or get into an argument with anyone else.
“Did he not leave any?” she called out loudly, snapping me from my thoughts.
“No, he did. Coming.” I grabbed the yogurt from the fridge as well as two spoons from the drawer. Entering the living room, I saw she’d now taken off her mask and was scrolling through my messages.
“Are you looking through my phone?”
“Yes, and I’m very disappointed!” she called out dramatically. “How do you not have a more interesting life? I’ve nearly fallen asleep reading through your texts!”
“Excuse you; I have a life. Thank you. It’s just not a crazy one,” I replied, giving her the yogurt and snatching back my phone.
“A.k.a. boring. Why don’t you do what other rich girls do like—”
“Drugs, alcohol, and men,” I asked, taking a bite of my own yogurt as I sat down on the floor. “Sorry, but I don’t have bad enough daddy issues for that. Consider that a credit to you and Dad.”
“I’ll accept it as credit. Now, just say thank you for being an amazing mom.” She leaned her ear to me.
I cleared my throat and leaned in. “Can we get to the part where you tell me what is going on?”
She sighed and leaned back, licking her spoon. “You’re no fun.”
“Nope. Licensed fun-killer here, and you are stalling.”
“Fine. Fine. Fine. I was hoping to wear you down slowly, but someone just won’t let me have any peace tonight.”
“Wear me down to what?” I hope she didn’t mean what I thought she meant.
“Marriage.”
“Mom!” It was exactly what I thought she’d meant. “I don’t want to get married.”
“See, this is why I wanted to work slowly. You’re always so stubborn.”
“I’m stubborn? You are the Queen of Stubborn, the Miss Universe of Stubborn!”
She turned her head and ate while ignoring me completely because she knew I was right.
“I’m not getting married, especially for money.”
“Odette, we need the money,” she reminded me. “You especially. Over the last year, you’ve tried to manage with just the money you were making off your music. How is that working out? How much do you have left?”
I looked away. “It’s not my fault, and you are not helping, Miss I-need-a-personal-driver. I’m perfectly fine selling off—”
“You’d rather sell off everything your father gave you than get married and get the money he wants you to have? We have bills and debts we need to pay.” When she put it like that, it sounded bad.
“You make it sound so easy! Like I’m just supposed to pick some random guy and get married to them for a year. Who would I even marry?”
“I found someone,” she whispered sheepishly.
What? “You found someone?” I repeated in disbelief. “What did you do? Go to a grocery store of eligible bachelors or something?”
“No, of course not. But if a place like that existed, it would be helpful.”
I shook my head and ate. “I’m not taking you seriously. You. Dad. Nope. I refuse to be made crazy today.”
“Odette, hear me out.”
“No need. I get it now. You knew about the second will, and you had some trust-fund brat waiting in the wings. That’s why you weren’t angry. Got it. Not happening,” I told her comfortably, already reaching for the remote control.
“Winter is coming early this year. Grab your—”
She grabbed the remote, turning it right back off. “He’s not a trust-fund brat, per se.”
“Don’t care, not interested,” I replied, taking the control back and flipping to the movies. “Do you want to watch The Notebook or If Beale Street Could Talk?”
“Fine, if you don’t want to be the princess of Ersovia, I can’t force you.” She huffed.
“The what of where?” I stared at her, my mouth agape, and of course, she was only pretending to be uninterested as she ate.