With our food ordered and cocktails in front of my mom and Andrew, they exchange a meaningful look. Andrew says, “Let’s toast. To the two of you.” He lifts his glass.
My mom beams and clinks her wineglass against his tumbler. I’m not sure what we’re toasting.
Andrew says, “Do you want me to tell her? Or do you?”
She grins and says, “You tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I ask, suspicious.
He says, “So, as you know, your mother has been doing work for Sunbrella for years.”
Of course I know what he’s talking about. My mom never shuts up when she lands a modeling job, and she’s been getting steady work from Sunbrella for two years. They always take pictures of her sitting on decks drinking things out of tall glasses.
“Yes. I am aware,” I reply.
“And you know your mom is the most beautiful woman on my list.”
“Stop it,” she protests, but she loves it.
“She doesn’t look a day over thirty,” he continues.
She bats her eyelashes. “Okay fine, go on.”
This whole conversation is making me want to crawl inside my own skin and die. I pull the candle closer to me and stick my fingertip into the wax again.
“So anyway,” Andrew says. “Your mom’s success with Sunbrella has drawn the interest of Inner You, an interior design company in La Jolla.”
“Very upscale,” my mom interjects.
“But what they want is a mother-daughter shoot. They had a list of girls in mind to cast your mom with, but we showed them your picture, and they were so jazzed about the idea of an actual mother-daughter team that they ate it up on the spot. Picture this.” He holds his hands up like he’s visualizing the advertisement. “Poolside. Two California girls enjoying their infinity pool. I’m thinking a boho-inspired string bikini on Mick, and something with a deep V on Mom.” He grins like this is the best news he’s ever delivered.
I freeze. Inside and out, I am frozen. The fire chomps on my finger; I’ve let it drift right into the flame. I yank it back, knocking the candle over.
“Are you kidding me?” I say, shaking my hand out. I look at my mom. Her face tells me she is not kidding. “This has to be a joke, though. Because you know there is nothing on earth that is getting me into a bikini and in front of a camera.”
The waiter arrives with a basket of bread. He sets it on the table with a stack of small plates. “How’s everything?” he purrs. “We still doin’ good over here? You need any refills?”
We stare at him in silence. At last, Andrew says, “We’re fine.”
“Mmmmkay.” The waiter sees the candle, sideways in a puddle of hardening wax, and takes it away with him.
My mom takes a deep breath and blinks at me. This means she’s trying to be patient because we’re in public. “This is a paying job, Micaela.”
“Mom, no.” To Andrew, I say, “I can’t do this. You don’t understand. It’s physically impossible for me to do this.”
Andrew’s tone is warm and comforting. “You don’t have to worry about anything. These are professional photographers. They know how to make you look good. I promise, you’re in excellent hands.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t me.”
He pats my hand. “Forget the boho bikini. We’ll find something sporty, andro chic, maybe boy short bottoms or something with a racerback—”
“I’m not asking for the gay version,” I snap, pulling my hand away, fighting the urge to flip the table and fling dishes at the walls. “I’m telling you no. I am an athlete. I don’t train six days a week to prance around in an andro bikini, whatever the hell that is.”
My mom’s cheeks go bright pink under the spray tan and foundation. She gets up and sets her napkin down by her plate, fake diamonds glittering. “Excuse us,” she says to Andrew. She grabs my arm and lifts me from the chair. She’s not strong enough to do it for real, but my other option is to go full UFC with her in the middle of the restaurant, so I grab my purse and let her pull me away.
In the bathroom hallway, she turns on me. I back up to the wall, purse clutched tight at my side, my heart pounding in my throat. She flicks her eyes over me, darts them left and right to make sure no one can hear us, and says, “You know we’re having money problems.”
We’ve talked about how she’s been having a hard time finding modeling work to supplement her catering income. “I mean, yeah, but I’ve just been using the money I make lifeguarding for everything.”
“I’m too old to bartend as much as I used to. My modeling work is drying up. Your dad doesn’t pay child support. This is not the time to take a moral stand.”
“Mom, I’ll take more catering jobs with you, every night if you want. But I can’t do this.”
“You’re not understanding. We don’t need a hundred bucks here or there. We need fast cash, and we need it now.” Her eyes are so intense, I’m crawling with discomfort, but I can’t look away. “You’re going to do this job, and we’re going to use the money to pay the rent for the next six months.”
“But I’m not a model! How many times have you told me that? I’m terrible in front of the camera. I hate it. Mom, I hate it.” Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I loathe it, I dread it; it makes me want to dig a hole and bury myself alive.
“It doesn’t matter! They’ll get body shots. They don’t even have to focus on your face.”
“Oh God.” I want to die. I press my hand to my mouth, my empty stomach roiling. I swallow hard and say, “There has to be another way. Please. I’m begging you.”
She studies me with cold blue eyes. “We could pull rent money out of your savings account. You have thousands in there.”
I’m shocked, winded. “That’s my money. From my jobs that I work. It’s for my club fees and suits and travel fees for meets and—and—” Without that money, I can’t stay on the club team, and just doing school swim team isn’t enough to get the scholarship I need.
She brushes her hair behind her shoulders. She’s regal with self-righteousness. “Then do the photo shoot.”
I stare at her, emotions pounding inside my head, coming at me from different angles. Betrayal—grief—loneliness. I’m already the only kid on the team who has to pay her own fees and expenses, which I’ve never minded. We can’t all be born wealthy, and it’s not my mom’s fault my dad has been MIA for the last ten years. But now she wants me to help her pay the rent?
Her face is deadly calm. “We’ll talk more later. Right now, I want you to go to the bathroom, fix your face, fix your attitude, then come back to the table and be nice to Andrew.” She spins and click-clacks out into the restaurant.
I can hear the waiters’ muffled voices in the server station around the corner, talking about table numbers and drink orders. Dishes clang and clash in the kitchen at the end of the hallway. The white noise makes me feel invisible, like a ghost haunting the restaurant. I feel that way a lot, like I could scream and no one would hear a thing.
My phone buzzes in my purse. It startles me. With numb, shaking hands, I pull it out.