Page 8 of Wicked Nasty

I shake my head with a smile as I slowly pack up my things, making sure everything is neatly organized before leaving the classroom. As I tap the table twice for luck, I can't help but think that maybe this class won't be so bad after all.

AsIstepthroughthe front door of my house after a long day at school, I immediately scan my dad's office to see if he's home. But as usual, it's empty. Letting out a sigh, I trudge up the stairs to my room, mentally preparing myself for the new project I have to work on. The smell of fresh ink and paper hits me as I enter my sanctuary, lined with shelves of books and stacks of notebooks scattered across my desk. The soft glow of my laptop screen greets me as I sit down and start it up.

I quickly change into more comfortable clothes - jeans and a hoodie - before settling in at my desk. Flipping open my notebook, I begin typing up all the ideas that Danny and I came up with in class today. Once finished, I send them over to him through a quick text before shutting down my laptop.

As much as I want to continue working on my project, the loud growl of my stomach reminds me that it's dinnertime. With a groan, I make my way downstairs to the dining room, knowing my mother will be expecting me any minute.

Just as expected, her grand entrance is announced by her assistant with all the pomp and circumstance of an evil queen. My mother prides herself on being proper and refined, but I've never quite fit into her perfect little world. As I slouch in my chair at the kitchen table, kicking my feet up onto its polished surface for added effect, she enters the room with a flourish.

"Mrs. Hartley Carney has arrived," announces her assistant in a voice dripping with respect.

The staff around me immediately straightens their posture, while I remain relaxed, in defiance of my mother's expectations. She despises my choice of footwear - a pair of well-worn Vans - which only adds to her displeasure at having such an unruly daughter. But I refuse to conform to her ideals of a polite, docile young lady. No matter how hard she may try to mold me into one.

She bursts into the room like a raging storm, her fiery red pantsuit adorned with a dramatic cape that billows behind her. The sight of her in this ridiculous ensemble only reinforces my belief that she's completely delusional. But the vibrant red color seems fitting for the she-devil I have to call mother. More like a womb donor, really.

"Rebecca, if you don't get your filthy peasant shoes off my imported Italian table, I will personally remove them myself. And it won't be pretty." Her voice drips with disdain as she takes a seat across from me.

I drop my shoes to the floor with a huff, unable to contain my frustration any longer.

"Where's dad?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Clearly not here," she responds coldly.

A private chef, hired by my mother, brings in our plates. "Please enjoy," he says before leaving the room.

I push my fork around my plate half-heartedly as the chef pours my mother a glass of wine. She clears her throat and begins to speak. "Rebecca, we need to have a discussion."

Rolling my eyes, I ignore her and continue picking at my tasteless salad. How is this considered a meal? There isn't even any meat on it.

"Rebecca! I'm speaking to you!" My mother's sharp tone breaks through my thoughts.

I glare at her in annoyance. "What do you want?"

"Your father and I will be doing more traveling than usual. Well, I will be anyway. Separate trips, of course. And with you turning eighteen soon..." she trails off.

I shrug indifferently. "Okay. And? Can we get to the point of this conversation?"

"You'll need to find a place to stay," she states matter-of-factly.

I drop my fork onto my plate and stare at her in disbelief. "What? Why?"

"We're selling the house. There's no point in keeping a vast home if we won't be here. I'd rather buy a small luxury condo to come home to," she explains.

"Right, because I'm just a nobody. No need to cater to me," I retort sarcastically.

My mother sighs, glaring at me from across the table. "Can we not be so dramatic?"

"You're right," I reply with a bitter laugh. "I'm not being dramatic at all. You're doing me a favor by making me homeless. Just what every college essay needs."

My mother slams her hand down on the table, causing me to flinch. "Can you please be serious for one second in your life, Rebecca?!" she scolds.

I stand up from the table and push my chair back with a loud scrape against the hardwood floor. "I am being serious! You suck. Dinner sucked. This house sucks. Oh, and by the way? Katya was a better mother than you'll ever be."

My mother throws her own chair back in anger and begins grabbing whatever objects she can reach to throw at me. I manage to dodge most of them until a plate connects with my face, cracking on impact and sending sharp shards into my cheek.

"Don't you ever speak that bitch's name in my house!" she screams.

"Fuck you, Hartley!" I yell back as I storm out of the room.

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