Page 2 of Beauty Beneath the Sorrow
“I have two friends that want in on it as well.” She plops herself down on my bed. “They even offered to pay me to help them connect with guys who will do it. I figured it can work for other girls too.”
I lean back with my hands behind me. “Wow. Impressive Zoe. Before long, you’ll be running your ownRisky Business.” I giggle at myself.
“I don’t get it,” she says with a confused expressionon her face.
“The movie?”Silence.“From the 80s?” She stares blankly at me. “Never mind.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
I make a mental note to introduce Zoe to that movie at some point or another. On second thought, she might get too many ideas. “So, what if you don’t get a good grade on the paper?”
“The muffin factory is only open once the paper has been graded,” she says with a mischievous smile.
“Okay, that’s good. At least you know you’re not doing it for nothing.”
My phone starts to vibrate on my bed.
Zoe leans over to see who it is. “Ugh, it’s ourmother.”
“You get it,” I tell her, unlatching my bra.
“She called you.” She pops up off the bed and walks out of my room. “Plus, I have a lot of homework to do.”
“How convenient,” I quip right as she closes her bedroom door.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Are you coming to my cocktail party tonight?” she asks without greeting me.
“I just came home from flying the last few days.”
“So, you’re not coming?” she snaps impatiently.
“I don’t think so.”
Her dramatic sigh over the phone can be heard a state over. “Why am I not surprised?”
I hate when she pressures me into these things. She knows I’m not into them and that I hate going. “I’m not up for hanging out with fake rich snobs tonight.”
“That’s not kind, Lina. These people are like us. Everyone hasto start somewhere,” she corrects condescendingly.
My mother is the type of woman who will —growing up poor. But in that same conversation, she brags about how much money she has now. She has no problem showing off her house to everyone she can or taking a different designer bag everywhere she goes. Most of the time, you can’t even have a conversation without her dropping the word “expensive” at any time. She’s an entitled, borderline textbook narcissist.
“That’s fine. Still not going,” I repeat.
“Are you serious?” She says in a clipped tone.
I squat to the floor to start unpacking my suitcase. “Yes, it’s not a big deal. I don’t want to be there.”
“It is a big deal regarding my—ourimage,” she huffs.
I roll my eyes and quietly shut my door so my little sister doesn’t have to hear this conversation. If there’s one thing in this life that I will never do, it’s be like my mother. A superficial person who only cares about herself. “Did you invite Zoe?”
“No, she’s unpredictable. She also can’t even drink. How is she supposed to come to a cocktail party? And she doesn’t even live here anymore.”
“I guess that’s beside the point.” I don’t even try to hide the annoyance in my voice. My mom is so tightly wrapped up in her little world that she rarely asks about my sister. If she does, it’s mostly around other people or in a moment where maybe she feels like sheshould. “Anyway, she got her midterm grades in last week.”
“Oh, that’s great. I can’t believe it’s October already.” Her distant voice tells me she’s already lost interest.
