Mom walks into the family room and turns off the TV. The walls are two-toned (goldenrod and aubergine) because she started painting six weeks ago but got sucked into an HBO series on Netflix and never finished. On top of that, the room is still decorated for Easter even though that was weeks ago.
She half sits, half leans in the corner of the couch and waits for me. Reluctantly, I follow and sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. My parents bought the table at a flea market in southern Minnesota when I was six years old. I’d gone along because I wanted to see the fleas. It had been kind of a disappointing day.
“You need to get a real job,” she says, not focusing on my face. “A good one.”
“Hmmm?” I ask, smoothing out the wrinkles that are starting to form at the waist of my white dress.
“A job, Katherine. A well-paying J. O. B.” She looks down at her hands. They are clenched, thumbs tucked inside. “And a few shifts at Starbucks aren’t going to cut it.”
The tension in her posture and the tone of her voice finally get my attention. I brace myself against the surface of the table where I sit. “Andrew and I—”
“Honey…” she says, then she sucks in a breath. “Honey, I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am, but if you don’t make some serious money this summer, you’re not going to have enough to get you through second semester next year. You’ll have to defer graduation.”
If she didn’t have my attention before, she does now. But I still don’t understand what she’s talking about. It’s all set. Between what I’ve earned myself and the money Grandma and Grandpa set aside for me for college, I’ve still got twenty-two grand saved up in the bank. That covers my last year’s tuition after loans and scholarships kick in. It’s all set. Everything is in order.
Mom reaches for her wineglass with a shaking hand, and she drains the dregs. “I was behind on the mortgage.”
“Mom,” I start, not liking where this conversation is going, “what’s going on? You’ve been working your butt off.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time you start, too. Besides, I didn’t have a choice.”
“A choice about what?”
She looks away from me as if there’s something outside the window that she finds absolutely fascinating.
“MOM!”
She sighs and faces me. “I thought I’d have it all paid back by now.”
“Paid what back?”
She reaches forward and sets her glass beside me on the table. Her hand is shaking. “I used about half of your savings to catch up on the payments.”
“But that’s—”
“I was behind several months.”
I stand up fast, and my head spins. “But you can’t do that! Grandma and Grandpa gave me that money. It’s mine!”
“And it’s your house,” she says, looking up at me. “Yours and mine. You want to be homeless? You want your mother to be?”
“How much?” I demand. “How much is gone?”
The doorbell rings just as she says, “Nine thousand two hundred seventy-three dollars.”
“Nine thou—” I continue to stare down at her in disbelief. How could she do this to me? If she only would have divorced Dad and gotten alimony and child support, none of this would be happening. Her delusions of reconciliation should not have to affect me. But they do. They always do. I’m so mad I see red, and I don’t mean that metaphorically. I actually see red.
“Please, Katherine. Please don’t look at me like that. If I had any other options—”
“No other options? What about Dad?” But I know the answer. Pride prevents her from asking him for money, and the one time I did it behind her back, he never responded. So who am I kidding?
“Quiet,” she says, glancing nervously at the door. “Is that Andrew? He’ll hear you.”
The doorbell rings again, saving my mother from having to face facts.
“Don’t you think we should let him in?” she asks, forcing her faded lipstick into a small smile.
I clench my fists at my sides and do everything I can not to shake my finger at her. “This is not over.”
“I know,” she says, standing and striding back through the kitchen. “But no need to tell Andrew about any of this.”
I’m still in shock as I follow her to the door. She opens it with a flourish, and there stands Andrew Mason, my best friend. Or “Mr. Perfect,” as Mom likes