Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,65
that Papa and I are going to Brittany this afternoon for a couple days?” She points to their overnight bags by the front of the door. “A little trip to the sea would do you good. My ummi would always say the salt air cures whatever ails you. And sometimes turmeric. What do you say, beta?”
I scrunch up my nose and gently shake my head. It’s basically a romantic getaway—for them. Brittany is code for my parents’ favorite thalassotherapy hotel and spa where they emerge rejuvenated and feeling twenty years younger. But that would put me solidly into the pre-embryo stage, so I’m gonna pass on this rollicking, old-timey French fun and sulk with pastries in Paris and avoid Alexandre’s entire arrondissement, which fortunately leaves me nineteen others to mope around in.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound like I have even an iota of interest. “But I need to do some reading—trying to figure out if Dumas’s raven-haired lady is the same woman in the Byron poem you guys mentioned. If I can link it to the Delacroix, maybe I can piece something together for another attempt at the prize. You know, find the lost story of this woman that might have been hiding in plain sight all along, like you said, Mom.”
Seconds tick by, then more concerned looks pass between my parents. My mom rubs the back of her neck and, in an unusual move, presses me. “Beta, are you really okay?”
She thinks something is wrong. She always knows. When I was little, I used to call that sixth sense “mommy magic.” I found it comforting back then. If I’m willing to admit it to myself, maybe I need that comfort now, too. But that parental balm feels harder to accept—like if I accept it, if I need it, I’m conceding some kind of personal failure, another one. I desperately want a win, even if it’s insignificant.
“I would be more okay if you guys stopped grilling me. I’m fine. I promise. Besides you two can get some alone time, and without me, you’ll be the youngest people at the spa!”
“Yes, chérie,” my dad says. “The upside to child abandonment is a brief reclamation of our youth. Fantastique.”
“Take it where you can get it, Papa.” I chuckle and reach across the bar to squeeze his hand. “Anyway, I have to sulk around the city being contemplative, or it would be a total waste of a vacation in Paris.”
My parents both laugh. My dad shakes his head, steps around the bar, and kisses me on the cheek, then nods at my mom before stepping into their bedroom.
My mom waits until he closes the door, then says, “Beta, you know you can talk to me about anything. Is that kerfuffle with Zaid still upsetting you?” My mom is that person who can use “kerfuffle” without irony, yet sounds charming and not like an old biddy. I love that about her.
“It’s nothing,” I reply. “I dunno, teen angst or something?” I suck in a deep breath, look at her reassuring smile, and decide to tell her the truth—part of it, at least. “Or . . . maybe it’s Zaid . . . and . . . Alexandre. I like both of them, but they’re problematic faves. Both of them have done stupid stuff, and I’m trying to figure out if I should give one or both of them a second chance. How do I choose between them when neither is perfect?” I shrug, then open the lid of the pastry box to grab another gateau. This is definitely a two-cake conversation.
My mom takes a deep breath. “First, depending on the severity of what they’ve done wrong and how you feel about it and if you’ve been hurt, neither necessarily deserves a second chance. You should never feel belittled or taken for granted, and you should never, ever feel like you might be in even the remotest danger or that you’re being forced to do something you don’t want to do. Not even a whiff.”
“Oh God. I know. It’s not like that. Neither of them has made me feel unsafe. At all. But they’ve both kind of had their jerk moments. Dishonest moments.”
I don’t detail any of my own skirting of the truth, how maybe