The Neighbor Next Door - Cassandra Dee

1

Janie

“I have a surprise for you!” calls Vivian from the hallway, slamming the front door. She storms into the kitchen in a sudden eruption of cheap heels on tiles that has me almost drop the tray of cookies I’m about to put in the oven. Most moms wear Sketchers and shapeless cardigans, but not my mom. Vivian’s blonde curls are done in a messy yet sexy updo, and she has her usual skin-tight yoga wear on. The woman stops in her tracks, looking disapprovingly at me.

“Janie,” she complains. “Why are you baking cookies on a Friday afternoon? Shouldn’t you be getting ready to be somewhere?”

I shrug, placing the baking tray on the middle shelf and closing the oven.

“Like where?”

“Like a party? A date? A friend’s house? Something?” Vivian exhales, exasperated. I right myself and wipe my floury hands on my apron, calmly reaching out for the “surprise” she’s holding. I’ve long given up explaining to my mom that I enjoy my own company and I’m not interested in all that high school stuff. But she just doesn’t get it.

“What’s this?” I ask, ignoring her comments and opening the box.

“It’s a dress,” Vivian grumps.

“I can see that,” I retort. “What for?”

Vivian rolls her eyes.

“For you to wear somewhere, of course. Somewhere fun!” I look at the cloth in my hands: it’s a black silky thing, and by the looks of it, way sexier than I would ever choose for myself. Vivian and I are so different, and I think it’s something she’s never forgiven me for. My mom’s what lots of men would consider a bombshell: thin, bleached blonde, and always tan. No one ever believes I'm her daughter with my brown curly hair, milky skin, and generously curvy body that has given me plenty of cause to be shy about. After all, my Double D’s are four times the size of Vivian’s, my big thighs and ass would never fit her jeans, and my soft arms jiggle more than her entire body put together.

Yet this dress isn’t exactly something Vivian would wear herself, either. She’s clearly made a real effort to find something she thought I’d like. The tag is still on it. She must have just gone shopping.

“Mom,” I say, smiling at her in a sudden rush of affection. “That’s really sweet. But I don’t have anywhere to wear this to.” Vivian gestures impatiently at the dress. “The point is that now you have it, you find somewhere to where it to. That’s how little black dresses work.”

I don’t think that’s true, and I also don’t think little black dresses are meant to be this tiny, but I keep all this to myself.

“Thanks,” I say warily, before handing it back to her. She looks at me incredulously as I go back to my cookie dough, starting to prepare the second baking sheet to go in the oven.

“Janie,” says Vivian in her attempt at the strict mom-voice. It never was her thing. “These are the best years of your life. You’re a high school senior! You should be out there having fun! Going to parties! Hell, even breaking the rules a little bit!”

“Most parents would be happy to know their kid chooses straight A’s over underage drinking, Mom,” I retort. She snorts, folding her thin, veiny arms. I look up at her accusingly, unable to hide the salt in my voice. “And those straight A’s will get me into college. You know my only shot at going is by getting a scholarship.”

At least Vivian has the grace to look a little ashamed.

“I know, Janie, and I’m proud of you. But being social is important, too. I mean, look at me! Thirty-six, yet with the social life of a twenty-one year-old!” she proclaims proudly.

I resist the temptation to roll my eyes because my mom’s also been married three times and divorced three times in her thirty-six years. How’s that for a doozie? But she just doesn’t get it, and continues to hound me.

“How about some fun? I mean, boys, Janie. Boys. Have you ever even been kissed before?” My face burns and I continue to focus on the little dollops of cookie dough I’m spooning out onto the baking sheet. “Well?” she insists.

“You know I haven’t, Mom,” I mumble.

“That’s okay!” Vivian exclaims quickly, in an overly sympathetic tone that suggests it’s not. “But you’ll want to, you know, get that over with, before you go to college, don’t you think?”

Here she goes again. I let her drone on about the importance of