I decided to tell her the truth. If I were in her shoes, I’d want the truth from my daughter. But I also wanted to be respectful, because she was my mother and she loved me, even though she didn’t really see me.
“Honestly, Momma? I don’t like those dresses, and they don’t make me feel pretty. They make me feel like a fool. They make me feel like I’m playing a part. I don’t like the color yellow and I don’t want my hair to be blonde. And that’s the truth.” I kept my tone cautiously calm because I didn’t want her to think I was insulting her choices or priorities, I wasn’t. I just wanted different for myself. I wanted to be honest, and I wanted her to listen and understand.
My mother’s face fell, disappointment shining in her eyes. Eventually, the disappointment became hurt, then frustration. “I guess I’m sorry, then. I’m sorry I wanted better for you than I had for myself. I guess I’m sorry you don’t like all the time and energy and countless hours I’ve put into building your brand, building you up to what you are.”
“It’s not me,” I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
“What? What did you say?”
“It’s not me. I’m not the Banana Cake Queen. I don’t like being a brand, I don’t like the attention, I don’t like having my picture taken, I don’t like serving people cake and having them gawk at me. I never wanted it. I never wanted any of it!” My voice had lifted to a shout as my confession built, one truth on top of another, one frustration bleeding into the next. I was a soda bottle that had been shaken for years, and the top had finally popped off.
She gasped, wincing as though I’d slapped her, and stared at me like I was a stranger. “Jennifer Anne Sylvester. What has gotten into you? You do not raise your voice to me.”
I swallowed the bubbling bitterness in the back of my throat. I wanted to honor my parents. I loved them. I didn’t want to disappoint them. But how was I supposed to breathe when I wasn’t even allowed to think?
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” She stood, drawing herself up, her chair scraping against the kitchen tile.
“I’m sorry I lifted my voice.” I was sorry.
She nodded, looking cautiously pacified. “And what else?”
“I’m not sorry I don’t like being the Banana Cake Queen. I feel like I’m a character in the theme park of my life, and it’s a lonely place to be. That’s the truth and you wanted to know.”
My mother stiffened, lifting her chin, and staring daggers of disillusionment at me. She picked up her notebook and clutched it to her chest.
“I have nothing to say to you if you’re going to behave this way.”
With that, she swept out of the room.
I stared at the chair where she’d sat. I stared for a long time, my chest aching with fear. I wasn’t afraid she’d disown me or toss me out. She wouldn’t. But she’d never look at me the same. I’d been an achievement she was proud of for so long, and I didn’t know where I fit in her life if I wasn’t her pride and joy.
Maybe I didn’t fit. And that thought made me cry.
Or maybe I cried because I was tired of being pathetic. Maybe I cried because I wasn’t what my momma wanted, and I wasn’t what Cletus wanted. Maybe I cried because I didn’t know who I was or what I really wanted.
My plan for last Monday had been to give Cletus the thumb drives. Unfortunately, at the time, I could only find four of the five data drives I’d hidden around the kitchen. After tearing the kitchen apart, I discovered the fifth hiding in a box of gluten-free flour. No one but me messed with the gluten-free stuff, so I decided to leave it there until . . .
Well, until such time as I crossed paths with Cletus again.
If our paths cross again.
That thought made me sad.
Regardless, last Monday I was going to give him the video copies, release him from our deal, then put my pride on the line once more and ask him out on a date. The cookies had been baked especially for the occasion. It was an old family recipe. Legend was, my grandfather Donner had wooed my grandmother with his vanilla cookies.
But Cletus didn’t want my cookies.
He wanted a sex-goddess with experience. He wanted a sex-goddess’s cookies.
I was a fool.
Since our final lesson, since that life-changing kiss, just the thought of him caused heart palpitations. I suffered from late-night insomnia, reliving the moment over and over. I frequently daydreamed about him, his mouth, how he’d held me, how amazing he’d felt. I’d caught myself more times than I could count touching my lips, remembering and wishing. If I had a nickel for every time I’d thought about how fantastic the kiss had been, I’d own all the nickels in the world. Every single nickel.
For Cletus, it had been tutoring. He’d been helping me practice. Poor, ignorant, inexperienced Jennifer Sylvester.
I didn’t want his help. I wanted . . . Well, I wanted him. And I wanted him to want me. Me. Just as I was. I wanted us to be equals.