“Mom, we had better get going. Traffic is getting pretty bad,” I say, pointing out the front window.
“Nonsense! There’s nothing on our schedule except leftovers and Masterpiece Theater and I haven’t seen Lucas here in so long. Has it really been since…last Thanksgiving?”
I stayed in North Carolina for Thanksgiving last year and my mom subsequently regaled me with stories of how the Thatchers invited her over to their house for Thanksgiving dinner. She and Lucas allegedly played board games together “for hours”.
Lucas leans down and props his elbows on the open window. “You’re the reigning Pictionary champ. Those weekly painting classes have really been paying off Mrs. Bell.”
“Oh, you know I only go to those for the wine.”
My mother is flirting. I turn my back to Lucas so I’m facing the center console. “Mom. I’m tired and I’m hungry.”
“Maybe now that the gang’s all back in town, we can get everyone together for game night?” She pins me against the seat with her arm. Her ability to ignore me is baffling. It’s a wonder I wasn’t malnourished as a child.
I consider reaching down and punching the gas pedal with my casted claw-hand. There are several children crossing the street ahead of us, but it might still be worth it. She’s got a clean driving record and no priors; with the right judge and good behavior, she’d be out of prison in no time.
“Seriously, Mom. I feel faint.” I make my voice sound wobbly and weak.
“There’s half of a Fiber One bar in my purse. Listen, Lucas, you tell your mom I’ll give her a call later this week and we’ll set it up.”
He agrees with a “yes ma’am”.
Who is he kidding?
“I’ll see you in the morning, Daisy,” he says before tapping on the hood and walking in front of the car. Pedestrians on the sidewalk crane their necks to watch him like he’s something special.
I roll my eyes.
“Rough day?”
“The roughest. You know, I don’t see why you still talk to him. You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re my mom.”
“I’d be on your side if you were right, but in this case, you’re both in the wrong. You two have taken a silly childhood molehill and renamed it a mountain.”
“You don’t understand. Lucas is to me as Wanda Wade is to you. Remember when she bribed the judges with homegrown tomatoes and dethroned you from Hamilton Lawn of the Year from 2013-2015?”
“That is nothing like you and Lucas—Wanda Wade is just a cheating bitch. Lucas is so nice!”
This exchange is nothing new. Lucas and I both have two personas—one for when we are alone together, and one for when we are in public. That’s why nobody on the outside ever truly understands what we represent to each other. I’ve tried countless times to show my mother the error of her ways when it comes to Lucas, but he brainwashed her years ago. I was alone in my hatred for Hamilton High’s prom king, which was especially irksome because we were crowned together. Our senior class apparently thought it would be hilarious to see the two of us slow dance together under the neon lights set up in the basketball gym.
I can still remember the dumbfounded expressions on everyone’s faces, watching the two mortal enemies of Hamilton High pressed together on the dance floor. I remember his hand shaking, enraged at the voters for forcing us together like that. I could feel his pulse through the palm of his hand.
“Did your mom fix your tie for you, or is that a clip-on?” I taunted.
“Just shut up and spin,” he retorted, twirling me like a stupid ballerina.
“If you plan on dropping me during a dip, I’m taking you down with me.”
Halfway into the song, I noticed him looking at my face, his eyes fixed in concentration, his expression tortured.
“Stop looking at me as if I somehow fixed the polls. Trust me, you are the last person I want to be up here dancing with,” I seethed in response to his strange look.
He shook his head and broke away from me, having reached his limit.
The crowd around us erupted.
“A minute fifteen!” someone shouted, waving his watch in the air. “Who bet they wouldn’t go over a minute and a half?! Come collect your money near the punch bowl!”
“Daisy.” My mom shakes me out of my distant memory as we arrive home. “You have that same look on your face that you used to get in high school. Are you still thinking about Lucas?”
I close my eyes. “Not by choice.”
Chapter Six