Friction by Emily Snow
One
Lucinda (Lucy) Williams
"I'm playing bingo with Cynthia and Dean this afternoon. Did you ... do you want to come with us? Just so you won't have to be alone. I hate the thought of you being alone, Lucy."
My mother's voice, rising over Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga's version of "The Lady is a Tramp" blasting from the counter-top CD player, sends a wave of shame through me as I stumble into the kitchen. Early mornings are supposed to be simple. Pee, two or three cups of coffee, repeat. Instead, I'm already being reminded that, at twenty-seven, I am A) living with my mother and B) alone.
Crossing my arms over my chest so she won't complain about my lack of a bra, I face her. She's primly seated at the same glass kitchen table my dad assembled—cursing the entire time—during Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college. Gripping her coffee mug in one hand, she leafs through the newspaper with the other. I'm not surprised that, despite the absence of an actual sunrise, she’s already fully dressed for the day, her black bob neatly combed and her make-up subtle, immaculate.
I yawn into my upper arm. "Good morning to you, too."
She takes in the sight of me, from my bare feet and oversized tee shirt to my tangled mop of jet-black hair, and her brown eyes narrow. I frown right back.
"So ... bingo?" When I shake my head, she sags her shoulders and sighs. “I’m just looking out for you.”
"I know you are, and I appreciate that." Turning, I open the cupboard and grab the first giant mug I find, the one I bought when we visited her family in Da Nang the summer after my father passed away. I take the chair across from her and draw my knees up to my chest, stretching my shirt over my legs. "But I promise I’m fine. And if I don’t seem fine … well, that’s because you start the morning playing Tony and Gaga.”
While Mom goes on about how amazing Gaga and Tony are, I pretend to be interested in my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table overnight. One glance at my new messages, though, and I regret checking. I have three new texts and they’re all from Tom. My blood pressure spikes a little more with each word I read.
11:19 PM: I won’t sue if you drop the stubborn act. Your career means EVERYTHING to you, and we need you here with us.
11:21 PM: You're living in your mother's house like a child, and I know you. This isn't your idea of fun.
11:21 PM: Luce, I know you're getting my messages.
God, I want to punch him in his perfect face for starting my day with this sort of bullshit. It takes an outrageous amount of effort not to slam the phone down on its screen, but it’s new. And I can’t afford another. I gently place it beside my coffee and force a smile at my mother.
She takes the change in my expression as a sign of encouragement, because she leans in tentatively and says, "Getting out might be good for you.”
I can think of a million and one things that might be good for me:
A cocktail with a double shot, maybe even a triple.
At least one night where I sleep a full eight hours because I'm not worried about what happens next or stressed because my former boss is an asshole who’s screwing me over.
Sex.
All three, and not in any special order. At this point, I’m not picky. I’ll take what I can get without much fuss.
"I actually have other plans this afternoon,” I inform Mom a little too cheerfully, trying my damnedest not to think about the messages I’ve yet to respond to. I don’t even know if I can respond—not without telling Tom to go screw himself. “I have an interview in Boston with a place called EXtreme Effects. I'm not sure what time I'll be back, and I’d hate for you to hang around waiting for me.”
I’ve chanted the magic word, interview, because she scoots her chair closer to mine. Placing her elbows on the table, she cradles her chin in her hands. "Did that employment agency from last week make a match already?”
“No, I found them myself—through an ad on Craigslist.”
Her grin rapidly diminishes, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks as she taps her fingertips against her temples and pinches her lips into a tight line. “Craigslist … okay."
I should have known this was coming, the blatant disapproval. It's why I wasn't going to bring up the interview, especially since I haven’t been able to find anything about EXtreme Effects other than that the company specializes in welding and other metal works—and I had researched for hours. I had almost messaged Daisy, the woman who contacted me via email, to decline the interview request because the lack of information immediately sounded alarms in my head.
Of course, the moment I looked at my bank balance, I reconsidered sending that message.
Beggars can’t be choosers and since this entire conversation started because my mother’s inviting me to play bingo with her friends…
Stiffening my posture, I give her a pointed look. "It's a job, not a search for a casual encounter. Besides, didn’t that thing in the living room come from a Craigslist ad?" I point at the 70-inch monstrosity mounted on the wall just outside the kitchen. My mother loves her TV shows just as much as she hates paying exorbitant prices, so naturally, she sprung for a used flat screen.
“That’s different,” she argues. “It’s a television set. What you’re talking about is dangerous.”
“Firms aren't lining up to hire me, Mom. The least I can do is go to the interview; it can't hurt."
What does hurt is saying those words out loud.
Despite everything, I moved home still sure of myself, sure that everything would be okay, sure that I would snag a new job in record time. Instead, I've heard the same thing repeatedly, meeting after meeting:
Overqualified.
Maybe I am, but I also know the real reason I haven't been hired yet and it has nothing to do with too many credentials. I walked out on a two-year contract with my last employer. And the employer in question—whose newest text messages have already nudged beneath my skin before eight AM—is job-blocking me at every turn.
Mom’s chair scraping against the tile floor draws my focus from Tom and back across the table. She works to coax her frown into a reassuring smile as she stands and grabs her mug from the placemat. "If those firms have any brains, they'll call you," she says, walking over to the dishwasher.
“I’m not holding my breath.”
"Make sure you take your pepper spray to that interview.” When I start to argue, she holds up one finger, reminding me of the arguments we had when I was still a child. No matter what, Susie Williams is always right. "You found them on Craigslist, Lucinda. Take the damn pepper spray.”