My mom appears at our door one day, and then, I'm told that decisions have been made.
In fact, on this day, I'm seated up in my room thinking. It's already Wednesday. The exams have already begun. I've been absent from school way too often. I'm not going to be able to meet up with everything.
They're going to make me take the year again.
Or at least, make me take some classes again.
Either way, moving on to Grade 11 won't be easy.
I'm dreading my mom ever finding out. She already knows I haven't been feeling well a lot this semester, and judging by the looks of things, she isn't really happy with me. Or my dad. And I'm def not looking forward to summer school.
I remember last year when I got my report in. The day before, she kept calling me to forward the file to her immediately they sent it. I got three As, an A plus in English, Bs in Economics and Biology, and a D6 in Math.
She was pissed.
Especially because of my D.
She kept saying that if I kept failing like this, I would end up dropping out. How could I fail math? And how on earth could I possibly get only ONE A plus?!
And so, for the first semester of this year, I did work harder (for me and Nikki, of course) and I did have my Lit scores climb to A plus and Math became a B3 (Nikki helped a LOT!) She still didn't seem very impressed.
She never lets me forget who the top of her class was almost every year she was in school. If she had been better in English, she would have topped every single person multiple times in a row. But English, being her third language, and her not knowing barely enough of it during her high school years, was a hindrance.
It makes me sad for myself to know it's true. She has old report cards to show for all her bragging. Her grades dipped in Grade 9 when her family immigrated from Mexico. She only really spoke Spanish and Portuguese, and the extra language classes she took didn't really help enough for her.
But whatever, she was a smarty ass and I'm very disappointing.
My phone buzzes beside me. I pick it up. I have a text from my mom. The message is simple and blunt:
"I'm outside. Come get the door."
My eyes widen with confusion. Are we expecting her or...? I wasn't informed. Then, the doorbell rings with a sort of impatient undertone. I want someone else to go get the door, but I'm the only one home. The bell rings again.
"Ugh!" I sigh, sluggishly climbing out of bed. "I'm coming!" I shout in response, a shivery feeling coming over me.
My hands shake as I reach for the key. Breathe, Anya. I turn the key and open the door to see her standing right in front of me, glaring impatiently at her phone like it's her biggest op.
She turns stiffly to me, her oh-so silky hair flying around her head and shoulders and catching the light just right.
You know, in that dreamy k-drama way.
She stares down at me, blinking slowly, seemingly waiting for me to say something.
"Uh..." I mumble, giving in to the awkwardness of this situation. "Hi mom."
"Di 'buenas tardes'," she says in a near-whisper, still staring me down.
This feels too much already. I want to leave so bad.
I timidly do as she asks, staring at my hands that are pulling desperately at a lose thread on the waistband of my shorts."Buenas tardes," I mutter. She brushes past, snapping at me to look up.
I shut the door as quietly as possible as she floats gracefully to the couch. I stare at her from across the room, and she stares back in a sort of teasing, intimidating way that makes me want to fold into myself.
I'm standing here in an old off-brand hooded sweatshirt I stole from Nikki and thrifted Calvin Klein bike shorts that have little holes in the crotch. My hair is messy, and a trip to the stylist is long overdue. I probably look very messy because I'm breaking out and sweating quite a lot, and also trying hard not to itch.
She, on the other hand, has her hands resting in her lap, her long, manicured fingers tapping rhythmically. She holds perfect posture, and her head is cocked toward me so her long, silky black hair splays down her shoulders and back and covers a bit of her face. She has that no-makeup look where she only has on foundation, blush, and lip gloss. She is wearing a black gold-trimmed two-piece over a white camisole. Her platforms, rings, and watch definitely look very expensive, and so does her Chanel tote bag.
Why does she always do this? I ask myself in dismay. It's like she's always out to make me feel inadequate.
"So," she begins after the long silence. "Juanita. Wouldn't you sit?"
I roll my eyes internally. And of course, the Hispanic accent. It's always the "exotic" women, isn't it? Mini Me groans.
I tentatively shuffle toward the recliner opposite from her and plant my ass. Just as I do so, she says: "I would like some water."
"Huh?"
"Agua. Quiero."
She stares back at me coldly and I can feel my whole body shake with anxiety. What is happening? I ask internally as I lift myself up to get the water. Her eyes follow me as I walk past to the kitchen.
When I reach the kitchen, I quickly lock the door behind me and press my back against it. Breathe, Anya, I beg myself between breaths, patting my chest. Breathe.
I steady my swaying head in my hands, suddenly remembering my mission. I rush to find a clean glass and fill it. My hands are shaking uncontrollably. I keep begging myself to not drop it as I struggle to unlock the door. I do so, successfully, and advance toward the woman sitting in the living room staring impatiently at her phone.
She looks up, lifts an eyebrow briefly, and then takes the glass out of my hand. I stand over her as she drinks it all, half-expecting her to say something about the water not being classy enough or something like that.
When she's done, she lets out a refreshed sigh and puts the glass gently on the coffee table, not looking away from me. "You've grown thinner," she remarks bluntly. "Or have you just lost weight?"
I shrug. "Dunno," I mutter.
"Look up at me."
I quickly obey, lifting my gaze up to hers. She gives me an approving "hmm". My mom lifts her hand to my face and I instinctively flinch. She gives a defeated sigh, turns back to her phone, and waves her hand dismissively at me.
"Huh?"
"Go, go, go!"
After taking a few confused steps in a small circle, I finally make my way out of the room and up the stairs. By the time I'm in the hallway, my breathing is erratic, my heart is running a marathon, and my stomach is making those bubbly noises.
I grab my middle and exhale. "Can you just be normal?" I groan at myself as I stare at my bedroom door. I take another breath, exhale again, and then go in. I sit on my bed in the dark staring at the bathroom door and wanting her gone as soon as possible.