Slow Burn
By: Paula L. Jones
I smooth down my new red dress and look down at the white flip-flops on my recently pedicured feet.
My roommate was right. These flip-flops do look stupid with this dress.
I ignored her because I’ve been telling myself to ignore toxic people ever since I left Blanco Mountains and moved to Los Angeles.
The old me would listen to my mother when she called me fat and stupid.
But the new me is stronger than that.
Sighing, I look up, and the “Don’t Walk” sign I’ve been planted beside for the past eighteen billion minutes has finally changed to “Walk.”
Placing a hand on the skirt of my dress to keep California’s infamous Santa Ana winds from treating me to an unwanted Marilyn Monroe moment, I step off the curb and jog through the crosswalk, towards Minni’s Sushi Spot on the other side of the street.
Midway through my jog, I realize I might be working up a sweat, which would not be a preferable look for a first date with a man I’ve never met. Especially since I’m sort of desperately in love with said man.
I bet that sounds crazy, to be in love with someone you’ve never met.
I guess it is pretty crazy.
And I guess craziness is what happens when you’ve had too much to drink one night and you find yourself joining a site called Blind Dates for Singles and then getting into an all-nighter IM chat with a guy called Mac and Cheese and whose avatar is.... Take a wild guess. Go on.
If you guessed macaroni and cheese, sorry.
His avatar is a plate of mashed potatoes with thick, brown gravy.
I started talking to him mostly because I was hungry and by the third hour of our conversation I was in my kitchen, drunkenly whipping up a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy, which I sent him a picture of.
That happened exactly two months ago and we’ve chatted every day since.
It’s been lovely.
And then there was yesterday’s chat, the conversation that changed the nature of our relationship.
Yesterday, we finally agreed to meet in person.
Honestly, this was not part of my plan. The only reason it happened was my roommate, Angela, saw me texting Mac and Cheese, and yelled, “This has to stop! You’re meeting this dude.” With that, she grabbed my phone, ran into her room, locked the door, and pretended
to be me while setting up a date and time to meet in person.
So, thanks to Angela I am now clad in a brand new red dress that’s two sizes smaller than what I’m comfortable wearing (because Angela picked it out) and I’m nearly tripping on my flip flops as I step up to the curb just a few feet away from the entrance to “Minni’s Sushi Spot.”
Pausing in stride, I rub my sweaty palms together like a housefly and take a shaky deep breath.
You see, there’s a reason why I didn’t want to do this and it sort of corresponds with the fact that I’m 25 years old and until this moment, I’ve been on exactly zero dates.
It also has a lot to do with a letter from my mother, which I want to destroy, but can’t seem to.
But I’ll get to that later.
I move forward, slowly walking towards the restaurant where we’re supposed to meet.
I’m so nervous.
Actually, no. I’m afraid. And all I really want to do is turn around, summon an Uber, and tell the driver I’m having a period emergency so they’ll gun it to my house before my innards leak out of me and onto their car. Once home I can sink into my bed and curl up with my favorite original Netflix series.
I come to a halt and stare at the glass doors in front of me.
The restaurant is a quirky little place that sells a delicious catastrophe called a “taco eggroll.” For some reason, it also sells sushi and donuts.
I order takeout here every week, but I’ve only been inside once.
Now, I stare into the trendy eatery’s windows, silently judging the hipsters who, unlike me, are chill enough to frequent a place like this in person.
They’re all slender, good-looking, normal, and comfortable as they gracefully bring sushi rolls and mutant tacos to their lips.
I bite the inside of my cheek as my mouth goes dry.
This was a bad idea.
I’m pretty sure Angela hates me. So, why did I listen when she told me I should show up for this?
Why do I still always do what I’m told?
Haven’t I learned my lesson?
I exhale, shake my head, and mumble, “I’m so stupid,” as I take a step back and reach into my purse for my phone.
“Pensive Skydiver?” A deep voice at my right says.
I freeze at the sound of my Blind Dates for Singles moniker.
A volcano of fear erupts in the pit of my gut as every muscle in my body seems to tense and I temporarily stop breathing.
“Uh, Pensive…” the guy hesitates, “Sorry. I guess. Wrong person.”
He sounds so disappointed that I feel bad.
Guilt thawing my frozen nerves, I turn to him.
As our eyes meet, I blink back, startled.
Standing before me is a 6’2 man with dark brown skin, deep hazel eyes, and short dark hair. He’s clean-shaven and wearing a light blue button-down shirt tucked into a pair of nice pants. This can’t be my date.
He’s gorgeous.
Dumbstruck, I gawk at Mac and Cheese and try to will myself to speak.
Unfortunately, the words get stuck in my throat.
He frowns. “I’m supposed to be meeting a blind date and she told me she’d be wearing a red dress. I just thought maybe you were her.”
My ability to speak seems to have returned, so I try it out.
“You’re black?” I cringe as soon as the two words have flung themselves out of my mouth.
He’s cringing too, and all of a sudden I’m saying, “No! No,” and waving my hands from side to side in what could be mistaken for a Bob Fauci-inspired routine.
His frown deepens and he takes a careful step back.
“I was kidding,” I force a laugh and think quickly. “Because I’m black, obviously. And that’s, um, that’s, like, what guys say to me when I go on blind dates. You know, like, racist guys. They say stuff like that all the time.”
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve never been on even one date until now.
It should also be noted that my skin is the same color as the goo in the middle of an oreo cookie. If that is not descriptive enough, open a bottle of white-out and look inside. What you’re seeing is also an accurate portrayal of my skin color.
Mac and Cheese’s frown disappears and he smiles. “Oh.”
I grin as he starts to laugh.
Thank God, that actually worked!
“Sorry, that was a really bad joke,” I say, relieved and yet still so scared I’m trembling. Because if I said that, what else am I going to blurt out?
“I should know better than to steal jokes from racists,” I add with a shrug.
He chuckles and sort of wags his head from side to side as he mirrors my shrug, “I’m pretty sure our society’s most famous comedians are glaringly obvious racists. And we all still retell their jokes. So, whatever. Besides,” he grins and points to me, “You’re black. After over 200 years of slavery and 200 more years of legalized oppression, you get a free pass to say whatever you want. At least until the legalized oppression is over.”
I nervously laugh way too hard and accidentally pee myself a tad.
I can’t ever let this man find out how white I actually am.
Too embarrassed to look him in the eyes, even though there’s no way he knows that I’m lying and that it’s just resulted in me nervously peeing on myself, I stare at a passing yellow cab and say, “Do you really want to go in this Sushi joint with all these skinny…um, white people?”
He gives me a curious look and then glances at the restaurant.
“Where do you want to go?” he slowly asks.
I look at him, momentarily forgetting the bladder kerfuffle.
“No one’s ever asked me that before,” I grin as I think back to the day my Big Sister sponsor picked me up from the Blanco Mountains Bus Station and drove me to Los Angeles.
As cool as Tamara was, even she didn’t ask me where I wanted to go.
She assumed I needed to be directed.
“Really?” Mac tilts his head, watching me carefully. “Where did you find all of these racist, self-centered guys?”
What?
As I’m staring into his hazel eyes and on the verge of drowning in them, it dawns on me that he’s referring to one of the lies I’ve just told him.
“The library,” I smile. “It’s a cesspool.”
Mac pulls his chin back and frowns, “Wow. I had no idea. Glad I don’t do books. Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go to BurgerSmith and split a side salad.”
My heart nearly stops. Whhhaatt?
The corners of Mac’s eyes crinkle as he points to me and laughs, “Got you! I couldn’t resist. Remember what you said last week?”
Now it’s my turn to tilt my head and look at him in confusion. “I say so many things. Especially to you, at midnight, when I’ve been drinking.”
He smiles, “You said people who say, ‘I don’t do books,’ are like those idiots who go to BurgerSmith and order side salads without dressing.”
The volcano of anxiety in my gut simmers and a warm glow stirs in my heart.
“Wow. I can’t believe you remembered that,” I say, staring into his pretty eyes. “I was actually talking about my roommate, Angela. She’s literally 80 lbs and always on a diet and telling me I should be on one too. No thanks, Taylor Swift. I’d rather be fat and literate, thank you. White girls, ugh. Am I right?”
He sort of frowns and laughs simultaneously before clearing his throat. “Okay, so full disclosure. I’m half-white and one of my adopted sisters is white. So, I know I said that thing about a free pass earlier, but I’m not like a racist or anything. My last girlfriend was Icelandic.”
My face goes so hot that should a drop of gasoline randomly touch my skin I would burst into flames.
“Oh,” I nod too much, too quickly, and I’m still nodding as I say, “Right. Okay. That’s so cool.”
He smiles, a sort of amused look in his eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be too blunt.”
“No,” I wave this off and chuckle. “Blunt is good. It’s better than, um, lying. Who wants to go on a date with a compulsive liar?”
Shockingly, my face grows even redder as I say this.
So, to make everything better, I keep talking.
“My mother is a compulsive liar,” I say. “She actually ran a cult, in Blanco Mountains. She told people she was from a planet called Goldnor and promised to take them back to Goldnor with her if they’d help her build a spaceship. She also told them I was the product of her relationship with a 500-pound alien who kept her prisoner in his spaceship. Another lie, obviously. That’s why my dad kidnapped me and, well, that’s not why he kidnapped me. That’s the reason he told the courts but… you know, actually, I think this is too much truth. Right? I feel like I should stop talking. Sorry.”
I look down at my new white flip-flops.
There’s already a bit of muck on them.
Angela was right.
You should never wear white when you’re planning to walk around Los Angeles.
And the streets of Los Angeles are, thankfully, as noisy as they are dirty.
So, even though Mac is staring at me with shocked wide eyes and I’m not saying a word, there’s plenty of noise from passing vehicles, randomly shouting people, and music from cafes with outside seating.
The volcano of nerves in my gut is back to erupting and I bite down on my bottom lip as I look around and wonder if I should give him an out by saying I don’t feel well.
That would probably be the kind thing to do.
“You sound like you might need to talk about it,” Mac finally says, his voice barely above the sound of a bus as it passes.
“Oh,” once again surprised by his reaction, I’m not sure how to respond. “That’s nice of you. But it really was too much. I’m nervous, hence the oversharing.”
He smiles and I instantly relax, sort of.
His smile widening, he says, “How about this? What if, I walk away, come back, and we start over?”
Oh my God, how is he so nice?
Wait a second, is he like my mother?
My grin wanes at this thought.
Is he only being this kind because he wants me to join some weird cult?
No. That’s not something that normally happens- at least I don’t think it is. I still have a lot to learn about the regular world.
Confused, yet pleased, I nod, “Okay.”
He gives me one last look, slips his hands into his pockets, and turns around to head down the street.
I frown and wonder if he'll just keep walking.
That’s highly likely. After all, who would want to find out their blind date is the daughter of a sociopathic cult leader who-
My worries dissolve as Mac turns around and grins at me.
Oh!
I quickly turn away and pretend like I haven’t seen him.
Biting down on my bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, I listen to his footsteps at my left.
They’re in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, which is pounding much too fast.
They come to a stop and no amount of lip biting can keep the ridorkulous grin from my face as I turn to him.
He’s smiling about as much as I am. “Pensive Skydiver?”
I nod and laugh, “Mac and Cheese?”
“That’s me,” he takes his hands out of his pockets and points to me, “You look really pretty. I like your dress.”
The volcano is slapped out of existence by a flurry of butterflies that flutter even more than my eyelashes are at the moment.
“Thank you,” I grin and instinctively lay my palms against the skirt of my dress, smoothing its nonexistent wrinkles. “My roommate picked it out for me.”
“She did a great job then,” he says, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “So, want to go hang out at a library or something? That’s where I’m usually at, 24/7.”
I grin. “Obviously. Because you’re such a great guy.”
He smiles and takes a step closer, our eyes locked in a sweet, shared moment. “Seriously, where do you want to go?”
As I turn to the sushi restaurant and try to convince myself we should go inside, I find myself thinking about the night my father kidnapped me from Blanco Mountains and I hear myself say, “Would it be weird if I showed you where I grew up?”
Mac blinks back at me and I open my mouth to backtrack when he says, “Sure. Let’s do it.”
My roommate was right. These flip-flops do look stupid with this dress.
I ignored her because I’ve been telling myself to ignore toxic people ever since I left Blanco Mountains and moved to Los Angeles.
The old me would listen to my mother when she called me fat and stupid.
But the new me is stronger than that.
Sighing, I look up, and the “Don’t Walk” sign I’ve been planted beside for the past eighteen billion minutes has finally changed to “Walk.”
Placing a hand on the skirt of my dress to keep California’s infamous Santa Ana winds from treating me to an unwanted Marilyn Monroe moment, I step off the curb and jog through the crosswalk, towards Minni’s Sushi Spot on the other side of the street.
Midway through my jog, I realize I might be working up a sweat, which would not be a preferable look for a first date with a man I’ve never met. Especially since I’m sort of desperately in love with said man.
I bet that sounds crazy, to be in love with someone you’ve never met.
I guess it is pretty crazy.
And I guess craziness is what happens when you’ve had too much to drink one night and you find yourself joining a site called Blind Dates for Singles and then getting into an all-nighter IM chat with a guy called Mac and Cheese and whose avatar is.... Take a wild guess. Go on.
If you guessed macaroni and cheese, sorry.
His avatar is a plate of mashed potatoes with thick, brown gravy.
I started talking to him mostly because I was hungry and by the third hour of our conversation I was in my kitchen, drunkenly whipping up a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy, which I sent him a picture of.
That happened exactly two months ago and we’ve chatted every day since.
It’s been lovely.
And then there was yesterday’s chat, the conversation that changed the nature of our relationship.
Yesterday, we finally agreed to meet in person.
Honestly, this was not part of my plan. The only reason it happened was my roommate, Angela, saw me texting Mac and Cheese, and yelled, “This has to stop! You’re meeting this dude.” With that, she grabbed my phone, ran into her room, locked the door, and pretended
to be me while setting up a date and time to meet in person.
So, thanks to Angela I am now clad in a brand new red dress that’s two sizes smaller than what I’m comfortable wearing (because Angela picked it out) and I’m nearly tripping on my flip flops as I step up to the curb just a few feet away from the entrance to “Minni’s Sushi Spot.”
Pausing in stride, I rub my sweaty palms together like a housefly and take a shaky deep breath.
You see, there’s a reason why I didn’t want to do this and it sort of corresponds with the fact that I’m 25 years old and until this moment, I’ve been on exactly zero dates.
It also has a lot to do with a letter from my mother, which I want to destroy, but can’t seem to.
But I’ll get to that later.
I move forward, slowly walking towards the restaurant where we’re supposed to meet.
I’m so nervous.
Actually, no. I’m afraid. And all I really want to do is turn around, summon an Uber, and tell the driver I’m having a period emergency so they’ll gun it to my house before my innards leak out of me and onto their car. Once home I can sink into my bed and curl up with my favorite original Netflix series.
I come to a halt and stare at the glass doors in front of me.
The restaurant is a quirky little place that sells a delicious catastrophe called a “taco eggroll.” For some reason, it also sells sushi and donuts.
I order takeout here every week, but I’ve only been inside once.
Now, I stare into the trendy eatery’s windows, silently judging the hipsters who, unlike me, are chill enough to frequent a place like this in person.
They’re all slender, good-looking, normal, and comfortable as they gracefully bring sushi rolls and mutant tacos to their lips.
I bite the inside of my cheek as my mouth goes dry.
This was a bad idea.
I’m pretty sure Angela hates me. So, why did I listen when she told me I should show up for this?
Why do I still always do what I’m told?
Haven’t I learned my lesson?
I exhale, shake my head, and mumble, “I’m so stupid,” as I take a step back and reach into my purse for my phone.
“Pensive Skydiver?” A deep voice at my right says.
I freeze at the sound of my Blind Dates for Singles moniker.
A volcano of fear erupts in the pit of my gut as every muscle in my body seems to tense and I temporarily stop breathing.
“Uh, Pensive…” the guy hesitates, “Sorry. I guess. Wrong person.”
He sounds so disappointed that I feel bad.
Guilt thawing my frozen nerves, I turn to him.
As our eyes meet, I blink back, startled.
Standing before me is a 6’2 man with dark brown skin, deep hazel eyes, and short dark hair. He’s clean-shaven and wearing a light blue button-down shirt tucked into a pair of nice pants. This can’t be my date.
He’s gorgeous.
Dumbstruck, I gawk at Mac and Cheese and try to will myself to speak.
Unfortunately, the words get stuck in my throat.
He frowns. “I’m supposed to be meeting a blind date and she told me she’d be wearing a red dress. I just thought maybe you were her.”
My ability to speak seems to have returned, so I try it out.
“You’re black?” I cringe as soon as the two words have flung themselves out of my mouth.
He’s cringing too, and all of a sudden I’m saying, “No! No,” and waving my hands from side to side in what could be mistaken for a Bob Fauci-inspired routine.
His frown deepens and he takes a careful step back.
“I was kidding,” I force a laugh and think quickly. “Because I’m black, obviously. And that’s, um, that’s, like, what guys say to me when I go on blind dates. You know, like, racist guys. They say stuff like that all the time.”
As I mentioned earlier, I’ve never been on even one date until now.
It should also be noted that my skin is the same color as the goo in the middle of an oreo cookie. If that is not descriptive enough, open a bottle of white-out and look inside. What you’re seeing is also an accurate portrayal of my skin color.
Mac and Cheese’s frown disappears and he smiles. “Oh.”
I grin as he starts to laugh.
Thank God, that actually worked!
“Sorry, that was a really bad joke,” I say, relieved and yet still so scared I’m trembling. Because if I said that, what else am I going to blurt out?
“I should know better than to steal jokes from racists,” I add with a shrug.
He chuckles and sort of wags his head from side to side as he mirrors my shrug, “I’m pretty sure our society’s most famous comedians are glaringly obvious racists. And we all still retell their jokes. So, whatever. Besides,” he grins and points to me, “You’re black. After over 200 years of slavery and 200 more years of legalized oppression, you get a free pass to say whatever you want. At least until the legalized oppression is over.”
I nervously laugh way too hard and accidentally pee myself a tad.
I can’t ever let this man find out how white I actually am.
Too embarrassed to look him in the eyes, even though there’s no way he knows that I’m lying and that it’s just resulted in me nervously peeing on myself, I stare at a passing yellow cab and say, “Do you really want to go in this Sushi joint with all these skinny…um, white people?”
He gives me a curious look and then glances at the restaurant.
“Where do you want to go?” he slowly asks.
I look at him, momentarily forgetting the bladder kerfuffle.
“No one’s ever asked me that before,” I grin as I think back to the day my Big Sister sponsor picked me up from the Blanco Mountains Bus Station and drove me to Los Angeles.
As cool as Tamara was, even she didn’t ask me where I wanted to go.
She assumed I needed to be directed.
“Really?” Mac tilts his head, watching me carefully. “Where did you find all of these racist, self-centered guys?”
What?
As I’m staring into his hazel eyes and on the verge of drowning in them, it dawns on me that he’s referring to one of the lies I’ve just told him.
“The library,” I smile. “It’s a cesspool.”
Mac pulls his chin back and frowns, “Wow. I had no idea. Glad I don’t do books. Hey, I have an idea. Let’s go to BurgerSmith and split a side salad.”
My heart nearly stops. Whhhaatt?
The corners of Mac’s eyes crinkle as he points to me and laughs, “Got you! I couldn’t resist. Remember what you said last week?”
Now it’s my turn to tilt my head and look at him in confusion. “I say so many things. Especially to you, at midnight, when I’ve been drinking.”
He smiles, “You said people who say, ‘I don’t do books,’ are like those idiots who go to BurgerSmith and order side salads without dressing.”
The volcano of anxiety in my gut simmers and a warm glow stirs in my heart.
“Wow. I can’t believe you remembered that,” I say, staring into his pretty eyes. “I was actually talking about my roommate, Angela. She’s literally 80 lbs and always on a diet and telling me I should be on one too. No thanks, Taylor Swift. I’d rather be fat and literate, thank you. White girls, ugh. Am I right?”
He sort of frowns and laughs simultaneously before clearing his throat. “Okay, so full disclosure. I’m half-white and one of my adopted sisters is white. So, I know I said that thing about a free pass earlier, but I’m not like a racist or anything. My last girlfriend was Icelandic.”
My face goes so hot that should a drop of gasoline randomly touch my skin I would burst into flames.
“Oh,” I nod too much, too quickly, and I’m still nodding as I say, “Right. Okay. That’s so cool.”
He smiles, a sort of amused look in his eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be too blunt.”
“No,” I wave this off and chuckle. “Blunt is good. It’s better than, um, lying. Who wants to go on a date with a compulsive liar?”
Shockingly, my face grows even redder as I say this.
So, to make everything better, I keep talking.
“My mother is a compulsive liar,” I say. “She actually ran a cult, in Blanco Mountains. She told people she was from a planet called Goldnor and promised to take them back to Goldnor with her if they’d help her build a spaceship. She also told them I was the product of her relationship with a 500-pound alien who kept her prisoner in his spaceship. Another lie, obviously. That’s why my dad kidnapped me and, well, that’s not why he kidnapped me. That’s the reason he told the courts but… you know, actually, I think this is too much truth. Right? I feel like I should stop talking. Sorry.”
I look down at my new white flip-flops.
There’s already a bit of muck on them.
Angela was right.
You should never wear white when you’re planning to walk around Los Angeles.
And the streets of Los Angeles are, thankfully, as noisy as they are dirty.
So, even though Mac is staring at me with shocked wide eyes and I’m not saying a word, there’s plenty of noise from passing vehicles, randomly shouting people, and music from cafes with outside seating.
The volcano of nerves in my gut is back to erupting and I bite down on my bottom lip as I look around and wonder if I should give him an out by saying I don’t feel well.
That would probably be the kind thing to do.
“You sound like you might need to talk about it,” Mac finally says, his voice barely above the sound of a bus as it passes.
“Oh,” once again surprised by his reaction, I’m not sure how to respond. “That’s nice of you. But it really was too much. I’m nervous, hence the oversharing.”
He smiles and I instantly relax, sort of.
His smile widening, he says, “How about this? What if, I walk away, come back, and we start over?”
Oh my God, how is he so nice?
Wait a second, is he like my mother?
My grin wanes at this thought.
Is he only being this kind because he wants me to join some weird cult?
No. That’s not something that normally happens- at least I don’t think it is. I still have a lot to learn about the regular world.
Confused, yet pleased, I nod, “Okay.”
He gives me one last look, slips his hands into his pockets, and turns around to head down the street.
I frown and wonder if he'll just keep walking.
That’s highly likely. After all, who would want to find out their blind date is the daughter of a sociopathic cult leader who-
My worries dissolve as Mac turns around and grins at me.
Oh!
I quickly turn away and pretend like I haven’t seen him.
Biting down on my bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, I listen to his footsteps at my left.
They’re in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, which is pounding much too fast.
They come to a stop and no amount of lip biting can keep the ridorkulous grin from my face as I turn to him.
He’s smiling about as much as I am. “Pensive Skydiver?”
I nod and laugh, “Mac and Cheese?”
“That’s me,” he takes his hands out of his pockets and points to me, “You look really pretty. I like your dress.”
The volcano is slapped out of existence by a flurry of butterflies that flutter even more than my eyelashes are at the moment.
“Thank you,” I grin and instinctively lay my palms against the skirt of my dress, smoothing its nonexistent wrinkles. “My roommate picked it out for me.”
“She did a great job then,” he says, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “So, want to go hang out at a library or something? That’s where I’m usually at, 24/7.”
I grin. “Obviously. Because you’re such a great guy.”
He smiles and takes a step closer, our eyes locked in a sweet, shared moment. “Seriously, where do you want to go?”
As I turn to the sushi restaurant and try to convince myself we should go inside, I find myself thinking about the night my father kidnapped me from Blanco Mountains and I hear myself say, “Would it be weird if I showed you where I grew up?”
Mac blinks back at me and I open my mouth to backtrack when he says, “Sure. Let’s do it.”
***
An hour later, Mac and I are waving goodbye to our Uber driver, Shelia, as she tells us good luck because she thinks we’re doing some kind of scavenger hunt thing that I completely made up in the car.
As she drives away and we stare at Tim’s Place, which is the only bar in Blanco Mountains, Mac turns to me and says, “You’re a good liar.”
I nod. “I get that from my mom. Unfortunately.”
He frowns but says nothing.
My stomach growls.
I asked to stop at a gas station and bought a couple of bags of chips and a lighter. But I was too nervous to eat the chips. So, they sit in my purse right next to the letter my mom sent me from jail.
It came in the mail last week.
It’s not an apology or an affectionate gesture of a mother to her daughter, it’s a manifesto that includes her wish to see her “fat and stupid daughter use her life to bring harmony to the universe.”
As many times as I’ve wanted to destroy the awful piece of paper, I haven’t been able to.
It’s all I have left of her.
And, as angry as I am with my mother, there’s a part of me that still wants her approval.
“So, uh, what are we really doing here?” Mac asks, sounding nervous.
I point to the bar while a scary amount of memories begin to play in my head, like a horror movie that won’t stop. It’s so much I start to feel numb.
“That,” I say, still pointing, “is where I worked from age eleven to age fifteen.”
“In a bar?” Mac asks, turning to me. There’s a smile in his voice because he thinks I’m joking. “Right. Sure. It reminds me of the casino where I spent my summers as a toddler.”
I chuckle, because despite how off his gauge is right now, he’s funny.
I start towards the run-down wooden building that now has boards across its windows and a “Closed by the Board of Health” notice on the front door.
Mac follows me and says, “Sky, come on, what’s going on? Why are we in the middle of nowhere? You’re not, like, planning to kill me or something, are you?”
I frown, hurt, and then try to not feel hurt.
He doesn’t know me and I am being really weird. Of course, he’d ask that.
“No,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I just think someone should know the truth about where I come from.”
I point to the side of the building, where a basement door is nearly hidden by overgrown weeds.
“This,” I say, “is the basement where Dad kept girls from other countries, so he could sell them.”
To the right of the door is a busted window.
I lower myself, the edges of my pretty red dress kissing the dirt, as I peer through the window and see twelve pallets of blankets on the grimy floor.
They’re more rags than blankets. A lone cat scampers across the basement floor.
“Uh, are you serious?” Mac finally asks.
“Yeah, look,” I point to the setup. An old heater is stashed in a corner of the room, just as I remember. “This is where they slept. There were always thirteen of them and they’d stay with him for a full month before they’d move on to their next location. It got dad an extra $3,000 a month.”
I stand, open my purse, and take out the lighter I bought at the gas station.
“D-did the cops catch him?” Mac stammers.
The wind picks up and the scent of mud and cow manure fills my nose.
The scent of the world I grew up in.
I slowly retrieve the letter from my purse.
“No. He died,” I say, staring at the letter. “Cancer. That’s why he kidnapped me from my mom’s cult. He wanted to teach me to take over the family business. But after he died, I ran away because, well I don’t know. Like, what else was I supposed to do? Become a human trafficker just because my dad told me to?”
While I stare at the letter, I can feel Mac staring at me, and I can also feel that this will be our last date.
I walk up to the building, ignite the letter and rest it against the wooden door of the basement.
The flames move quickly, dancing across the wood, morphing it into ashes and then spreading into a tiny sea of flames that won’t be so tiny in a few minutes.
“Um,” Mac says.
I turn to him and he’s backing away from me like I have a contagious disease, horror taking hold of his expression. “I think we should leave. Okay? Let’s call 911, say we just happened to be driving by and saw this. Okay?”
I watch the fear in his eyes, empathizing with how scared and confused he must be.
I bet he regrets ever talking to me online.
“Okay,” I agree as I turn back to the burning bar, where pretty orange flames are licking it up with ravenous hunger.
It’s a work of art, what I’ve done.
I smile. “After this, can we get some BurgerSmith?”
Mac nods. “Definitely.”
We do not get BurgerSmith.
As soon as we’ve called 911, Mac says he’s got to take a separate Uber because he’s got somewhere else to be, which makes no sense. But,
I let it go.
He covers the cost of my ride home and I don’t hear from him again.
I, meanwhile, join a support group for survivors of child abuse.
I stop pretending the first fifteen years of my life didn’t happen.
I wear more red dresses and start to get along with Angela, because she isn’t really so bad.
She’s just a survivor like me.
Eventually, I start to like myself and one day when I’m wolfing down a Taco Eggroll in Mini’s Sushi Spot with my friends from group, I glance through the glass entrance doors and there’s Mac, looking right back at me.
He quickly looks away and I smile because it’s odd and beautiful and kind of funny to suddenly realize how much I used to crave the approval of strangers.
I pick up my taco eggroll, take a bite, and move on with my life.
As she drives away and we stare at Tim’s Place, which is the only bar in Blanco Mountains, Mac turns to me and says, “You’re a good liar.”
I nod. “I get that from my mom. Unfortunately.”
He frowns but says nothing.
My stomach growls.
I asked to stop at a gas station and bought a couple of bags of chips and a lighter. But I was too nervous to eat the chips. So, they sit in my purse right next to the letter my mom sent me from jail.
It came in the mail last week.
It’s not an apology or an affectionate gesture of a mother to her daughter, it’s a manifesto that includes her wish to see her “fat and stupid daughter use her life to bring harmony to the universe.”
As many times as I’ve wanted to destroy the awful piece of paper, I haven’t been able to.
It’s all I have left of her.
And, as angry as I am with my mother, there’s a part of me that still wants her approval.
“So, uh, what are we really doing here?” Mac asks, sounding nervous.
I point to the bar while a scary amount of memories begin to play in my head, like a horror movie that won’t stop. It’s so much I start to feel numb.
“That,” I say, still pointing, “is where I worked from age eleven to age fifteen.”
“In a bar?” Mac asks, turning to me. There’s a smile in his voice because he thinks I’m joking. “Right. Sure. It reminds me of the casino where I spent my summers as a toddler.”
I chuckle, because despite how off his gauge is right now, he’s funny.
I start towards the run-down wooden building that now has boards across its windows and a “Closed by the Board of Health” notice on the front door.
Mac follows me and says, “Sky, come on, what’s going on? Why are we in the middle of nowhere? You’re not, like, planning to kill me or something, are you?”
I frown, hurt, and then try to not feel hurt.
He doesn’t know me and I am being really weird. Of course, he’d ask that.
“No,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I just think someone should know the truth about where I come from.”
I point to the side of the building, where a basement door is nearly hidden by overgrown weeds.
“This,” I say, “is the basement where Dad kept girls from other countries, so he could sell them.”
To the right of the door is a busted window.
I lower myself, the edges of my pretty red dress kissing the dirt, as I peer through the window and see twelve pallets of blankets on the grimy floor.
They’re more rags than blankets. A lone cat scampers across the basement floor.
“Uh, are you serious?” Mac finally asks.
“Yeah, look,” I point to the setup. An old heater is stashed in a corner of the room, just as I remember. “This is where they slept. There were always thirteen of them and they’d stay with him for a full month before they’d move on to their next location. It got dad an extra $3,000 a month.”
I stand, open my purse, and take out the lighter I bought at the gas station.
“D-did the cops catch him?” Mac stammers.
The wind picks up and the scent of mud and cow manure fills my nose.
The scent of the world I grew up in.
I slowly retrieve the letter from my purse.
“No. He died,” I say, staring at the letter. “Cancer. That’s why he kidnapped me from my mom’s cult. He wanted to teach me to take over the family business. But after he died, I ran away because, well I don’t know. Like, what else was I supposed to do? Become a human trafficker just because my dad told me to?”
While I stare at the letter, I can feel Mac staring at me, and I can also feel that this will be our last date.
I walk up to the building, ignite the letter and rest it against the wooden door of the basement.
The flames move quickly, dancing across the wood, morphing it into ashes and then spreading into a tiny sea of flames that won’t be so tiny in a few minutes.
“Um,” Mac says.
I turn to him and he’s backing away from me like I have a contagious disease, horror taking hold of his expression. “I think we should leave. Okay? Let’s call 911, say we just happened to be driving by and saw this. Okay?”
I watch the fear in his eyes, empathizing with how scared and confused he must be.
I bet he regrets ever talking to me online.
“Okay,” I agree as I turn back to the burning bar, where pretty orange flames are licking it up with ravenous hunger.
It’s a work of art, what I’ve done.
I smile. “After this, can we get some BurgerSmith?”
Mac nods. “Definitely.”
We do not get BurgerSmith.
As soon as we’ve called 911, Mac says he’s got to take a separate Uber because he’s got somewhere else to be, which makes no sense. But,
I let it go.
He covers the cost of my ride home and I don’t hear from him again.
I, meanwhile, join a support group for survivors of child abuse.
I stop pretending the first fifteen years of my life didn’t happen.
I wear more red dresses and start to get along with Angela, because she isn’t really so bad.
She’s just a survivor like me.
Eventually, I start to like myself and one day when I’m wolfing down a Taco Eggroll in Mini’s Sushi Spot with my friends from group, I glance through the glass entrance doors and there’s Mac, looking right back at me.
He quickly looks away and I smile because it’s odd and beautiful and kind of funny to suddenly realize how much I used to crave the approval of strangers.
I pick up my taco eggroll, take a bite, and move on with my life.
The End