Half an hour of sewing later, the plunging neckline is not so plunging anymore, stopping right above the cleavage.
Lynda swallows the Diazepam tablet and hides the bottle behind the thick dictionary on the shelf. Her red eyes cried out, she takes a deep breath and exits her room.
The symptoms of multiple needle punctures are showing on her fingertips. Are they self-inflicted, a deliberate cry for attention, or just the accidental result of clumsy needling? Lynda is not sure anymore. But it does not matter. It is all over now, she thinks. It is time for a peace offering. She could not let a dress ruin her big night with Michael, the hottest boy in her high school.
Sitting on the tall, dark-brown armchair, Mom smokes while staring at the black, cracked screen of their 70-inch TV. It has been broken since last Wednesday when it accidentally fell to the floor while Ms. Gonzales was cleaning it. Mom would have fired Ms. Gonzales if Lynda had not stood up for her.
Lynda approaches Mom with hesitant steps. “Mom,” she says, her voice tight.
Her glare still on the screen of the broken TV, Mom takes another puff on the cigarette.
After clearing her throat, Lynda continues with a begging voice that unsuccessfully tries to be cute. “Mom, look. No more cleavage. I fixed it. Just the way you wanted it.”
Dad enters, alone, a flower bouquet in his hand. He nods when Mom immediately turns to him. Lynda finds their eye contact unsettling.
A bitter smile barely cracking on her face, Mom exhales the smoke and puts out the half-smoked cigarette in the full ashtray. She then turns to Lynda, the bitter smile still on her face.
“What’s going on?” Lynda asks, freaking out.
“Problem solved,” Mom responds mercilessly.
“What?!”
“Sweetie,” Dad interjects, “there is a slight change of plan. Rajneesh has been having second thoughts about Prom, and… and he decided to change his mind for the better and go to Prom with his Indian classmate instead. Chhaya, I believe, is her name. In the end, it worked out for the best.” Dad flashes one of his PR smiles.
“Yeah,” Mom says, her voice empty of sympathy.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Dad maintains the mirthless smile.
“Yeah,” Mom repeats.
“No,” Lynda says, holding back a sob.
“It’s OK, sweetie,” Dad says, the smile disappeared from his face. Eyebrows drawing together, he moves closer to Lynda.
“No, that’s a lie,” she cries, the sob taking over gradually. “A liar. That’s what you are. A liar.”
“Look, look,” Dad says, trying to sound convincing. “He even sent these flowers for you. It’s your favorite. Alchemilla.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Mom growls like a heartless wolf, without even looking at the flowers.
That is like something Michael would do, Lynda thinks. But she is still in doubt. Something does not add up.
“Did you not get his message?” Dad asks and like a deceitful snake rolls his eyes to his master, Mom.
Lynda’s hands are reaching for her cell phone in her pocket when she notices that her party dress does not have any. She spies her cell phone lying on the TV stand, connected to the USB charger.
Hesitantly, she steps toward the TV and picks up the charged phone. The notification on the screen says: ‘1 new message from Michael.’ She turns her back to her parents when reading the message.
Tears run down her face when she unsuccessfully tries to hold back the sob.
If only Lynda would understand that this is for her own good. Biting her lips, Mom watches the reflection of her daughter’s tears on the TV’s cracked screen. Mom knows the tears are coming right from the heart when Lynda cries silently. With every tear that Lynda sheds, Mom’s tough exterior cracks further. Perhaps they have gone too far this time.
Mom no longer can stand her daughter’s suffering. She is getting up from her armchair when her hand hits the ashtray, knocking it on the floor. Ignoring the ashes spread on the carpet, she approaches Lynda.
“Honey—,” she says, extending her hand to caress her daughter’s cheek.
Lynda turns the moment she touches her, throws the cell phone on the floor, and runs to her bedroom, whimpering. She slams the door behind her, locking it afterward.
“Honey,” Mom mutters. Tears welling up her eyes, she stares at Lynda’s bedroom. “Why are you so stubborn?”
“That, she got from you,” Dad says, touching Mom on the shoulder.
Mom turns. “If I don’t protect her who—”
“It’s OK, honey. In time, she’ll understand.”
Dad gives Mom a much-needed hug.