Page 62 of My Best Friend's Dad

Bellatrix

“What have you done?”

I expected that horrified gasp the second my parents walked into my place. Mom spins around, taking in the kitchen and living room from every angle, her mouth parting further and further with every movement. Her horror is telegraphed more than clearly.

Dad keeps his lawyer face in place, where he gives nothing away, but his hand quickly shoots to the small of my mom’s back to keep her from stroking out.

I have a ham in the oven that’s just about done cooking, potatoes that are ready to mash, and homegrown corn because I went to the farmer’s market yesterday. I’ve been half dreading and half looking forward to this dinner for the past five days. I had to schedule my parents in. I’m lucky they had timethis monthfor a family dinner.

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. It drives my mom mad, as evidenced by the way both eyes twitch on and off, but never atthe same time. “Renovations. Mostly just paint and wallpaper at this point.”

“It’s monstrous!” she exclaims.

Dad’s hand slides up to her shoulder. I’m not sure if the way he squeezes it is a warning or an agreement. I try not to let my hurt show. I expected this. I prepared for this. It’s going to be nothing compared to when I tell my parents about Rowleigh. “Maybe. But I like it.”

“The resale value will—”

“It can all be taken off and changed and painted whatever color before I sell.” I point to the table, which I have already set. The flamingos on the wallpaper surrounding it look extracavortyin the late evening golden sunlight streaming through the two windows in the corner. “IfI sell. I like this place. It’smine, and that means I want it to feel likeme. This is what I’m into right now. I’m going to be changing the flooring and the lights too.”

Mom makes a sound in her throat that might indicate a heart attack for real. I take a step forward, but Dad guides her into one of the clear plastic ghost chairs. He sinks into the one beside her and rests his hand lightly on her knee, probably as a containment measure.

I finish up the dinner prep, pulling out the ham, mashing the potatoes, and bringing everything to the table.

At least Dad is polite enough to carve some meat off onto his and Mom’s plate and then give her a scoop of potatoes. He even eats woodenly.

I shouldn’t press any more of Mom’s buttons, but instead of shaving the corn off my cob the way she would do, I smear butter and salt all along the golden length, lift it up, and bite into it, eating it the way everyone eats corn on the cob. With messy gusto. Juice sprays all over as the kernels pop, which adds an extra slurp now and then.

I watch Mom over the corncob. She’s so pale. Eventually, her eyes lift from me and shift to the wallpaper. She winces. “How did you pay for all this? It’s a lot of money just to undo it all.”

“Mika leant it to me.”

“Michael?”

I sigh. I wasn’t even chewing with my mouth full. There’s no way she could have misheard. “Mika.TheMikawho has been mybestieforyearsnow.”

“Mika,” she clarifies with a nod. “Yes, right. You’re still a little nasally.”

“I’m fine. I’ve been over the cold for a week now at least.” Dad shoots me the same kind ofdon’t sass your motherlook that he’s been giving me since I was four. That’s as far back as I can remember. “I’m doing much better. I got a job, actually.”

“What job?” Dad asks that with the ultimate caution. They both tense up like I’m going to tell them that I applied to wrestle squid in the murky depths of the river—I don’t believe any squid actually exists there—or that I’m going to become a professional stuntwoman with zero experience.

“Playing piano at a lounge.” I take a deep breath, gearing up for the next bit. “My boyfriend actually offered it to me.”

“No! Kevin is a bum,” my mom grumbles.

“You’re right. He was. We broke up a while ago, but it had been over for a long time before that. Maybe as soon as it started.”

Mom rolls her eyes without looking the least bit sympathetic. “I told you that—”

“You did,” I interrupt before she can get going on a lecture that will take us way past dessert and teatime. Not that they’ll have ice cream cake. They’ll both politely decline. “I should have listened.” I set the corncob down and reach for my napkin, then fold my hands in my lap. “You’ll probably say that now because what I’m going to tell you sounds like the worst-case scenario, but you’re going to have to trust me. Please.” I flick my tonguebehind my front two teeth, certain I have a huge piece of corn stuck there.

“Your life is yours to ruin if that’s what you want to do,” she huffs, graceful to the last.

“I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“Yes, but you have history.”

If I’m good at counting to ten internally, I would do it, but I’m not. It’s also bullshit. I don’t have to sit here and let anyone tell me that I can’t make mistakes and grow. That I have to be perfect. And by perfect, she means a direct copy of her. That because I have different passions and I like different things, I’m wrong, and I’m always going to be wrong. That my feelings and emotions aren’t valid.