Page 66 of Such Sharp Teeth

When you’re sad, you cry. When you’re happy, you smile, you laugh. But what do you do when you’re angry? Not just mad, but filled with this ugly, consuming rage?

And the thing is, women aren’t allowed to be angry. Nobody likes a mad woman. They’re crazy, irrational, obnoxious, shrill.

I did what I could to control it. After about six months, I stopped going to therapy and stopped answering my mother’s phone calls, her texts. I’ve done my best to avoid her the past two years, because she sets me off.

“Will you talk to me?” she asks. “Please?”

What kills me is this isn’t for me. The conversation she’s begging me for isn’t for my benefit; it’s for hers. She wants to be absolved of all guilt without admitting any wrongdoing. What I want is for her to apologize and take responsibility. I’m not going to get what I want. I know this. So any conversation would only exacerbate my anger.

“No,” I say. “I’m not going to talk to you about it, Mom. It’s not a conversation I want to have. We’re not having it.”

The rest of the drive is just her sobbing into the passenger-side window.

Maybe she is genuinely sad, but I’m willing to bet this is just a tactic to get me to relent and give her what she wants.

When we get to Scarlett’s, I unpack the trunk as she continues to cry in the car. I take all the presents inside and wait for her. Ten minutes pass. I put the kettle on.

I go out to the car and knock on the window, because another thing that women aren’t allowed to be is heartless.

“Come in,” I say. “I made tea.”

“I need a minute,” she says.

I go back inside and pour two cups of Earl Grey.

I fully expect a continuation of the car unpleasantries, but when Mom comes in, she’s got a weird look on her face.

“Scarlett left the same time as us?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”

“She should be home by now.”

“Maybe she stopped somewhere.”

“I texted her. She hasn’t replied.”

“She’s probably driving.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Now she has me worried. We sip our tea in silence.

Half an hour goes by. No Scarlett.

“I’m calling Ashley,” Mom says.

Ash confirms that Scarlett left when we did.

I call Scarlett. I text her.

Nothing.

Another half hour.

“I can’t take this,” Mom says. “Let’s go.”

She grabs my keys off the counter. I follow her out to the car.

“What are you doing?” I ask, climbing into the passenger seat.