Page 7 of Lance

“Youareokay.” She pulls me into a hug and I don’t stiffen at the contact—a small reminder that Ihavemade progress, that I’m not the same girl I was when I started school three years ago. Back when, hugs—or any other type of physical connection—were certainly not a common occurrence for me. That is one of the many things that has changed since meeting Nia. She grew up in a family that actually touched each other. Hugs, a casual squeeze of the shoulder, linking arms when walking across campus—these were all completely unheard of habits that my best friend had introduced to my life. I wouldn’t say I’m completely used to it, not even after three years of practice, but I’m better. Not quite so much of afreak.

“Okay,” she says, releasing me. “Get that dress on and don’t forget the jewelry I laid out.” She glances over at the alarm clock beside my bed. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.” One last hug and she’s gone, leaving me alone in my room with nothing but my always over-active brain to keep mecompany.

Might as well get dressed. Nia and I went shopping especially for this occasion, a task I usually dread. Parading around in uncomfortable party clothes under those harsh department store neon lights is not exactly my idea of a good time. But to my surprise, we’d found something fairly quickly. The cocktail dress was a shimmery dark bronze with a flippy little skirt and a bustier for the top. The cut of the top and the gold made me feel a little bit like Wonder Woman in it and it wasn’t so revealing to make me uncomfortable. Slipping into the dress now, with my hair and makeup all done, I remember Nia’s words—a banging outfit, she had said—and they feel true. I look good. Ifeelgood.

And of course my mother chooses that moment to call. I wonder, not for the first time, if there’s a way to measure her ability to detect when I’m feeling good about my life. It might be worth doing a case study onit.

I consider ignoring the phone, but I know that she’ll only continue to call me incessantly throughout the night at increasingly shorter intervals until I pick up. If I don’t want her sending the campus police out looking for me before the night gets much later, I may as well answer her now and get it overwith.

“Hey,Mom.”

“Sweetheart.” Her voice is warm, the way it usually sounds at the beginning of our conversations, and I feel a flash of homesickness. Maybe I should have gone back for Christmas after all. “How areyou?”

“I’m good, Mom. How are you? How’s, uh, Dad?” Fifteen years of marriage and it still feels unnatural to call Stevethat.

“Oh, you know your father,” she says, laughing a little. “Work, work,work.”

Yeah. That sounds likeSteve.

“Speaking ofwork…”

Wow. This might actually be a record for her. She usually at least asks about my day before transitioning into her favoritesubject.

“I found the perfect work experience for you thissummer.”

I take a deep breath before I respond, trying to keep my voice even. “Mother, it’s January. The winter term hasn’t even startedyet.”

“All the more reason to get a move on,” she says brightly. “You know how much it helps to be the first on their radar. Anyhow, about this workexperience—”

“Actually, Mom, I don’t really have time for this conversation rightnow.”

A pause. “Oh. Are you in thelibrary?”

“No, Mom.” A bubble of annoyance is growing in my chest. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she would think I was studying on a Friday night in the middle of term break. I had, after all, told her I wasn’t coming home for the holiday so I could stay at school and finish the last of my grad school applications. But James told her about this party and about inviting me, I know he did. Was she really unable to comprehend that I might take him up on it? “I’m going to that party tonight,” I tell her. “WithJames.”

Silence on the other end of the phone. “You know, for the talk show taping? The label is throwing it to celebrateand—”

“I didn’t know you were going tothat.”

I breathe in through my nose, trying to tamp down the annoyance. “James invited me. He told you that he was going to, didn’the?”

“Well, yes.” She definitely sounds miffed now. “But I had no idea that you had any intention ofgoing!”

Because I’m twenty-two years old and I don’t need to run my Friday night plans past you,I think, but I bite my tongue. “My brother, who I haven’t seen since before he went to Europe, is playing on a nationally broadcast late night show, Mom. And the party just so happens to be a few miles from my apartment. Why wouldn’t Igo?”

“I just assumed that with yourworkload—”

“I’m on break, Mom. Classes don’t start for another twoweeks.”

“So your applications are just a walk in the park now?” she asks, her tone back to that familiar shade of disapproval I know so well. It automatically fills me with guilt, that tone, and I have to fight to shove itdown.

You’re not doing anything wrong, I tell myself, the voice in my head sounding suspiciously likeNia’s.

“I sent most of them in months ago. I think I can afford to take a night off,” I snap. “It’s one night,Mom.”

“These are very important applications, sweetheart,” she continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Which will determine your post-graduate plans. I hardly think now is the time to getcomplacent.”

Complacent. As if I have a complacent bone in my body. A movement at the hem of my dress catches my eye and I realize that I’m picking at a loose thread, just like I had been doing earlier. I make a conscious effort to stop—I’m not going to mess up this dress. Just like I’m not going to let my mother mess up thisnight.