Page 44 of Faking It
“Mother.” My laugh fills the coach.
“It’s true. There’s no shame in that.” I can hear the crinkle of paper on the other end of the line. Almost as if she’s opening the magazine and looking at the ad again. “It’s a full page ad, too. I showed everyone in line at the supermarket.”
“Oh, god.”
“I did. I also bought every copy they had.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did too. I’m not letting my baby’s big break go by undocumented.”
“I’ve had breaks before.” Let’s hope this time around, the visibility actually pans out and more jobs come in because of it.
“You have. But this time I know it’s going to be the one, Low. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You have to say that,” I say through a chuckle. “You’re my mother.”
“You know me better than that. I tell you truths only. That’s my job.”
“Truths and fairytales,” I say with a laugh.
“You’re never too old for a fairytale, mija.”
“Oh, please.”
She lets off a string of Spanish saying that I’m crazy and it makes me smile. And miss her.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” I say softly.
“Missing me, are you?” she asks in her knowing mother’s tone.
“Yeah. I am. It’s . . .” I look around at what my world now consists of and long to tell her the truth. Confining. Surreal. Confusing. “It’s an experience,” I say.
“Tell me he’s treating you well. That he’s not pressuring you to do things you don’t want to do.”
“No,” I laugh, glossing over the fact that he may not be pressuring me, but temping me is another story. “He’s a gentleman.” Except for when he kisses me senseless one night and then the next few days only grunts words to me unless we’re in promotion mode. “He’s confusing.”
“Men always are, mija.”
“He’s . . .”
“You like him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m your mother and I know these things.”
“I don’t like him,” I say, maybe only to convince myself. “I mean, it’s only been six days. That’s not a lot of time to know if I like someone or not.”
“So you’re not sure if you do, then?”
I sigh. “We work well together. People believe the story we’re selling.”
“I haven’t told a soul otherwise,” she says unprompted and immediately has me worried she’s told the truth to one of the members of her salsa dancing group. I let the silence fall on the line as a subtle warning to her. “I promise, mija. I wouldn’t want to mess this up for you.”
“’Kay.”
“Then what is it that’s bugging you?”
