Mom frowns. “That’s a shame.”
I shrug, taking another bite of bread.
“What about that new friend of yours that helped you out at the grocery store that one time?” Mom asks. “Was she the one in that Instagram picture you were tagged in?”
My stomach drops. Shit, did Nikki tag me in something inappropriate? She knows my situation—she wouldn’t do that, would she? “Which picture?”
“Hold on, I’ll pull it up.”
While Mom looks through her phone, Dad clears his throat. “So, uh, what classes are you taking this semester?”
“Oh, um, I’ve got Intro to Psychology, Elementary Statistics, Intro to Ethics, Global Issues, and one called ‘Art, Society, and Culture.’”
Dad’s face twists with disgust. “Global issues? What is that?”
“It’s a political science credit,” I explain. “It’s basically an introduction to contemporary issues in world politics, like conflict, trade and business relationships, environmental concerns, population, and human rights. Stuff like that.”
Dad flashes a snarky grin. “So, liberal talking points?”
“Bill,” Mom warns without even looking up.
“Sure, I guess you’d probably call it that,” I reply flatly, taking a huge gulp from my water.
Dad grunts. “I suppose I should expect nothing less from a public university.”
“Here it is,” Mom interjects, shoving her phone towards me. “Is that your new friend?”
I eagerly scan the photo and am instantly relieved. It’s a selfie of Nikki and me, and we’re in an innocent pose, linking arms and laughing at the camera. Nikki snapped it a few weeks ago at an open-mic night we attended as a date. The performance was terrible, but we still made the best of it and ended up laughing at our own jokes about the comedian afterward.
“Yeah, that’s Nikki,” I say with a smile. “She’s great! We’ve been hanging out a lot, too.”
“It’s always good to make new friends,” Mom agrees, her tone less enthusiastic. She takes her phone back and starts to put it away, but Dad gives her a light tap, and she wordlessly hands it to him. “Even if—well, never mind.”
I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. I should drop it. I know I should. Clearly, Mom caught herself before saying something rude or inappropriate, so I should let it go.
But my curiosity won’t allow it.
“Even if what?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mom says dismissively. “I’m sure I’m just being too traditional.”
Before I can ask her to clarify, Dad snorts. “Are all these tattoos and piercings real? Good Lord.”
“Now, come on, Bill, we shouldn’t judge,” Mom reprimands, snatching her phone back from him. “That’s just what a lot of young people are doing these days.”
“How does she expect to get a decent job looking like that?” Dad asks. “A couple of small tattoos that are easily covered is one thing. But she’s got sleeves of ‘em! And did I see one of those pig-snout rings?”
My jaw clenches, but I push through it. “It’s called a septum piercing, Dad.”
“Why would anyone ever get a ring through their nose?” Dad continues. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I just can’t stand how that looks, especially on a pretty girl.”
My hands start to shake, so I ball them into fists under the table. Breathe in. Breathe out. Their ignorant opinions mean nothing. Five more years. Five more years.
“That’s enough, Bill,” Mom snaps. “I’m sorry, DEADNAME. Your dad and I are old school when it comes to things like that. I’m sure Nikki is a very nice girl.”
“All right,” the server announces, carrying a massive tray full of plates. “I have the glazed pork chop with creamed corn and collard greens?”
Dad raises his hand, sliding his glass of Diet Coke over to make room for the server to set his plate. Mom and I receive our plates soon after, and the conversation is officially closed.
