Page 40 of Bad Intentions

But it’s hard to get someone to listen when their response is walking out.

In the days that led up to the bar fire, slamming doors in this house became frequent, on repeat, as if I were ruining Alysha’s life though all I wanted was to protect her.

I was putting paperwork in my purse, ready to leave for the bar one day when Alysha strutted past me.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Her high heels clacked against the hardwood floor. A low-cut shirt. Her skirt barely covered her behind. She didn’t look at me. “Out,” she replied.

That slight roll of her head was starting to get on my nerves. “Out where? Alysha, come here.”

She turned slowly, like I was bothering her.

“Out where?”

“Gosh, Mother, somewhere!” She chewed her gum like she was chewing a tough steak, with her mouth open. “What do you want me to do? Stay home every day? It’s summertime, my last summer here.”

She popped a bubble with her chewing gum, her eyeliner cat eyes staring at me with annoyance.

I studied her high ponytail, her hand on her hip, her pink lipstick. Just done with high school and half dressed. What happened to the sweet girl who used to like flannel shirts and rain boots, reading Harry Potter books, and catching insects by the creek? Who called me Mom instead of Mother or Ma. I never noticed when my own child became a stranger.

“Who are you going with?” I asked in a cold tone usually reserved for my drunk customers.

“Who do you think? Victoria.”

“To the fair?”

“Yeah, the fair, where else?” She snorted. “Gonna go hang out with a bunch of old people, juniors, and smelly country folks.”

“Oh, and you’re a city girl?”

Her lips curled in a smirk. I knew that curl. She didn’t like it when I put her in her place. Don’t know where she got that attitude from, like she’d been kicked out of a better place and sent to Burnville as a punishment. Younger generations think they invented life, sex, partying, underground music, and fashion. So had I when I was her age. I thought my granny Anther was an uptight churchgoing woman until she showed me a picture of her at a New York venue in 1913 in a risqué outfit. “I miss cabarets, coca wine, and bridge. Everything good always gets banned,” she said with nostalgia, wearing her usual creased dress pants and getting ready to go to church.

My daughter was no exception in thinking that her mother was a dinosaur and “out of the loop.”

“That guy, Derek, I don’t want you to run around with him,” I said, knowing well that we were past the times when I could forbid her things. But she was the clueless one here.

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms at her chest. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“Don’t play dumb, Alysha. You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t.”

“He is bad news. You are about to start college. Don’t let anyone ruin that for you. His kind? They can do it in a blink of an eye.”

She pursed her lips.

We had corporal punishment when I was a schoolgirl. Dad could use a belt now and then. Mom used to smack my hands. You don’t forget kneeling on buckwheat. Or eating soap. These kids? They didn’t know how easy they had it. Our fault too. We didn’t want life to be hard on them.

And that was what I got in return—that little arrogant posture, arms crossed over her chest, pursed lips. Her mobile rang, and by reflex, she jerked to check it, then stopped herself, her cautious gaze back on me.

Good. Because I’d take that damn thing away from her. She didn’t deserve that gadget, didn’t need it. I sure did spoil her.

“Derek is not right,” I told her. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“How about I’m old enough to make my own decisions?”

“How about you do that when you pay your own bills?”