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Chapter 2
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“Mom, I’m begging you, please, please, do not make a scene.” At this point, I was ready to get down on my knees and plead with her. But since we were still in the car, all I could do was hold out my hands in front me as if I were praying. Actually, that is a good idea. I closed my eyes. “Heavenly Father, as we—”
“Oh, will you relax!” she called out, smacking my hands. “Don’t waste God’s time on this. I have it handled.”
“That is exactly what I am worried about, Mom!”
Instead of paying attention to me, however, she leaned forward and looked into the mirror that she had rigged up on the back of the passenger seat, brushing her tiny curls.
“I really like this hairdo, and they said I couldn’t pull off a blonde pixie cut at my age,” she gushed.
I rolled my eyes. “Can we please focus, Mom?”
“Right, let’s go—”
“Wait!” I stopped her before she could take her Christian Dior clutch and get out of the car. “You didn’t tell me what you and the lawyer discussed. What’s the plan?”
She paused and looked back, her amber eyes finally on me. “The plan is to trust your mother.” She smiled, putting on her sunglasses.
“Mom—”
“Let’s go. We’re late,” she declared, opening the door.
Sighing, I looked up at the ceiling and finished my prayer before getting out myself, the air unseasonably frigid, even though the sun was so bright I squinted.
“Told you to wear the glasses, but no,” my mother called from the other side of the car.
Ignoring her, I walked around, staring at the needle-shaped glass skyrise in front of us.
“Thank you for waiting, Oliver. We will call when we’re ready,” she said to our driver, whom we didn’t really need, but she insisted on hiring anyway.
The old man just nodded to us both before going back to move the car off the street. Like always, my mother walked unnecessarily slowly with her head up and with a slight sway, turning the sidewalk into her own personal runway. I just followed her inside because there was nothing I could say. She’d been walking that way since before I was born, and she’d walk that way until she died, according to her.
I’d gotten used to it, along with the stares. It was my normal. However, she didn’t help at all with the Cruella Deville-inspired outfit she had on. She basked in all the attention as always.
“Hello. Welcome to the law office of Greensboro and Brown. How may I help you?” a woman said from behind the counter.
“Yes, Wilhelmina Wyntor-Smith for Mr.—”
“If it isn’t my favorite beauty queen,” said Mr. Greensboro, a middle-aged man with brown skin and green eyes. He had a voice that sounded like the soundtrack to A Christmas Carol, and he came forward with a whole army of younger lawyers behind him.
