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“Are you hooking?”
I’m so startled, my jaw falls open. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I’m not stupid. You got those new headphones after I broke the other ones and now you’re wearing shit like this. Meeting strange men in hotels downtown late at night.”
“What?”
“I checked your iPad when you weren’t answering. I saw where you were. So, what? Are you hooking?”
“Escort,” Larry chimes in. “They’re called escorts when they dress like this and look as pretty as her.”
“Oh,” Mom says, launching up off the couch. “My daughter’s a fancy hooker. What a proud day!”
“I am not… hooking.” I can’t believe I just had to say that.
She nods, walking over to me, her eyes on my face. I can tell by her stance and the look in her eyes, she’s spoiling for a fight.
I cannot believe I left Milo for this.
“How much you make?” she asks, lifting her chin at me, then looking me over. “Gotta make good money in a dress like that.”
“I told you, I am not a hooker. I am not an escort, either.”
“You some rich guy’s sugar baby?” Larry asks, smiling in a manner that turns my stomach. “Not technically hooking if you only have one client, is it?”
That makes my stomach drop because it’s a little too close to home, but I recover quickly because there is nothing remotely cheap about the way Milo treats me.
“You know, I left areallynice night to come here, to be here for you because you were upset—”
“Oh, you want a—” Mom looks past me at Larry. “She wants an award for acting like a daughter for once in her life. Come on, baby, let’s give her a round of applause.”
Larry laughs and starts clapping his big, stupid hands.
I wish this didn’t still have the power to hurt. I should be used to her shit by now. How can she still get to me like this?
“I think you need to start paying rent,” she tells me. “You’re 18 now, got yourself a big girl job, maybe a man. You got a man, baby?”
I look away, my insides seeming to shrink as she asks the question.
“Who is he? When am I gonna meet him?”
She can never meet him.
“I mean, if you’re not hooking and he’s not some old fart with a lot of money, you must have a serious boyfriend, huh? One who can afford to buy you fancy clothes and take you on nice dates. No high school boy, that’s for sure.” She stops in front of me, her eyes purely malicious, and grabs a handful of my hair. “Where’d you find one of those, huh?”
“Let go,” I say, grabbing the chunk of hair she’s holding onto and trying to pry her fingers off.
“What’s his name?” she asks, more manic than before. “Surely you can tell me that much.”
I’m beginning to get an overwhelming feeling of panic that sheknowswho I was with. She said she knew where I was. She’s done crazy shit in the past—stalked exes when they were out on dates with new girls, driven past their houses to see what they’re up to if she thinks they’re trying to pull one over on her.
“Maybe I already met him,” she says, yanking my hair so hard she turns me around. “Huh?” She grabs my arm, pinning it behind me. Then, viciously, she says in my ear, “He never boughtmepretty fucking clothes like that.”
She knows.
I walked into a trap.
“Let me go,” I cry, reaching the only arm I can move back to try to push her off me.
