The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four

      “I’m home!” my mother’s voice echoed through the almost empty house, the only word I could think to describe it being “jolly”.

      Every year around this time, Monica Turner’s mind got taken over by an army of elves. She transformed into a lady who wore bells as earrings on a regular basis and whose normally vastly assorted wardrobe the sole colors of red, white, and green overtook. Sufficed to say that Christmas was her favorite time of year.

      “Fuck,” I muttered, pulling away from the boy my lips had somehow been attached to for a blur of innumerable minutes.

      “Is that your mom?” he asked, deserting my bed as I did the same. What a class act I was turning out to be— having a make-out session in my room with an attractive quarterback, when we were supposed to be working on homework. I would have never even imagined that this would be my life four years ago.

      “Yeah,” I gulped, brushing down my shirt in an attempt to smooth out any telltale creases.

      “Elizabeth!” I heard my mom bellow.

      “In my room with Eric Wilson!” I decided to give her a fair warning as I replied loudly.

      “Oh, Eric’s here? Hi, Eric!” she called, the sharp heels of her stilettos letting themselves known by the distinct clank as she walked down the hallway, nearing my room.

      “Hi, Ms. Turner,” Eric returned through the closed door, glancing at me as if to ask why I had made his presence known to her.

      “It’s Monica, sweetie!” my mom laughed, the clangor of her shoes becoming louder by the second. Suddenly, the doorknob began to wobble, unsuccessfully fulfilling its duty of allowing the individual on the other side entrance. “Elizabeth, honey, why is the door locked?”

      “Oh, uh, sorry about that,” I quickly rushed over to the door and opened it, only to come face to face with a candy cane who slightly looked a heck of a lot like my mother.

      Standing before me was a blonde woman in her late thirties, with eyes matching my own. She was adorned in a white and red striped dress, greatly resembling a certain candy customarily associated with the upcoming holiday. Heels of a nauseating green were strapped to her feet, Lawson originals, no doubt. Her crystal eyes began to explore my room from the doorway, stopping at a particular boy who stood a few feet away from me. She had zeroed in on her chosen target.

      “Let’s make a new rule,” a cheery smile filled with authority surfaced, “no locking doors. Wouldn’t want to accidentally make a baby, now would we?” Her candor clearly caught Eric off guard, as I heard him cough from behind me, most likely in an effort to conceal any form of amusement he may have had in regards to her blunt words.

      “Sounds like a plan, mom,” I managed to choke out, only marginally surprised with what had come out of her mouth. Boundaries: they were something she lacked, and I knew it all too well.

      When I was about twelve, the same women who had just indirectly accused her daughter of having unprotected sex, asked if I had a crush on my best friend, Justin …while he was standing next to me. It was one of the most uncomfortable situations I had ever been in. I was barely at the primitive stages of my teen years and didn’t like talking about my emotions (not that’s changed, five years later). The worst part about the entire experience was the way that she had inquired, though: “Elizabeth, do you have a crush on Justin?” It was so open— so direct. After that traumatic day, I never once doubted my mother’s abilities to amaze the shit out of me by her straightforwardness.