Cult

3: Tattoo Ω

My mother laughs.

Her nose crinkles just a tad and her lips curl. Suddenly, she grimaces, leaning closer to me. “Tomorrow, you will go to lunch with that man and you will smile and hold his hand and kiss him if he asks you to,” she declares in a hushed whisper.

My lips part, but I am unsure what to say. “Do you understand me, Katarina?” she repeats.

“Yes, mother,” I sigh.

As though my schedule wasn’t packed and uncomfortable as it was, now I have secured a long afternoon of being hit on and casually felt up by Zayn. I look over at the chauffeur, momentarily contemplating how to signal for him to take me to McDonalds instead of the dress shop. But he makes no response. The wrinkles under his eyes crease like vanilla cake batter spilling into a mold.

I glanced at my schedule. Suffocating in skin tight dresses is probably much more comforting than having Zayn’s hands lingering on my waist.

My mother pats my thigh and turns her attention to our driver.

“Chop chop, Marty. We don't want to be late,” she reminds him.

“Yes ma’am,” he tips his cap.

My mother knots her fingers in her lap and blinks extensively. That’s the one thing we have in common: fidgeting when we are nervous.

“Is there any way you could drive a dash over the speed limit, Marty?” mother nags. Our driver merely nods and presses on the gas.

I edge toward the window seat and rest my face in my palm, staring out the window. We are making our way out the elite, yet conservative suburbs of Connecticut and heading to Hartford. There are plenty of fancy dress shops in Hartford, but my mother is extremely picky. I am her only child, the one thing she can manipulate and mold to her liking, until the day I turn 18.

“Is there a reason why we can’t just go to Nordstroms or Lord and Taylor? They’re much closer and cheaper compared to Vera Wang and Barney,” I point out softly, speaking mostly to my lap. My mother laughs snarkly.

“Cheaper,” she chuckles. “This is your Debbie we’re talking about, Katarina, there won’t be a single ‘cheap’ garment on you,” she declares, raising a finger. She notices that I don’t seem half as confident in her statement as she is, so she tilts my chin up.

When her eyes met mine, I squint at the tiny specs of green and gold in her irises. They seem to quiver, as if every painful, vulnerable emotion is hiding behind her façade of happiness. My mother never speaks of her family, partially because she is embarrassed of them. I know she didn’t grow up in a wealthy home and to her, that is a disgrace.

I am grateful for the luxuries I have grown up with, I truly am, but the moment someone tries to convince me to live for this lifestyle, for this empty image, that’s when I will draw the line.

My mother adjusts my outfit, fluffing the collar of my laced, but simple blouse, patting my pleated skirt, and tugging my glasses down.

“Hey,” I protest softly, but she pulls them from the arch of my nose. The world looks terribly blurry all of a sudden. My mother holds my glasses in her hands and examines them.

“These glasses are horrid. How can you bear to wear such a bulky hunk of ceramics on your nose?” she gasps, completely perplexed by my tastes and decisions.

“I can’t see anything without them,” I reply plainly. I reach for my glasses, but she raises her brow.

“I’m getting you contacts for the Debbie,” she tells me, holding my glasses behind her.