Don't Look Down

thirty-four: don't touch me

Not only has she manufactured an acceptable path for my life, she's inserted herself into it, acting as the guide who drew the roadmap to my nonexistent success.

Irritation boils beneath my surface, powerful and violent. My life may not be impeccable but it's my life. I don't need perfection to be proud of it and I'm not about to let her invent a mirage and feed it to her friends so she can be, too.

My previous apprehensions about being close to my mother don't register as I step directly beside her and insert myself into her group.

At my intrusion, they all slip on bogus smiles, but June is the first with the verbal greeting.

"Ellie, it's fantastic to see you," she says in the same tone my mother did earlier. "Your mother was just filling us in on your recent life in New York. I can only imagine how wonderful your adventures as a successful editor must be."

It's all for show. Each of these women is as fake as the smiles plastered on their faces. If they had any interest in my 'adventures' in New York, they would've attempted to actually speak to me today, which they haven't.

It's why I have no interest in formalities. Not anymore.

I slip on a smile that reflects each of their own. "Well, I don't want to brag, but life has been pretty great. Not only did I quit my job after my boss blackmailed me into staying with his company, but now I'm unemployed and ready to take on the retail world." I toss my hand onto my hip proudly. "I also have a fantastic roommate I've been sleeping with who has quite the scandalous past. But as we all know, a bad boy is remarkable between the sheets."

All the other ladies'—smiles drop, along with their jaws. The cleaning crew might have to mop them off the floor after the festivities.

"Ellie," my mother scolds.

I bat my lashes innocently. "Yes, Mother?"

"Would you excuse us ladies?" My mother grabs my arm. "My daughter and I have some things we need to discuss."

She turns us around and pulls me along so we're located along the wall an acceptable distance from her ease-dropping gal-pals. I feel no fear with her fingernails digging into my skin, so familiar to the way they have in the past. I only feel anger.

I rip my arm from her clutches. "Don't touch me."

"What do you think you're doing?" She inches herself into my personal space and keeps her voice low.

I cross my arms over my chest. "Just filling the ladies in on my wonderful adventures in New York."

"By shaming yourself?"

Of course that's how she'd view the reality of my life—as a disgrace, not only to myself, but more importantly, to her.

"No, by speaking the truth and being okay with it. You see, some of us actually live our lives. We don't tiptoe around, hiding behind a perfect façade. We stumble, we endure, and at the end of the day, we come out stronger because of it."

"Quitting your job doesn't make you strong. It makes you foolish. Just like you were when you ran off to college."

"Brown University, Mom. Brown. A university you fail to recognize is an Ivy League school because it wasn't the choice you'd made for me and it got me away from you."

"You had no reason to leave. You had a good life here."

"No. I had a controlled life."

"Controlled meant safe."

Her hands lift into the air, either aching to reach for me or slap me for speaking so freely. I'm betting on the latter.

I eye her hands. "It felt like something different to me."