Reckless Together: A Contemporary New Adult College Romance (The Reckless Series) (24 page)

"You'll be okay, El. You will.
I
believe in you." He kissed me, leaned over me, and opened my car door. "Don't take this the wrong way, but go! You'll be late."

I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, hoping his confidence wasn't misplaced. But fearing it was. I'd had more experience dealing with Mom than anyone else had, but I was still no match for her.

Class was a disaster—poorly attended. No one paying attention. The prof let us out fifteen minutes early. As I walked into the mall toward the SUB, I couldn't help noticing moms everywhere. And so it began—the squealing, the drinking, the partying, the happy reunions. Every kind of emotion. Moms ruled campus.

I had barely found a seat in the SUB and was settling down to study, when I got a text from my mom.
Just leaving, sweetie. See you in five hours! LOL

LOL,
right
. More like pure terror. My hands shook as I put the cell phone back in my pocket. Five hours to prepare for battle.

All my life—at least my life since I'd developed boobs—I'd tried to be invisible next to Mom. I let her win. Let her turn heads without even trying to compete. But now I grabbed a mirror from my backpack and took a look at myself. My hastily applied makeup. My jeans and T-shirt. The hair I hadn't curled. I was tired and scared, but I wasn't going down without a fight.

It was time to show Melissa Ann Sawyer that I could compete. That her time as Evil Queen was fading and my star as Snow White was rising. When she saw me for the first time in almost a year, I wanted her to see my rebellion. I wanted her to see me as true competition.

I reached into my backpack for a couple of acetaminophen to ward off cramps and downed them with an entire bottle of water. Counterintuitive, but drinking water actually reduced bloating. I learned that from her, too. I chewed a piece of candied ginger and schemed, planning my outfit. I should have thought of all this before. Logan's pep talk had given me the confidence I needed. He was right, of course. I had to get rid of my anger. But first, I had to show Mom that I wasn't afraid of her. Even if I was.

Just before three, I made myself go back to my dorm and get dressed for my execution. Ignoring the bloaty way I felt, I put on tight, skinny jeans, heels, my peridot bellybutton ring, and a cute spring crop top that showed off my piercing and my abs. I curled my hair. Applied new makeup. And waited for her to arrive.

While I waited, I stood at my window and watched moms arrive like they'd been blown in by the wind. Watched the hugging and the laughter. The arms around each other. The introductions to friends. The pride—
this is my mom!
The embarrassment—
this is my mom.
The joy and the anxiety.
 

I felt that old longing again for a family. The little girl I had been wanted her mommy, the mommy of children's stories. The kind that will find and rescue her child anywhere, like in
The Runaway Bunny
. Is your mama a llama? My mama was a terror.

But I remembered her reading me those stories and the assault of my memories began. I had worked to push the happy recollections away. It wasn't that hard, because there weren't that many. Not in recent years. But when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink, the zit had gone flat and was practically invisible.
Mom.
She always knew what to do with imperfection. Except with me. She'd been stuck with plain old imperfect me.

A memory, just a flash, of me in sixth grade when my face started breaking out for the first time. And that awful boy in my class who called me a zit head. Running home after school and crying. And Mom telling me I was beautiful and this phase of pimples and breakouts would pass, but the key was not to let it scar me. That eventually the boys would be begging from my attention. But I had to be careful whom I gave it to.

"Don't let anything scar you, Ellie." Her eyes were fierce and protective. "Scars ruin your life." She held me tight, like she was protecting me from a dark scary world.
 

And then her protective mood passed. She was like that. She went all businesslike and beauty expert on me. Superficial. She bought me the best acne products. How did she know what to buy? It was impossible to imagine my flawlessly beautiful mother had ever had a zit.

She taught me the hot washcloth trick. And failing that, how to sterilize a needle to pop, but never squeeze. Looking back, remembering the ferocious look on her face, I realized she was talking about more than physical scars. Now that I thought about it, I didn't think she was talking about physical scarring at all. But I must have been wrong, because beauty was all to Mom.

I remembered other things, too. Like how she loved hair and played with and combed mine like I was her little doll. Other little girls had scraggly straight hair or common, regular braids. I had French herringbone braids. Inside-out braids. Side braids. When I was upset or hurting, Mom would sit me down and run her fingers through my hair. "I think you need a new style. Something to perk you up." And then she'd do something new and fun with ribbons and feathers and curls in my hair until I felt like a princess.

I would sit very still, enjoying the feel of her hands in my hair. Mom wasn't cuddly or maternal. This was the best touch I got.

And one more thing—the way she stared at me with an intense expression that was almost like fear. When I was little, I lived for that expression. It meant she noticed me. So much of the time I was either invisible or the competition.

But as I grew up, the scrutiny became unbearable and downright irritating.

I remembered screaming at her once. "Stop staring at me! What are you looking for?"

"The person you're becoming." Her gaze was steady, but her voice trembled. "I'm looking for your father in you."

"My dad? What about him?" I had perked up. I was going through that gawky, geeky junior high age when none of your features fit right. It was an odd time for me. Horrifying in that I felt ugly. And reassuring because I was no competition for Mom, which meant we were at semi-peace with each other more of the time than usual. "Do I look like him?"
 

I sounded too eager. It was a mistake.

She frowned almost immediately. "I don't know who you look like. You don't look like anybody," she'd said flatly. "Not me. Not him. You're just you. Maybe that's for the best." But she sounded disappointed.

I was always disappointing her in one way or another.

"But I have his hair color, right?" Hey, she'd opened the door. She never talked about him. I seized my opportunity. "Is he handsome? Is my dad totally hot?" I was taunting her. Why the hell had she slept with this man and then refused to talk about him or acknowledge him?

She stared directly into my eyes, but her look was faraway. "He's either hideously ugly and cruel, a real troll, or cute and kind."

"But which is he? You know. You were there when you made me. Why won't you tell me?" I was screaming at her by then.

"Shut up, Ellie." She looked tired. "Screaming makes you ugly and worries me."

I had totally forgotten that conversation until this minute. I was just as confused by it now that I knew the truth as I was then. How could anyone think Jason was ugly? It was like Mom saw things in an odd way, like two sides of a harlequin mask. There was a part of me now that wanted to tell her I knew the truth. But only a small part. The rest of me was determined to keep her from Jason.

A series of squeals in the hall pulled me from my memories. The door to our room opened. Bre walked in with her arm through her mom's. I felt a pang of jealousy. And I thought, once again,
Crap. Mom is going to eat Bre's mom for lunch.
 

Bre introduced me. "Mom, this is Ellie. Ellie, this is my mom—"

Her mom smiled at me. "Call me Donna."

Donna was plain and middle aged, plump with short, graying hair in a cut that screamed
mom
. Her makeup consisted solely of a too-bright shade of lipstick that emphasized the wrinkles in her lips and made her look older than she probably was. She wore unflattering jeans that were too high in the waist and sensible tennis shoes. I had to slap the thought of making her over right out of my mind as something Mom would do, not me. I had learned too much superficiality from my mother.
 

"I brought you girls some homemade cookies," Donna said. "They're in the car along with some other goodies to snack on. You two are both so thin!"

"Frosted sugar cookies?" Bre's eyes lit up.

Donna shook her head. "I didn't have time. Chocolate chip."

Bre sighed. "Better than nothing. We are sick to death of dining hall food." She laughed.

"Don't tell Tay that," I said. "They've been working hard to improve the food for this weekend and the moms." I winked at Donna. "It's purely false advertising."

Donna's laugh was hearty and genuine. "Some things haven't changed. Will they be serving steak? Or is that just for Dad's Weekend?"

"I'm sure we'll have the usual selection, just a grade better," I said.

Donna was friendly and I liked her. We gave her the detailed tour of our room, our polished-to-perfection, looking-like-it-never-looked-in-real-life room. That took about two seconds. Then she and Bre went to her car to get her bags and the promised cookies.
 

My door was open. Bre had barely left when Nic called out to me from the hall and popped her head in. "Ellie? Are you in? Is your mom here yet? I want her to meet mine."
 

"I'm here. Mom isn't. Come on in and introduce yours to me."

Nic pulled a middle-aged woman into my room. Their arms were wrapped around each other like they were best friends. Even though Nic was a good three inches taller than her mother, her mom held her happily and protectively. Proudly.

"Mom, meet one of my best friends. This is Ellie Martin."

I stood to shake her hand.
 

She pulled me into a hug. "So you're the famous Ellie?"

I blushed.

"I'm Linda. I hear we're going to be hanging with you and keeping your mom out of trouble?" Her eyes sparkled. She smelled like a pleasant floral perfume, applied with a heavy hand.

She had a gravelly voice like she used to be a smoker, but it was filled with good humor. Dyed blond hair that was over-processed. She and Nic were dressed in jeans and matching sorority V-neck T-shirts in pale blue. She had a tiny, obviously aging tattoo on her wrist.

"Or keeping her in trouble, depending on how you look at it." I stepped out of the hug.
 

"Oh, I'm good at that! Bring it on." Linda's eyes danced.

"You two look very…sorority," I said.

Linda laughed. "Don't we just! Of all my girls, I didn't think this one, my sporty one, would be the one to go Greek. I haven't seen her out of sweats and yoga pants for three years. I thank the sorority for that!"

"Mom!" Nic rolled her eyes.

I laughed with Linda. She was exactly right.

"We have to go to a sorority thing tonight," Nic said. "Now that you bailed on our frat party plan, we won't see you until tomorrow?"

I nodded. "Yeah, sorry. Logan's mom invited us to dinner."

Nic laughed. "Good luck with that." She sighed and turned to her mom. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow to see if Melissa lives up to her hype. Personally, I had a few frat guys I wanted to see her shoot down. Payback."

I shook my head. "Next time."

"Okay," Nic said. "We have to be off or we'll be late to our function. Just wanted to say hi."

After they left, Bre returned with her mom, a suitcase, a bag of goodies, and two sleeping bags and matching camping pads. We set the room up. Bre and her mom left to tour the campus.
 

My phone sounded. A text from Mom.

I'm here.

Chapter Seventeen

Mom's laugh was the first thing I heard as I came down the steps into the lobby. That mesmerizing, seductive laugh that oozes charm and used to make me want to please her just to hear it.

How had she gotten in? Even though it was Mom's Weekend, the doors were still locked. She'd obviously charmed her way in.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. Mom had as many laughs as Eskimos had words for snow. She could laugh with you or at you, and that made all the difference. Sometimes she was so subtle she left you in doubt—was she making fun of you? Or were you in on her private joke?