My mother holds my death sentence in her hands.
I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, awaiting her response, even though I already know what it is. Ella, for she prefers to be called that, finally looks up. Her muddy brown eyes strip away whatever dignity I have. I am weak, a helpless victim in her presence.
"This is not acceptable," Ella enunciates each word. "Eighty- nines are not acceptable, Leila."
A scowl flits across her face when I do not respond. She likes getting a reaction out of me, but I am determined not to give her what she wants.
What kind of mother is she anyway? Treating me worse that the dirt under her four- inch heels? Mothers are supposed to love their daughters, aren’t they?
“How do you expect to get into a good college? A good job? Pathetic. I'm ashamed to call you my daughter.”
Okay, scratch that. Mothers apparently feel they need to rip out their daughters’ throats when they get one measly eighty- nine.
She throws the report card at me. I don’t look at her, but at the floor. I count the cracks in the wood, not wanting to look at Ella’s face. Her anger fills the room, pushing me back against the wall.
"You will do better than this. My child will not get low grades. She will get one hundreds. Every time."
She is using The Voice; the same one that I used to think was scarier than Darth Vader's. Now, when she talks to me like this, I just feel… empty. There is no fear. Just… familiarity. This scene is now a part of our household. All I want is for her to shut up so I can leave. All she wants is for me to die. Probably.
She snaps her long, pale fingers in front of my face. “Leila May! Don’t you dare zone out on me again! Look at me!” If she said that in a ghetto accent, I’d have died of laughter. So yes, I would have not said that again.
“I’m sorry, Ella. I’ll do better next time, I promise.” It is perfectly scripted at this point. It is second nature. I don’t care anymore. If I was still nine, I’d be crying and begging for forgiveness.
Ella nods, but her eyes are still blazing. When my father, Allen, comes home, there will be another fight.
I retreat upstairs, to my room, throwing myself onto the childish pink bed. It is not mine, but the little girl Allen wants me to be.
Ella walks in, and the report card is held between her claws. “Allen is home. Go set the table, sweetie.” Her voice is honeysweet and I want to gag. If Ella thinks I’m going to forgive her, she is out of her mind. If she has one, that is. All she thinks about is herself. “Lelly?” She snaps her fingers. I hate that nickname. She only uses it when she wants something. When I was little, I thought she gave me the nickname because she loved me and I was special. Those days are over.
I want to refuse. But I get up and walk into the dining room.
Allen is there, and he gives me a big smile. “Hey, sweetie! How was your day?”
“Good.” ‘Good’ is a nice, safe reply. I don’t look at him, putting forks on the table. “I got my report card.” Ella was going to tell him sooner or later.
He clucks sympathetically. “Well, that’s too bad.” He doesn’t ask if I got any good grades. Just, “Well, that’s too bad.” He assumed I have failed. No faith whatsoever in his daughter.
Ella descends down the stairs. “Allen,” she kisses him. There is no love in the gesture. Her lipstick leaves a mark on his cheek. It looks wrong, out of place on my buisness man father. Why did he marry an ex- supermodel? Why not his secretary?
Ella looks at me with her cold eyes. “Hurry up.” Her eyes are squinting angrily at me. “I still haven’t forgiven you,” She mouths. Forgiven me? I didn’t do anything! “Allen, honey, about Leila’s grades…” Ella’s arm has snaked around Allen’s neck. In Allen’s eyes, my mother is the sexiest woman alive, and she has him wrapped around her finger. The yelling will begin shortly. It is not fair. Why do I have to suffer? Because Ella thinks she's Queen of the World, and Allen believes her.
I put down the knives and I wish I could stab her.
