Smothered

by Autumn Chiklis

  But not me. Certainly not me. I just don’t understand! Dr. Richmanson is a universally respected voice in the academic community … he can’t seriously think I’m THAT desperate.

  … am I that desperate?

  I called Theo in a fury, storming to the kitchen while still in my pj’s.

  “Yeeello?” I could hear the clanking of plates behind him. Oh, right: he’s at work.

  “So I heard back from Dr. Richmanson.” I ripped open the fridge, searching for some sort of solace. Why is there never anything in the fridge?

  Theo gasped. “And?!?” Excitement bubbled in his voice. Damn him and his encouragement. I slammed the fridge shut and made my way to the pantry.

  “Well, for one thing, it’s for a new start-up in Manhattan.” I scanned the pantry, fingering a box of stale flaxseed crackers before sulking back to the fridge.

  “Oh, shoot—that’s not ideal. Okay, well, what’s the start-up? Did he tell you?” I opened the fridge again with lowered standards and settled on some almond butter.

  “Oh yes, he told me. It’s a monthly subscription to—get this—high-end puppy clothing.”

  The phone went silent except for the clamor of kitchenware. A whole thirty seconds passed before I heard his hesitant voice. “Okay, well, um … so it’s not exactly in your field of interest—”

  “I won the John Pakozdi Undergraduate Award for Outstanding Academic Achievement, Theo!” It came out louder and more hysterical than I meant it to. I scooped up almond butter with my index finger and plunged it into my mouth. “I will not sell booties to millionaire Pomeranians.”

  He chuckled at my mania. “All right, take a breath. Of course you won’t! You are so much more capable than puppy PR.”

  “But here’s the scary thing, Theo. What if I’m not? What if I peaked? What if being a student was the only thing I’ll ever be great at??”

  “Well then, you’ll go to grad school and then law school and med school and collect diplomas and PhDs and student debt. Plenty of people do it! Just ask Saint Richmanson himself.”

  I chortled. Bless Theo’s humor—dry and ruthless and exactly what I needed.

  “Excuse me, I do not think he is a saint. He’s completely boorish, but he’s brilliant.”

  “And so are you, my lady. Brilliant, only without the boorishness and with the beauty.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. He’s so good to me. Why is he so good to me? I should start being this good to me. Also, extra points for alliteration.

  He went on, “I’m sorry, Louie-love. I know you’re disappointed. But hey, think of it this way: you’re one stupid, terrible job choice closer to finding your dream one. And selfishly, I’m very, very happy you’re not moving back to New York!”

  Sigh. Darling Theo. The most positive cynic I know. Where can I get that kind of disposition? I have to go back to yoga.

  Lucky for me, Theo got off of work a bit early, so we’re meeting in half an hour at Froyolo to celebrate his new job and my disappointment. Hey, who knows? If I’m lucky, maybe they’re looking to hire!*

  * * *

  Mama Shell

  * * *

  6:17 P.M.

  * * *

  DISASTER. Complete, abject disaster.

  First of all, I would like to point out that Theo bears no physical resemblance to Charles Manson whatsoever. His hair is a bit on the longer side and his teeth are slightly bucked, but other than that, there is nothing about him that suggests sadistic mass murderer in the slightest. It must have been the Nirvana shirt. Or maybe the yellow skinny jeans.

  But more important: the absolute worst is happening. How is this possible? Mom hasn’t even met Theo yet, and she’s already shattering my perfect union. How on earth was I supposed to respond??

  What serial killer, Mother? Oh! You mean the one who I’ve been emotionally and physically committed to for the past six months of my life? The person who I’ve been trying to tell you about for six months? The man who feeds me delicious carbs while you’re not looking??

  “Who? What, you mean Theo??” I frantically typed, waiting as that little “…” sign showed up, then disappeared, then reappeared, then disappeared again. Finally the message came:

  Mom: Theo? You’ve never mentioned him … Is he a friend of Natasha’s? I’m telling you—that girl keeps weird company.

  Panic. White-hot panic.

  Me: NOOOO he’s just a friend from school! We took physics together!!

  Lie. Total lie. Theo went to New York University and majored in environmental science with a double minor in biology and visual arts. We met when he catered a Columbia event (at which I was presented with the Larry Widenbaum Honor for Academic Integrity, I might add). I chased him around all night in hot pursuit of those chipotle-infused mini quesadillas, and even gave him a shout-out in my speech as “the closest thing I have to a date tonight.” I accidentally knocked over the mic on my way offstage. We’ve been together ever since.

  Mom: What a creeper. Is he safe to drive you home? Do you want me to come pick you up??

  Code Red. SOS. DEFCON 5. RIP.

  Me: Noooo, he’s totally great!! Such a sweet guy. Could never hurt a fly.

  I mean he COULD, if it came to a physical confrontation in which someone felt threatened, but he would never INITIATE violence.

  Also he loves football.

  And steak.

  This was when the laughter started.

  One appallingly miserable trait that I picked up from my mother is her nervous laughter—the kind reserved for the worst conceivable moments, like funerals or serious injuries or public displays of rage. It’s not that I find any of these circumstances funny. This is just how my body chooses to handle uncontrollable nerves—very, very inappropriately.

  Theo stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Oh no. What happened? Who’s hurt? Who died??”

  I shoved my phone so deep into my pocket that I think I tore a hole. What was I supposed to tell him? That my mother and her best friend were gossiping on Ventura Boulevard about the gangly murderer trying to kill me via artisanal sweets?

  “No!” I lied again. “No, nothing’s wrong at all! I’m just remembering something that Val told me … yesterday…” I petered out pathetically. Jesus, I’m such a bad liar.

  He crossed his arms and raised a bushy eyebrow. Dammit, he’s so cute when he’s dubious.

  “Lou, you’re manic laughing. And you’ve started fiddling with your rings.”

  I looked down and sure enough: there I was, ring fiddling. My hands flew to my hips in protest.

  “No I’m not! Everything’s fine! It’s just about … Natasha. She’s not feeling too well.”

  Poor Natasha—she is so under the metaphorical bus.

  “Natasha? What’s going on? Is she all right?”

  “She’ll be fine, she’s just … you know … caught something in India. A bug of sorts.”

  The bushy brows knit together.

  “She’s sick? Is she okay? Did she see a doctor?”

  It took all of my mental strength to keep from ring fiddling. Why, oh why was this happening??

  “Oh yeah, she did, and he said it’s all fine. It’s just a minor case of … er … parasites.”

  PARASITES. Somehow the one thing I maintained from my subconscious hours of constant news cycling at home is that parasites are a problem for white people in India. So that’s what I chose to give Natasha in my moment of desperation: motherfucking parasites.

  Now Theo seemed legitimately worried. “Parasites?” he asked. “How’d she pick up parasites? Was it something that she ate?”

  “Oh, of course your mind goes right to the food!” I joked, hoping to change the subject. But I had just given Natasha parasites. The subject was not being changed.

  “Seriously, is she going to be okay? Parasites are nasty … What else did she tell you?”

  Rings. Fiddling. Must. STOP.

  “Nothing—nothing at all. She just said that she wasn’t feelin
g good, that she went to see a doctor, and that she had a minor case of parasites. She’s fine, not to worry, she’ll be better in a couple of days.”

  I held my breath for what felt like an eternity. Finally the brows unknit.

  “Well, all right,” he conceded. “I’m not sure parasites come in minor cases, but as long as she says she’s okay…”

  “She is!!” I all but screamed, larynx choking on frantic giggles. “She’s positively, absolutely fine. I’m sorry if I worried you—just keep it between us, if you could. Tash asked me not to tell anyone.”

  Theo shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets—his physical equivalent of a white flag.

  “Sure, I’ll keep it a secret. Just keep me updated, will you?”

  I nodded hysterically, spooning a giant bite of cookie-dough froyo into my face to shut it up. The hole I’d dug was deep enough, but regardless, I had done it. I’d somehow lied well enough to keep Theo from knowing the unbearable truth: that my mother had just called him a serial killer, and that I had claimed he liked physics.

  For him, I’m not sure which is worse.

  9:25 P.M.

  * * *

  Still spinning from the horror show that was my day. Tried having some cayenne water to calm myself down. The spice made me cry, so I pulled out chocolate-covered espresso beans instead, which are technically still not the same as having coffee, so I’m in the clear.

  1:52 A.M.

  * * *

  Somehow forgot how much stronger espresso beans are than coffee. Caffeine is biting me in the ass. I can’t fall asleep. Still panicking. Have been lying in bed thinking of ways to untangle the Natasha-Theo-Parasitic-Murderer mess that I’ve woven. Lack of sleep is not helping the anxiety and is clouding my brain. (On the bright side, heart rate acceleration might help with cardio?) Googling how to handle panic attack.

  2:14 A.M.

  * * *

  Google told me I’m having brain aneurysm. Can’t fall asleep for fear that I’ll never wake up. No wonder I’ve been so anxious. Oh god. I hate Google. I hate my brain. I hate India. Going to try posing like Wonder Woman.

  2:35 A.M.

  * * *

  Decidedly not feeling like Wonder Woman. Maybe Wonder Woman post-kryptonite. Wait, no, that’s Superman. Superman’s weakness is kryptonite. Holy shit, I’m losing it. I have to wake up in less than five hours. This is how I die.

  * * *

  JUNE 7

  10:45 A.M.

  * * *

  Waking up at 7:30 was simply not in the cards.

  I finally fell asleep around 3:00 A.M., after Tash confirmed that she’s boycotting most forms of social media. Since she’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s avoided becoming Facebook friends with my mother (suddenly grateful for Mom’s lack of interest in Natasha’s existence), at least one crisis has been averted for now. Not that it helps much. For the precious few hours I did sleep, I was haunted by visions of serial killer Theo, tormenting people with a paring knife and skillet.* Ugh ugh UGH.

  I can’t tell Mom. Whatever hope I had for Theo’s acceptance just died with the rest of Manson’s victims. I suppose the only reasonable thing left to do is to start leading a double life, whereby I spend six months in LA and six in Italy or Spain or someplace where having hips is culturally accepted.**

  10:48 A.M.

  * * *

  Oh boy. Mom just came in to check on me.

  “Why are you still in bed?” she asked, arms already crossed, mug of sweet, sweet-smelling coffee in hand.

  “Uh … I don’t feel very well,” I croaked, which was completely true. In fact, it was an understatement.

  “Oh no! What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  I shoved my face into a pillow and moaned. How could I possibly explain what was wrong?? I felt her hand snake under the cushion and land on my forehead—the all-knowing ther-MOM-eter.

  “Well, you don’t have a fever,” she concluded, doubt rising in her voice.

  “It’s just a stomachache.”

  She nodded, suddenly understanding. “I’m telling you, it’s that ice cream. Dairy gives you agita.”

  I sighed into the pillow before tossing it on the floor, just in time for Muffin to stroll in and pee on it.

  “I’m okay, Mom. I just want to sleep in a little. Is that okay?”

  She leaned over and kissed my forehead, both as a loving gesture and a secondary fever check. Once she seemed confident that I wasn’t dying, she smiled and straightened back up.

  “All right, well, let me know if you need anything. Oh! You know what will make you feel better? A nice cup of lemon-cayenne water!”

  And with that, she ran out of the room—undoubtedly toward the kitchen spice rack.

  I have to talk to Val. She’s the only person who can conceivably help me through this mess. Who better to help me with Mom than Mini-Mom?

  DRAT. I forget that she’s back at school. Ugh, lucky bitch. I’d do anything for an essay to write. Or a history test to study for. Just anything to distract me from my actual life.

  * * *

  Val

  * * *

  5:30 P.M.

  * * *

  Valentina Hansen started turning into Mini-Mama around age five, when she strutted into the living room wearing nothing but Christian Louboutins and pearls.* Val has since followed categorically in Mom’s footsteps, making her both a perfect and an impossible child for Mom to raise. Watching them fight is like watching an aggravated cat scratch and hiss at a mirror for twenty minutes—amusing and terrifying all at once.

  I heard the faint purr of Val’s car roll up to the house at 3:20, and rushed outside to meet her. She’d barely opened the door before I grabbed her by the arm and started pulling.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I urged, all but dragging her out of the driveway. “We only have seven minutes before Mom gets suspicious and uses Find My Friends.”

  “Whoa, whoa, what’s this about, babe? You’ve been acting totally weird … OW, you’re hurting my selfie hand!”

  I loosened my grip from her delicate wrist, and she rolled it around a few times.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, looking over my shoulder to see if Mother Dearest was following.

  “It’s all good, just gotta take care of the moneymaker, you know? Now: what’s up?”

  I checked the street one last time before lowering my voice to a whisper. “Okay, so, I, um … all right, so this has to stay between us.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Lou, of course. What’s going on? Did you, like, get a job stripping or something?”

  That honestly felt like a better alternative. I waited until we rounded the corner before taking a deep breath. “No, I’m not stripping, I … well, I might, sort of, kind of … have a boyfriend?” I asked, as though it were a question.

  Val’s beautifully chiseled jaw hit the floor. “WHAT?!”

  “SHHHHH.”

  “How long? Who is he? What’s his name? Is he tall? Why didn’t you tell me??”

  The questions came faster than I could answer them. Wow, Val has NEVER been so interested in my life before. Huh … actually, it feels nice to finally be the center of intrigue. Maybe I should keep more secrets, and become a sexy mysterious free spirit type who hitchhikes to music festivals and sports an infinity tattoo.

  “Okay, okay, calm down. His name is Theo, and—”

  “Oh my god, Theo—that’s a hot guy name. Theo. I like it. It’s, like, quirky but fire at the same time.”

  I snorted.

  “Well, emphasis is on the quirky.”

  She raised a sleek brow and crossed her arms, Mom-style.

  “Hmmm … quirky, huh? What’s his full name?”

  “Theodore Greenberg.”

  With lightning-quick speed, Val whipped out her phone and typed his name into a search box. I gasped.

  “WAIT, HOLD ON! He’s not nearly as attractive in his pictures!!”

  “Is this him? Theo underscore Green?”

  She flipped her ph
one around, revealing Theo in a bright-green apron using two tongs as hands. That was it: we were exposed. I exhaled, preparing to fight for his honor.

  “Yes, that’s him, BUT I promise he’s amazing and interesting and so clever and talented and absolutely adorable and—”

  “Lou, what are you talking about? He’s so cute!”

  I froze midsentence, startled.

  “… wait, really?”

  “Yes!! I mean, look at those eyes! DAMN, girl, those eyes! And he’s a chef?? That’s so sick!!”

  She continued to scroll through Theo’s Instagram as I gawked in bewilderment. Her eyes grew bigger as she continued her assessment: “Lou, this profile is on point. His food is, like, freaking artwork.”

  I nearly fainted.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes! I mean, look at these waffles! How did he do that? They’re, like, melting off the plate.”

  I peeked over her shoulder and down at the phone screen.

  “Oh, those were Salvador Dalí–inspired for my birthday.”

  Val covered her eyes with one hand. “Stop it. I’m shook.”

  “… Is that a good thing?”

  “DUH! Lou, he seems so cool! I totally approve.”

  SWEET, SWEET SISTER, VALENTINA BETH. If Val deems Theo cool, then it’s a definitive truth. No argument can be made against it. It is law. Relief and something resembling pride flooded my entire body as I let my shoulders melt away from my ears. How could I have been so paranoid? He truly is so talented. And you know what? He really does have tremendous eyes. Like sapphires, or two shrunken versions of Neptune. Val put her phone back into her pocket and cocked her head in genuine confusion.

  “Babe, what were you so nervous about?”

  All at once, sheer embarrassment crept up into my face, turning my cheeks and ears bright red. I looked down at my feet and shoved my hands in my pockets.

  “I don’t know. I guess he wears a lot of plaid?”

  “So? Come on, Lou, do you really think Mom is that shallow?”