Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3)

by Devon Hartford

  “Sam?” my mom blurted. “What are you going to eat?”

  Dimples? I jolted out of fantasyland and frowned. No, I think my mom meant for dinner. Embarrassment and irritation crackled inside my chest.

  My mom’s voice was her special gift. Children everywhere clamored for my mom to read them bedtime stories and soothe their nighttime fears with that voice of hers. No, seriously. My mom was world famous for her bedside manner. She taught sold-out seminars in mothering to giant auditoriums packed full of people. Seriously.

  Not.

  The waiter was standing at the table with his notepad in hand, waiting to take my order. I hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. I think Christos had hypnotized me with his beautiful blues. Time had slid right by. That was easy to do with Christos by my side.

  The waiter arched an expectant eyebrow at me.

  I glanced down at the menu, “Oh, um, I’ll have the Asian Chicken Salad?”

  “Excellent,” the waiter said, “and for you sir?” he asked Christos.

  “I’ll have crab cakes for an appetizer and the grilled rib-eye with mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  How was it that Christos could eat like a horse and never have an ounce of body fat? It was ridiculous. Maybe all the drinking kept him slim? No, probably not. It had to be all the sex we had. But that was on hold until Mom and Dad were gone. Sigh.

  Sometime later, after the waiter had dropped off everyone’s entrees and people were eating and chatting, Romeo said to Kamiko, loud enough for the whole table to hear, “Our waiter sure is hot. Did you see the bulge in the front of his pants?”

  Kamiko frowned, “Romeo! Do you always have dick on the brain?”

  Romeo grinned, “Yes. I like them on the brain and anyplace else I can fit them.”

  “Them? As in, plural?” Madison asked.

  “As in, a plethora,” Romeo smiled, “A cornucopia.”

  Madison giggled. Jake and Spiridon chuckled. Christos smiled while he chewed.

  My parents looked shocked. They weren’t used to this sort of talk, especially not at the dinner table. It had become normal to me. Maybe my parents needed a good old dose of Samantha’s San Diego. I wasn’t their little girl anymore. I was tired of trying to be someone I wasn’t, just to suit them. I needed to live my life my own way, not theirs. If they didn’t like my friends, they could suck it.

  “I think Romeo needs a dick intervention,” Kamiko joked.

  “I assure you, Kamiko,” Romeo said, “I’ll never kick the dick. I’m a regular Dickaholic, darling. You’ll never catch me at an Alcoholdicks Anonymous meeting. Not that I’m suggesting you frequent such meetings. I know how much you hate the flesh pistols.”

  Christos raised his eyebrows, amused.

  “Aren’t the Flesh Pistols a band?” Madison asked. “Weren’t they, like, a punk band from the U.K.?”

  “That’s The Sex Pistols, darling,” Romeo corrected.

  “The Who?” Kamiko asked.

  Romeo shook his head. “No, that’s Roger Daltry and Pete Townshend. I’m talking about Johnny Rotten? Sid Vicious? You have heard of them, haven’t you Kamiko?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  Kamiko shook her heard vigorously. “What the hell are you talking about?” She was totally frazzled.

  My parents were even more lost. They exchanged a perplexed glance like they’d woken up in an insane asylum.

  “I know, I know, Kamiko,” Romeo sighed. “If it’s not on Cartoon Network, you have no idea what I’m talking about. How about—” Romeo lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned over to Kamiko’s ear, “Locally grown…Butter Lettuce…”

  Kamiko’s eyes lit up like fireworks and she beamed a smile. “Butter Lettuce party!!!”

  Romeo sighed and hung his head. “I swear, Kamiko, you can’t be more than nine years old.”

  “What the hell are you guys talking about,” Spiridon laughed. Even he was lost now, but he wasn’t horrified like my parents.

  “It’s a line from Bravest Warriors,” Romeo groaned. “A cartoon.” He said the word ‘cartoon’ like it was offensive.

  Kamiko clapped her hands merrily. “I totally forgot! There’s a new episode of Bravest Warriors going up on YouTube tonight! I can’t wait to watch it when I get home!”

  Romeo shook his head, defeated. He leaned toward my mom and said, “I should’ve left Kamiko with the babysitter.”

  My mom leaned away from Romeo like he had leprosy or carried a highly contagious strain of flesh eating bacteria.

  Kamiko smacked Romeo on the arm.

  My mom jumped in her chair and winced as if she’d been the one Kamiko had hit.

  “Ow!” Romeo shouted, turning to face Kamiko.

  “Who’s the baby now,” Kamiko grinned.

  “Why do you have to be so abusive, Kamiko?” Romeo rubbed his arm. “I’m not a cartoon, you know.”

  “Maybe if you were, you wouldn’t be such a baby!” Kamiko squealed.

  I secretly hoped my parents would be the ones who decided to slip out unnoticed because of how weird everyone was acting. Let them be the uncomfortable ones for a change.

  This was my world, bitches!

  Christos leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, “Having fun?”

  “Totally,” I smiled at him.

  I had the best friends, and the best boyfriend, ever!

  ===

  Acid spewed from my mom’s mouth as she said, “I knew that Christos was no good the first time I met him.”

  I stood beside her and my dad outside the elaborate chimpanzee exhibit at the San Diego Zoo several days later.

  She continued, “He acted like a Boy Scout when he was staying at our house in D.C., but I knew it was only a matter of time until a boy like him showed his true colors.”

  Christos and Spiridon had gone off to find some drinks for everybody because we were all thirsty. My mom had suggested the three of us stay and watch the chimps. I should’ve known she was scheming.

  I had managed to make it through almost the entire week of my Spring Break without getting into any arguments with my parents. They hadn’t made a peep about me or my living arrangements or my Art major while we’d gone to Sea World, the San Diego Wild Animal Park, Old Town San Diego, Pacific Beach, downtown to the Gaslamp, and to Coronado Island.

  We’d even toured the USS Midway aircraft carrier, which had been Dad’s idea. The Midway turned out to be amazing because our tour guide had actually worked on the Midway in the 1950s and told us lots of insider stories about his tour of duty.

  I think my dad and Christos bonded a little while they looked at all the jet fighters on the deck and talked about how fast they went and all the missiles they carried. I was glad to listen to their man talk if it meant my dad wasn’t giving me a hard time about my art.

  The only time my dad had said anything remotely negative was when we’d gone to Balboa park to see the San Diego Museum of Art. When we ended up in front of one of Spiridon’s paintings, my dad had said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” as he squinted at the title card next to the painting, as if maybe Spiridon had been lying about it.

  Through all that, there had been no arguments. I think it had something to do with the fact that I made sure I was never alone in my parents’ presence for even a second. Christos or Spiridon were always by my side. I had fantasized that maybe everything between me and my parents was fine. I should’ve known better. They were ticking time bombs. They hadn’t flown all the way out to San Diego just for a vacation.

  Leave it to my mom to finally go and ruin things. Her timer had ticked down to zero before my dad’s. It usually did.

  The second we were alone at the Zoo today, Mom had taken the opportunity to pounce. Had we been standing outside the tiger enclosure, I’m sure the hungry tigers would’ve cheered her on and licked their chops, waiting to take a bite out of my carcass when my mom was done with me.

  “His true colors?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said, “wh
at true colors?”

  “Christos’ drinking,” she said with arch superiority. “I see the way he drinks at every meal. Every. Meal.”

  “What do you care?” I sneered. Christos had been drinking less since they’d arrived, and it was the last thing I was worried about. At the moment, my parents scared me ten times more than Christos’ drinking.

  “What do I care?” Mom frowned. “I don’t want you shacking up with an alcoholic.”

  “I don’t see where that’s any of your business,” I growled. I glanced around and noticed that for the moment, there were no people hovering around this part of the chimpanzee exhibit. The last thing I wanted was an audience while my parents treated me like I was a child. At least the chimpanzees on the other side of the glass didn’t seem interested.

  My dad said, “Sam, who you’re living with is certainly of concern to your mother and I.”

  “Thanks for caring, Dad,” I scoffed.

  “Don’t talk that way to your father,” my mom barked.

  “Why not? It’s not like you guys are doing much in the way of parenting anymore.”

  “I beg your pardon?” my mom said stridently.

  “I went to the financial aid offices, you know,” I grumbled, “and they told me that I can’t get more student loan money as long as I’m your dependent, because of how much money you guys make. The government says it’s your responsibility to help pay the difference. Last time I checked, you refused.”

  “Now, Sam,” my dad said with an edge, “we discussed this at length. If you are willing to change your major back to Accounting, like your mother and I asked, we’d be happy to pay the difference.”

  “But I don’t want to change my major back,” I said. I did my very best to keep any hint of whining out of my voice. Why was it that I seemed to have regressed around my parents since they’d arrived? I didn’t like how their presence made me feel and act fourteen again. Like I was a little kid who didn’t know anything and my parents had all the answers, which I knew they didn’t.

  “If you don’t want to change your major back,” Dad sighed, “then there is very little your mother and I can do.”

  “Then why don’t you leave me alone?” I whined. “Why don’t you go back to Washington D.C.? I’m doing fine here by myself.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t need your help.”

  My mom chuckled, “I doubt that.”

  “What do you know,” I growled at her. “I have a place to live, a job, and I like studying art. And I have an awesome boyfriend who cares about me. If you’re not going to help me, stop telling me what to do.”

  “Are you sure?” my mom scoffed. “With all those naked young women around him day in and day out, it’s only a matter of time before Christos’ eyes start to wander. Then where will you be? Without a place to live would be my first guess.”

  And like a bullet through window glass, my remaining confidence shattered into useless fragments. How did my mom manage to do that so easily? My heart skipped a beat or ten and my throat filled with porcupine quills as I tried to swallow a dry lump of dread that wouldn’t go down.

  If I’d learned one thing about Christos since his trial, it was that he didn’t tell me everything that was going in his head. Was he thinking about the long term with me? Or was I passing fancy? Maybe he was interested in Isabella, or one of the other naked women he painted seven days a week. They were all gorgeous models. I wasn’t. I was just a regular girl from D.C. trying to study art. Why would a stud like Christos be interested in plain old Sam Smith when he was surrounded by supermodels?

  No, that couldn’t be right. Christos had asked me to move in with him and had voluntarily hauled all my stuff into his house. That meant he was serious, right? He was in it with me for the long term. Right?

  So why were my mom’s questions making me so nervous?

  I felt tears begin to well. I needed to hide them from my mom or she would use them against me and go in for the kill. Before she had a chance to attack, I turned away from her and my dad to watch the chimpanzees to distract myself.

  One of the older female chimps had walked over at some point and sat beside the glass only a few feet away from me. She looked up at me with the deepest, darkest, most compassionate eyes I’d ever seen, like she was looking into me, communicating on some primal level and trying to comfort me. She puckered her lips at me in a strange gesture. Was she trying to tell me something? No, that was crazy.

  A young chimp ambled over to her on all fours and fell into her lap like it was his favorite place to hang out. He wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck and she wrapped her arms around him while making kissy faces at him. She began gently grooming him. He looked like he was in heaven.

  I wish that mother chimp was my mom too.

  “Christos isn’t like that,” I said timidly. I wiped tears from my eyes before turning to face my mom.

  A maleficent smile curled her lips. She looked like the Evil Queen from every storybook ever written.

  Oh, boy. I needed some ice cream.

  “All men are like that,” my mom said victoriously.

  Quick as a blade, I asked, “Is Dad like that?”

  A flash of anger danced across her eyes, but she didn’t respond.

  There was a long, tingling silence.

  “Yes, Linda,” my dad said with nervous humor, “am I like that?”

  My mom’s eyes widened noticeably in surprise. She flicked a quick glance at my dad, then chuckled and drilled me with her stare, “No, your father is not like that.”

  Wheels turned in my mind, “Mom, how do you know so much about men? This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned men cheating. It sounds to me like you’ve had some bad experiences? If not with Dad, then who?”

  My mom was taken aback. Heck, I was taken aback. I couldn’t believe I’d asked her that.

  Mom chuckled, “That’s none of your business, Sam.”

  “Is it any of my business, Linda?” Dad asked innocently.

  “There you guys are,” Spiridon said, walking up with an armful of water bottles.

  “We got some ice cream bars, too,” Christos smiled, “in case anyone wants a snack.” He held one up to me. “Chocolate dipped vanilla with butterscotch filling. I thought you might like one.”

  “Thank you, agápi mou,” I said warmly as I took the ice cream bar and peeled back the wrapper. I leaned against Christos while I ate my ice cream. He put his arm around me as he ate his and we watched the chimpanzees together. I was in heaven.

  Christos was nothing like my mom wanted me to believe. The ice cream bar he’d brought me was proof because it was the yummiest ice cream bar in the history of ice cream bars.

  My mom was such a bitch.

  ===

  “When are you going to realize that you’ll never make any money as an artist?” my mom asked as she sipped her tea on the couch in the Manos’ living room.

  Christos and Spiridon had gone out for dinner to give my parents and me time to talk alone. I’d begged them to stay, but Spiridon had insisted. I think he understood my parents wanted to talk to me in private.

  “Your mother is right, Sam,” my dad consoled, like he was being nice and supportive. “It’s unlikely that you’ll ever make any money as an artist. If you ever hope to have a career, pay a mortgage and a car payment, you need to pursue a sensible career path like Accounting.”

  I’d heard this argument a thousand times from my parents, and my dad had always provided facts and figures to back everything up. As a teenager, I had always believed them. Every time we’d argued, my resolve had crumbled and I’d reluctantly given in to their ideas.

  I was done with that.

  This was my world, not theirs.

  “Look around you, Dad,” I motioned at all of Spiridon’s paintings hanging in the room. “You heard Spiridon yourself. He paid for this house with his paintings. What makes you think I can’t do it too?”

  Dad said thoughtfully, “Well, for one thing,�
�”

  “Ha!” Mom interrupted, “you think a few cartoons can compare to the paintings Spiridon has done?”

  “I can paint!” I whined.

  “All I’ve seen is your horrid cartoons of that degenerate wombat,” Mom cackled. “What do you know about painting?”

  “I took an oil painting class last quarter, and I got an A.”

  “I’m sure you painted a bowl of fruit or two,” she chuckled, “but any beginner can do that.”

  “I’m no beginner.” I stood up and stormed out of the living room.

  “Where are you going?” Mom snickered.

  I stopped in my tracks. Minding my parents like always. Like their slave.

  “It was always like you to give up easily,” Mom said. “Your father is right. You don’t have what it takes.”

  “I’m not giving up,” I barked. I strode into the studio and picked up two of my best oil paintings. One was from my class and one was the calla lilies I’d done in the studio. I thought they were really good, considering I’d only been painting for three months. I shoved them into my parents’ hands when I returned to the living room. “See?”

  My dad held the calla lilies at arm’s length. “This isn’t half bad,” he said thoughtfully. He hadn’t said half good, but my dad was never an optimist.

  Mom sneered at my painting of sunflowers she held in her hands. “So? What is this supposed to mean?” she asked. “It looks like any other painting of sunflowers.”

  “Exactly,” I growled. “It looks like sunflowers. And it doesn’t suck, like you seem to think everything I draw or paint does.”

  She shook her head and scoffed. “There’s a long road between a painting of sunflowers and making any money.”

  Dad set the calla lilies painting on the coffee table gently. At least he didn’t drop it in the trash. “Your mother is right, Sam. While these paintings of yours show promise, I don’t know that painting will lead anywhere for you.”

  “Are you kidding?” I asked, my hands on my hips as I stood in front of them. “Look around this room! Spiridon has painted thousands of paintings and made millions of dollars. That sounds like a great career path to me.”