“Dad’s in a hurry?”
“Yeah. So give me a good grade, okay? Tell him I was good—I don’t need any more hassles.”
“I’ll tell him you cooperated—”
“Tell him whatever you want.”
“But I’m not going to get into details, because—”
“Confidentiality, yeah, yeah. It doesn’t matter. Tell them anything.”
“No secrets from Mom and Dad?”
“What for?” She played with her hair, gave a world-weary smile. “I’ve got no cool secrets anyway. Totally boring life. Too bad for you—try not to fall asleep.”
“So,” I said, “your dad wants you to get this over with quickly.”
“Whatever.” She picked at her hair.
“What exactly did he tell you to accomplish here, Lauren?”
“Get my act together, be straight—be a good girl.” She laughed, arced one leg over the other, placed a hand on a calf and tickled.
“Be straight,” I said. “As in drugs?”
“They’re paranoid about that, along with everything else. Even though they smoke.”
“They smoke dope?”
“Dope, tobacco. Little after-dinner taste. Sometimes it’s booze— cocktails. ‘We’re mature enough to control it, Lauren.'” She laughed. “Jane used to be a stewardess, working all these fancy private charters. They’ve still got this collection of tiny little bottles. I like the green melon stuff—Midori. But I’m not allowed to touch pot till I’m eighteen.” She laughed. “Like I’d ever.”
“Pot’s not for you?” I said.
“Pot’s boring—too slow. Like hey, man, let’s pretend we’re in the sixties, get all wasted and sit around staring at the sky and talking about God.” Another gust of laughter, painfully lacking in joy. “Pot sure makes them boring. It’s the only time she slows down. And he just sits and veges on the TV, munches nachos, whatever. I’m not supposed to be talking about their bad habits, I’m the one who needs to change.”
“Change how?”
“Clean my room” she singsonged. “Do my chores, get ready in the morning without calling my mom a bitch, stop saying ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and ‘cunt.’ Go to class and pay attention, build up my grades, stop breaking curfew, hang out with decent friends, not low-life.” She rotated one hand, as if spooling thread.
“And I’m supposed to get you to do all that.”
“Lyle says no way, you never will.”
“Lyle.”
Her eyes got merry. “That’s something else I’m supposed to not do. Call him by his name. He hates it, it drives him crazy.”
“So no way you’ll stop.”
She played with her hair. “Who knows what I’ll do?”
“How does he react when you do things that irritate him?”
“Ignores me. Walks away and gets involved in something else.”
“He has hobbies?”
“Him? Only thing he does is work, eat, smoke dope, stuff his face, watch TV. He has no faith in me. In you, either.” Conspiratorial smile. “He says shrinks are just a bunch of overpaid clowns who can’t screw in a light bulb by themselves and I’m gonna just end up conning you like I con everybody. He’s only paying for this because Jane’s really getting on his nerves with all her nagging.”
“Mom has more faith in shrinks?”
“Mom’s totally worried,” she said. “Mom likes to suffer. They’re— Here’s a juicy one for you: They only got married ’cause they had to. One day I was looking for a bra in Jane’s drawer and I found their wedding license. Two months before my birthday. I was conceived in sin. What do you think of that?”
“Is it a big deal to you?”
“I just think it’s funny.”
“How so?”
“Here they are being all moral and . . . whatever.” Lifting the tiny black purse, she undid the clasp, peered inside, snapped it shut.
“Mom likes to suffer,” I said.
“Yeah, she hates her life. She used to work private charters, fly all around the world with superrich people. She regrets ever coming down to earth.” She shifted to the edge of the chair. “How much longer do I have to be here?”
Rather than pick apart the fine points of free choice, I said, “Half an hour.”
Opening the purse again, she pulled out a compact, checked her reflection, plucked an eyelash and flicked it away.
“Half an hour,” she said. “No way do I have half an hour of problems—want to hear all of them?”