The Hating Game(15)

“Who even could,” Mom echoes, reaching up to finger the skin by her eye. “She’s little and cute. No one hates little cute people.” Dad seamlessly agrees with her and they begin talking as though I’m not even here.

“She’s the sweetest girl in the world. Julian’s clearly got some sort of inferiority complex. Or he’s one of those sexists. He wants to bring everyone else down to make himself feel better. Napoleon complex. Hitler complex. Something’s wrong with him.” He’s ticking them off on his fingers.

“All of the above. Dad, put the Post-it note over the screen so she can’t see herself. She’s not looking at me properly.”

“Maybe he’s hopelessly in love with her,” Mom offers optimistically as she looks properly into the camera for the first time. My stomach drops through the floor. I catch a glimpse of my own face; I am a clay statuette of frozen horror and surprise.

Dad scoffs all over the place. “Ridiculous way of showing it, don’t you think? He’s made that place a misery for her. I tell you, if I met him, he’d have to do some groveling. You hear that, Luce? Tell him to shape up or your dad’s gonna get on a plane and have a few words with him.”

The image of them face-to-face is weird. “I wouldn’t bother, Dad.”

It’s the segue Mom needs. “Speaking of planes, we could put some money in your account so you could book a flight to visit us? We haven’t seen you in so long. It’s been a long time, Lucy.”

“It’s not the money, it’s getting the time,” I try to say, but they both begin talking over me at once, in an unintelligible combination of begging, pleading, and arguing.

“I’ll come as soon as I can get some time, but it might not be for a while. If I get the promotion I’ll be pretty busy. If I don’t . . .” I study the keyboard.

“Yes?” Dad is sharp.

“I’ll have to get another job,” I admit. I look up.

“Of course you would. You would never work for that jackass Justin. “It would be good to have her home though,” Dad tells Mom. “The books are not adding up. We need some extra brainpower.”

I can see Mom is still fretting about my job situation. She’s a penny pincher, and she’s been living on a farm long enough that in her imagination the city is a heinously expensive, bustling metropolis. She’s not far off. I make a good wage, but after the bank sucks my rent payment out, I’m stretched pretty tight. The thought of getting a roommate fills me with dread.

“How will she . . .”

Dad shushes her and waves his hands to dispel the mere thought of failure like a puff of smoke. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be Johnnie unemployed and sleeping under a bridge, not her.”

“That will never happen to her,” Mom begins, alarmed.

“Have you made up with that friend you used to work with? Valerie, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t ask her, it upsets her,” Mom scolds. Dad raises his hands in surrender and looks at the ceiling.

It’s true; it does upset me, but I keep my tone even. “After the merger, I managed to meet her for a coffee, to explain myself, but she lost her job and I didn’t. She couldn’t forgive me. She said a true friend would have given her warning.”

“But you didn’t know,” Dad begins. I nod. It’s true. But what I’ve been grappling with ever since is, should I have somehow tried to find out for her?

“Her circle of friends were starting to become my friends . . . and now here I am. Square one again.” A sad, lonely loser.

“There are other people at work to be friends with, surely,” Mom says.

“No one wants to be friends with me. They think I’ll tell their secrets to the boss. Can we change the subject? I talked to a guy this week.” I regret it immediately.

“Oooh,” they intone together. “Oooh.” There is an exchanged glance.

“Is he nice?”

It’s always their first question. “Oh, yes. Very nice.”

“What’s his name?”

“Danny. He’s in the design section at work. We haven’t gone out or anything, but . . .”

“How wonderful!” Mom says at the same time that Dad exclaims, “About time!”

He puts his thumb over the microphone and they begin to buzz to each other, a hornet swarm of speculation.

“Like I said, we haven’t gone on a date. I don’t know exactly if he wants to.” I think of Danny, the sideways look he gave me, mouth curling. He does.

Dad speaks so loudly the microphone gets fuzzy sometimes. “You should ask him. It’s got to beat sitting in the office for ten hours a day slinging mud at James. Get out and live a little. Get your red party dress on. I want to hear you have by the time we Skype next.”

“Are you allowed to date colleagues?” Mom asks, and Dad frowns at her. Negative concepts and worst-case scenarios do not interest him. However, she does raise a good point.

“It isn’t allowed, but he’s leaving. He’s going to freelance.”

“A nice boy,” Mom says to Dad. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

“I really should go to bed,” I remind them. I yawn and my clay face mask cracks.

“Night, night, sweetie,” they chime. I can hear Mom say sadly “Why won’t she come home—” as Dad clicks the End button.