Thin Love(93)

“Keira, that boy…”

“What boy?” She wouldn’t give her mother an inch, but just didn’t have the energy to fight. She knew the lecture would come, but she’d take it in stride, just as she had with all the stupid meddling the woman had given her during the past four days.

“That Hispanic boy.”

“Diego?”

Her mother’s lips twisted into a purse and Keira had to bite the inside of her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “No. Not him. The other one. From the hospital?”

Keira lowered the book she was pretending to read and looked over it at her mother. “You mean Kona?”

“That’s the one.” She sat on Keira’s bed as though she was gently inquiring and not gearing up for an investigation. “He was just here asking about you.”

“Was he?” When Keira tried crack the spine of her book open, her mother jerked it out of her hand.

“It is rude to read while someone is speaking to you.”

“I think it’s ruder to interrupt someone while they’re reading.”

She pushed on Keira’s leg, giving it a soft tap with the book in her hand. “Sit up now.”

“Mother, I have no idea why Kona was here. We’re just classmates.”

Her mother was doing that weird, suspicious calculating sneer with her mouth—twisting again, but this time there was a definite pull on her top lip. “You would have not spent hours holding that boy’s hand at the hospital if he was just a friend and he would not have driven forty-five minutes outside the city, looking the way he did, if you were just classmates.” Keira hadn’t gotten a good look at him, but he must have taken extra care with his appearance if her mother noticed. She actually seemed mildly impressed. When Keira didn’t answer, when she pulled her knees against her chest and acted as though she had no clue what her mother was implying, Cora’s weird sneer became exaggerated and she clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “I have told you once before,” now she frowned and the sneer became a scowl of disgust. Keira knew the “time before” she mentioned was her very brief rebellion with Diego, “it isn’t wise to befriend the wrong sort of people.”

“Wow, Mother, whatever do you mean?” Keira pulled her guitar off the foot of the bed and began to strum slowly. She did it specifically to annoy her mother. Just looking at her father’s guitar made the older woman’s face scrunch up in irritation.

“You know damn good and well what I mean. You are not to see boys like that. You are not to see boys that aren’t like us.”

Keira stopped strumming. “You mean you don’t want me hooking up with Spanish boys or Asian boys or Black boys or, like Kona, Hawaiian boys? Is that what you’re trying to say, Mother?” She gripped the neck of her Gibson to hide the trembling of her fingers. “Or is it not just the color of their skin? Do you mean I should just date boys like Mark, rich boys, privileged boys, boys in our social circle? Or, since you’re so hell bent on making sure I stay all, what? Aryan?” At this her mother’s mouth fell open. “Please clarify this for me, Mother. So you wouldn’t have a problem with me dating a boy who grew up in a trailer park as long as he was lily white?”

“Keira Nicole that is not what I mean at all.”

Keira let one tight laugh leave her mouth before she started finger picking her strings with her nails. “Then just what is it that you do mean? Oh, Mother, you’re a racist. Just admit it. We’re at home. No one is listening. If you’re going to have those opinions, then at least have nerve enough to admit you have them.”

“That is not the point.” Her mother stood from the bed and brushed one manicured hand over her pants. “I just want you to make smart decisions about who you associate with in college.” The woman had to speak over the strum of Keira’s fingers as she played faster. “Mistakes you make today will have adverse repercussions on you tomorrow. Try to remember that.”

“Yes, Mein Führer!”

Her mother’s face screwed up into another sneer, something ugly and insulted and Keira wasn’t surprised when she lunged forward, slapping Keira, once, twice, so hard her guitar fell off her lap. She could smell the wine on her mother’s breath, and she focused on that smell, pulling back on her anger, trying not to retaliate. It wouldn’t do any good, her mother would fight back and she didn’t care if she left evidence or not. Keira didn’t have the energy to make excuses for weeks about the marks on her face or how they got there.

She licked the corner of her mouth, relieved when there was no cut, no trickle of blood; she was almost happy that the pain radiated for her cheek and not her mouth. A slap mark would fade faster than a cut lip. It usually did.