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Fuck.
Fuck.
“I asked to review the footage,” she says, “but you know what else Greg had on hand? The audio of you and your goddamn father—”
“There was a recorder?” That’s the only thing I can focus on: Daniel didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell me there was going to be a recorder. Why didn’t he tell me? “Why was there a recorder?”
“—and when I told them no, absolutely not, they cannot keep it and they most certainly cannot use it, he said it’s not up to me, it’s not in the contract, I didn’t get to make demands like that—”
“They weren’t supposed to be recording!”
“—and you and your father—oh, shut up!” She’s screaming. “My daughter cannot be so stupid! Of course they were fucking recording!”
Her outburst stuns both of us. Her, because she’s trying to swallow down her own ragged breathing, waiting for one of our neighbors to bang on the wall because we’re being a nuisance. Me, because she’s right. I was stupid. Of course it was recording. It’s Hexagon Productions. There’s no universe in which they weren’t recording somehow. And the next time I see Daniel, my mouth will overflow with blood until I’m choking on it.
Is this our deal? Is that what he meant by helping him?
“Greg will come back tomorrow,” Mom says, so incredibly slowly, “and you’re going to sit in front of that camera and say that you lied.”
“About what.”
“About wanting to …” The word must be disgusting to her. “Transition.”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, “I’m not.”
“He’ll be here before school,” she says. “You’re going to dress up pretty and tell the camera that you lied. You wanted your father’s attention, and his approval, and—and—you wanted it so badly and you made it up, and it worked. It’ll be a few minutes. Maybe two takes.”
“I didn’t lie. You’re making me lie—”
She holds up a hand. “Aht!” Like I’m a dog. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care. You do it, or you are never getting that money.”
The trust fund.
My way out.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll be sitting in front of the camera in a dress that Mom picked out, in makeup that she put on me, looking right into the lens and saying that I’m not a man and never will be. I just said it to get my way, to bend the world to my whims, one more teenage transsexual horror story on Fox News.
I’ll be staring at Daniel and trying not to scream.
“In the meantime,” Mom says, “get out of my house.”
“You can’t kick me out,” I rasp. “That’s illegal.”
“I’ll call the cops and say you attacked me. They’ll believe me. Not you.”
And I’m laughing. Again. An ugly, awful sound.
“We’re doing this?” I come around the couch, close the distance between us. “You want to put me in prison? Put me in a fucking home so you don’t have to deal with me anymore?” Mom’s eyes flash with something feral. “You want me to hurt you, right? So you have a better story? So you have an excuse?”
Apparently she didn’t need one.
When she hits me, the sound is loud and sharp.
My cheek stings.
Mom looks like she’s been wanting to do that forever.
Dad had Jane Doe for thirty minutes.
