The Billionaire And The Waitress (gxg)

43 - a grandmother

SIX YEARS AGO

SIXTEEN going on seventeen was supposed to be special. But Muse had been locked in her room all day. 

      The punishment this time was owed to the fact that she had stayed an hour late after high school ended. She'd told her grandmother she joined the environmental club. She'd even worn a green sweater in preparation for the lie.  

      But when she got home, unlocking the front door to the apartment, Nana had been sitting on the couch, an Arabic soap opera playing on the small TV in the living room. A woman wailed into a man's arms. Nana's head had swivelled, rotating like a vulture's.

      "How was the earth club?" she asked in her deep, accented voice.

      "Environmental club," Muse had corrected, in case it was a trick. "It was good. We talked about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch."

      Slowly, carefully, she set down the apartment keys onto the table. The air had become tense and cold. Moving felt like wading through solid ice. She had just needed to make it to her room: safety. 

      Then Nana had said, "Unzip your sweater."

      The green sweater. The stupid mint-green cotton green sweater. Muse should have worn a fucking hoodie. 

      "Nana, I have homework. I should really―"

      "Unzip the sweater, Muse Marie."

      The soap opera on TV dulled to white noise. Muse's blood roared. It felt like ice was sluicing down her back, freezing her from the inside out. She had already known she was a goner. Her hand had shaken as she reached for the zipper.

      Beneath the green sweater, she wore a white camisole with a lace trim. She didn't have to look down to know the outline of her bra was visible. Her chest and shoulders were exposed. The tiny white spaghetti straps covered only a sliver of skin.

      Nana didn't say anything for what must have been an eternity. She had stared at Muse with such barely veiled disgust, all through her thin, wiry, rectangular glasses. She may as well have been observing an insect under a magnifying glass. A cockroach under the light.

      Muse hadn't breathed. Motionless under the flickering light of the kitchen. 

      "So you dress like a whore," Nana said softly, almost kindly. "How many boys did you fuck?"

      And Muse had hated―hated―that tears welled up in her eyes. She had studied for biology with Lisa, who was in grade twelve. She'd had a crush on Lisa since tenth grade, and yesterday, she had asked Muse to meet her in the library. "Consider it a little study date," she had said. 

     "It was hot outside," said Muse.

     "I didn't think your mother raised you to be a little slut," Nana hissed. She clicked off the TV. The sound of the woman crying vanished.

     "It's just a tank top." Begging, but it was no use.

     "It's just a tank top," Nana repeated, rising from the couch. Her bony, spidery hand gripped the armrest. "The boys at your high school must love you. Did you spread your legs for them? Did you let them touch you?"

      At least Nana didn't know Muse liked girls. 

      It wasn't even like her and Lisa had even kissed.

      Nana walked around the couch. Muse tried to keep her eyes on her face, and not her hand, which curled as if in preparation, fingertips digging into her palm.