The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Seventeen: Madre Dearest

April 4th, 1999, Beverly Hills, California

"Leslie, sit up straight, your posture is making my head hurt."

My mother stares at me with the utmost rigor in her eyes. When I do lengthen my back and sit up straight, that hardness never leaves her black irises as she continues to stare at me as if I'm subhuman. It isn't my fault, I try to tell her—my developing breasts not only give me back pain, but make me reluctant to stand up straight in fear of being mistaken of "showing them off."

"We need to take you to a chiropractor. That did little to assist you," she tells me, taking a sip of her wine.

My little sister, Samantha, doesn't say anything at my mother's words at the restaurant table. How could she, really—she's only seven years old, and doesn't know the context of what mother is saying. She just follows everything she does and believes it's righteous because Mother is doing it.

The restaurant we sit in is calm and quiet, minus the small chatter amongst people at their tables. The Four Seasons is one of the places mother loves to eat at. I hate it. It's full of pompous millionaires and women who feed off of those said millionaire's wealth. And every time we come here my mother specifically picks out what I have to wear. She has a strong say-so in other days, but when it's The Four Seasons day, she picks exactly what I am to wear.

"You're twelve and already your breasts are busting out of that shirt," she told me this morning in my room, disdain in her voice.

"I can't help it," I replied shyly.

"Of course you can," she throws a long black sleeveless dress on the bed, then a thick cardigan on top of it. "If you weighed less, you wouldn't have that problem."

"It's called puberty," I said lowly, already self-conscious about my body and its changes. I still have no idea what's going on with me or what I'm supposed to do since Mother doesn't like talking about it. She doesn't like talking to me in general, however.

"It's called obesity," she hissed, and immediately the conversation was over with her tossing me the clothes and making me put them on.

"Hello, welcome to The Four Seasons. My name is Olivia and I will be serving you today," a beautiful waitress with curly blonde hair greets, smiling warmly at my sister and I. "Can I start you off with anything to drink?"

"Lemonade!" my sister exclaims with glee.

My mother laughs, "One children's lemonade."

Olivia smiles as she writes it down in her notepad, then looks at me, giving me goosebumps.

"And for you, sweetheart?"

I look at my mother, then at the menu. Root Beer, 7-up, Shirley Temple, Sprite, Iced Tea. So many options. I look at mother again, and she's painfully silent. Will she let me choose?

"You know what we went over, Leslie," she suddenly tells me in Italian so the waitress won't understand. "No juice. No soda. No iced tea."

"But I haven't had any in forever," I complain in the same language. Olivia fails at hiding her confusion.

There's an awkward silence that plagues the table. My mother doesn't respond to me. Instead she turns to the waitress and says in English:

"She'll have a water with a side of lemon."

The more than familiar drink order makes my mood darken even more. The waitress shifts her eyes between the both of us.

"Are you sure? We have...flavored waters? They're only a few calories but they taste amazing."