Candy Floss

chapter five | snickerdoodles

chapter five | snickerdoodles

Here I was, with my arms full of twinkly, shiny costumes. Besides the dim glow illuminating off the almost burnt out bulbs surrounding the dressing room mirror, I was enveloped in complete and utter darkness. It was unfamiliar and a faint stench of urine was lingering in the corner. I tried to avoid going near it as much as possible.

+++

“You did what!?” I roared, oozing annoyance.

Mom sighed. A trace of her smile remained on my face, which irked me even more. “Must I repeat myself? You know, my director doesn’t like doing that. Not one bit.”

“Repeat yourself,” I gritted through my teeth.

I usually wasn’t so disrespectful, but my mother had crossed the line, exceeded her limit. Either way, I was beyond livid.

“Don’t be so mad.”

“I’m not mad.” Like I said, beyond livid.

“I just thought it would be fun little project over the summer. I know you have your teeth to study, which I fully support by the way, but I think you need some more substance to your life. The world’s not all about teeth, Flossy.”

“Then I’ll study French or something.”

“Wow! A foreign language. Maybe you should pick that up to. That’ll look great on a college application won’t it, honey?” She glanced at my dad for support.

He put his hands up in defense. “I’m staying neutral.”

She didn’t look pleased when her husband didn’t take her side. Thanks, Dad. “Anyways, I think this is a good opportunity for you. Lots of children would kill to be in your position.”

“They don’t have to commit mass homicide or anything. They can have it.”

A thin, straight line appeared where her mouth was supposed to be. This was a sign that she was contemplating what to say before she actually verbalized it. It was a skill that most people should learn but didn’t bother to because nobody had the time for that. I’m sure it would prevent the past two world wars. It was something she had to learn, publicity skills and whatnot.

“Flossy.”

“Mom.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Ah, the dreaded please. Next she would say pretty please. If that didn’t work, she’d threaten me. That was the way of parenting. Or possibly she’d come up with a compromise that would be appealing to me. I didn’t know. I wasn’t a parent.

“Pretty please?”

I stifled a laugh and preserved my stoicness. “No.”

“It won’t take up too much of your time.”

“I don’t want to be trapped in a small, stuffy room! It’s summer. I don’t have to do that for another two and a half months.”

“Just do it as a small favor to me, Flossy. I gave birth to you.”

She was guilt-tripping me. I should’ve expected it. Her puppy eyes had no affect on me because, after all, I was her daughter. You can’t puppy-eye your children. It’s like some unspoken rule.

“That’s not fair, Mom.”

“Augh, fine. Don’t expect me to pay for your education, then.”