Chapter 2: Dinner Time

Rachel began to descend the stairs, casually sweeping the hairs of her scorched fringe from her vision, almost grimacing at the familiar sight of the antiquated floral wallpaper that lined the wall­. She hated this part: the reality outside the world she ruled, where she was just Rachel. The austerity of suburban life and the tedious paradigms that marked social interactions therein– she hated it all. Though this abhorrence was not from a wanting of social competence– Rachel possessed all the necessary constituents of a constitution and superficial beauty conducive to social-integration– the fact was, she simply didn’t care for it.

 She reached the first floor, sighing at the prospect of spending any substantial time with her austere mother, who typically offered nothing but prying inquiries, critical remarks and maternal concern– all unwanted.

’Rachel… Did you hear me?‘ Her mother snapped impatiently.

’Yes, Mom. I’m not deaf,‘ Rachel rejoined sarcastically, entering the kitchen through the open door.

’Well, you could have fooled me; and don’t you give me attitude, young girl.‘ Her mother sternly ordered.

’It’s not attitude, mom, it’s a fact.‘ Rachel declared proudly, with a conceited smirk on her face.

’Oh, really? I’m surprised you know about those little things considering how you grades have flat-lined,‘ Retorted her mother paying the sarcasm back along with a smile in kind.

Rachel appeared to be rendered mute by her mother’s final riposte; in truth, her capitulation came upon the realization that she was prolonging an unwelcome period in which she was forced to interact with her mother.  She made straight for the table and pulled out the seat from underneath the oak dining table, lazily refusing to lift it off the ground. Bringing her gaze downwards to the food and placing a fork in her hand, she unexcitedly toyed with it before again succumbing to a realization: She needed to eat.

Piercing silence ensued for the five minutes forth from her first bite. She kept catching glimpses of her mother gazing sporadically at her in a way one does when one wishes to make conversation. Rachel thought she knew what was coming. She knew what was coming.

’So how’s school, Rachel– apart from the grades, of course?‘ Her mother quizzed.

She hesitated in reply, only wishing to afford what was necessary lest she present her mother with more material for ideal chitchat. ’It’s school. It’s ok.‘ She mumbled, trying to keep her gaze firmly on her plate.

’I was hoping for a little more detail, Rach,’ she said, letting out a sigh, ‘ So, did you make the soccer team again this year?‘

Rachel paused and smiled. Looking up from her plate at her mother, who happened to be masticating at the time. ’Yeah, yeah I did, mom.‘ Rachel purred, recalling the fun she had with last year’s batch of slaves during the soccer season.

’Well, it’s good to know you’ve not given up on everything, Rachel. And–‘

’Finished,‘ Rachel interjected, letting out a feminine burp.

’Oh, do you not want des–‘

’Nope, got something upstairs, thanks, mom.‘ She intoned as she bounded out of the room with excitement, her mother cocking her head disapprovingly at the luminous pink short shorts that clung to her daughter’s peachy derriere.