Normal people don’t do that. Surely you have to be born that way, with a propensity for killing people. People like Juniper, or definitely me, aren’t capable of beingmonsters.
Right?
The phone rings, surprising me, and I nearly fall out of my chair as I rip off my mask and pull my t-shirt on before looking at the name.
It’s my mom. Of course it is, when I know she has a fun habit of calling at the absolute worst time ever. Maybe she doesn’t mean to, and maybe it’s just a magical sense she was born with. Either way, it’s her gift to bestow upon this world, and I can’t think of a worse time for her to call, except in the middle of my stream.
“Hey, mom,” I greet after I’ve scooped the phone up to my ear. I pad, barefoot, to my bed and flop down onto it, groaning audibly at the relaxation that clouds my brain from the change in position. “I’ve missed you. Looking forward to having me home for almost two months?” With the end of the semester only two more weeks from now, the last thing to do is to get my exams done and get my group project grade back from Rook. Is it terrifying that he only has one major assignment, along with a few minor ones, to see if we’ve passed? Absolutely.
But he’s also clearly a sadist, so there’s that.
“I’ve got your bedroom back in order for you, in case you finish your exams early and come home sooner than you planned,” my mom says, a smile in her voice and her tone warm. “I’ll be so excited to have you home. There’s a few new shops in that old strip mall they’ve been sprucing up that I want to take you to. We’ll get you a new spring wardrobe. Maybe something that makes you look like a professional young woman, hmm?”
I roll my eyes at her good intentions, though I’m not offended by them. As a lawyer who owns her own practice, my mom is very aware at all times of the impression someone is makingbased on their makeup or how they dress. She used to be worse with me, while I was a child, but after I had a phase of goth clothes, black makeup running down my face, and my hair dyed box-black, she’d learned to lighten up with me. In return, I’d promised to moderate my tastes a little. I had no problem tempering them for her when that was the goal of my social experiment in the first place. Not that she’s ever heard that from my lips, if she knows at all.
“I don’t need to look professional, mom,” I point out with a snicker. “I need to look like an eccentric artist. You know, I took a photography class this semester. We could look for ‘successful but strange photographer’ outfits, too.”
“Sure. Just remind me how they dress, exactly? I can’t say I’ve paid much attention to any eccentric, successful, talented photographers in the last few years,” my mother replies, full of good humor. I love her for the way we can carry on a light conversation full of inane banter like this.
“Oh, lots of blacks, for sure. Cute little hats. Plaid pants in all neutral colors and a turtleneck.”
“I thought you hated turtlenecks.”
“Well, yeah. But we can make do.” She laughs at my words, and I can’t help the small huff of a giggle that leaves me as well. “How are you? How’s Dad?”
“Just as excited as I am to see you,”mom assures me. “He dragged down the Christmas boxes last week. I’ve never seen him itching so much to put up the tree. But you know how disappointed he was last year when he was in the hospital and we didn’t get to celebrate properly. Between you and me, I think it’s his intention to do double the decorating to make up for it.”
“It’s only November!” I protest, even though I can see my dad doing exactly as she’s described. He’s always loved Christmas more than any other holiday, and takes pains to make sure ourhouse, which sits at the end of a subdivision, looks like Santa personally uses it as a vacation home. At first, he’d maintained that it was because I was a kid and therefore deserved all the Christmas cheer in the world.
But now that I’m an adult, we all know it’s just because he likes doing it so much. I smile when I think about what the house will look like in two weeks when I’m home, and also at the fact that home is my safe haven.
Nothing there presents me with difficult moral dilemmas wrapped up in pretty packages, either.
“I just wanted to call and tell you I’m looking forward to you being home,” my mom goes on, once we’ve had a laugh about Dad’s decorating. “I know you’re probably preparing for exams, and I don’t want to interrupt you. If Juniper’s there, tell her I say hi.”
“She isn’t, but I’ll tell her when she’s back,” I assure Mom, not remarking on the comment about what I could be doing right now. “I’m so excited to come home. I haven’t seen the snow in ages, and I miss it.”
“You hate the cold and the snow.”
“Well, yeah, but it’s nostalgic,” I agree with a laugh. “Tell Dad I said hi? And that I expect a twelve foot tree to be in the living room when I’m home.”
“I don’t think I will,” my mom replies dryly. “Or he’ll take it to heart. Have a good week, Blair. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom.” I can’t disguise the warmth in my voice, and I would never want to. My mother has always been my biggest supporter, and she’s one of my best friends. “Have a good night.”
She repeats the sentiment and hangs up, prompting me to get to my feet and drag my laptop over to the bed with a sigh. I look at the amount that was dropped into my account thanks to my stream, and thank Rook for contributing over half of it. Justlike he does with Oliver’s stream, I’ve noticed that he has to be the top tipper in mine as well.
And even though I’ve brought up that he doesn’t have to give me money, it doesn’t seem to make a difference or to sink in. He sends it anyway, and I don’t know what to say anymore to stop him. It’s also unfortunate that part of me doesn’twanthim to stop. Thanks to Rook, I’ve been able to set aside some money in a savings account, and use the rest for things like more coffee, pancakes, and small things just for me.
Another message catches my attention, and I groan at the sight ofrob784flashing in my inbox. He’s never done anything wrong, exactly, but I just don’t like him. He doesn’t tip well, if at all, and he never contributes anything to the stream except weird, filthy fantasies about me written out in long form in the chat box for everyone else to see.
It gives me the ick, honestly.
Still, I roll my eyes and open the message, expecting some generic line about how he enjoyed my stream or whatever. I’ll tell him thanks, move on with my day, and won’t have to deal with him until the next time.
Only, that’s not what I find. My eyes narrow as I read the message again, tapping my fingers on the desk beside my laptop.
Your streams are better without that guy from halloween, and watching you getting fucked like a whore isn’t what I signed up for. Besides, you could do better.