Ricky scowled around a large bite of japchae, glancing back at Hot Tattooed Guy’s table.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, like he couldn’t help it, “you could do a lot better.”
That was it for me. Setting my chopsticks down, I pushed my tray away and stood. Ricky’s eyes darted back to me, alarmed.
“You haven’t finished your food,” he said.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I lied. “And I think I need another dip.” And some space. Away from you.
It was as if Ricky could hear my inner dialogue; suddenly, he looked down at his plate, twirling a chopstick between his fingers.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
I nodded stiffly, not sparing him another glance. Then, I made for the locker room, careful not to spoil my dramatic exit by slipping on the wood floors. So much, I thought, for a relaxing day at the spa.
Fourteen
I did not get to take another dip in the baths, because the moment I entered the locker room, I heard the obnoxious blast of my ringtone, the sirens from Kill Bill, piercing over the ambient background music.* Mortified, I jogged to my locker, bowing my head apologetically to the other spagoers. A middle-aged, topless woman glared at me as she toweled off her back.
“That’s your phone?” she said, clearly pissed that I had compromised the tranquil spa vibe. “It’s been going off for the last ten minutes.”
“Sorry,” I said, my fingers fumbling with my padlock.
“Next time, silence it before you leave,” she said, then throwing on her shirt, she walked out of the locker room with a huff.
I finally got my locker open, scrambling through my belongings for my still-blaring phone and feeling my stomach sink. My regular ringtone was a lot less abrasive—the Kill Bill sirens were assigned to my parents, at Nia’s suggestion. “It’s like a boss fight theme,” Nia had joked. “This way, you’re never caught unaware.” She was right, but she hadn’t considered the unfortunate side effect—I’d now Pavlov’ed* myself into an immediate panic at the sound. It was worse when my parents called like this, multiple times in a row, taking away any opportunity I might have to claim that I’d simply “missed them.” That almost always meant that trouble was afoot.
Just as my phone prepared to ring one more time, I gritted my teeth and picked up.
“Hello,” I said, settling back on my haunches.
“Angela.” It was my mother speaking this time, though I suspected that Daddy was hovering somewhere nearby. “How are you? It’s been a long time since we spoke.”
I just called you last week, I thought, and you chastised me about my waning reproductive potential and tried to set me up with Auntie Abena’s nephew.*
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m actually out right now—”
“Oh, you can take five minutes,” she insisted, as if any conversation with her ever lasted only five minutes.
I busied myself by shuffling through my locker’s contents as Momma prattled on about the seamstress she had hired to sew our kaba* for Tabatha’s traditional ceremony, and then complained about one of her new hires, a woman named Felicia who had signed on for her caretaker job and immediately quit when she realized that she would need to clean up after her clients. I offered my typical assurances, humming when appropriate, asking for clarification, but careful not to offer my real opinions—The design you’re asking for is complicated, that’s why it’s more expensive. Felicia asked you about managerial positions during the interview, I don’t know why you thought she wouldn’t be prissy—and lulled myself into a false sense of security that this conversation would be benign.
“Anyway, how is your research project coming along?” Momma asked. “You’ve started it, yes?”
“Yeah,” I said. I could hear the sirens again, but this time they were in my head. “I finished the literature review, at least. I’m just waiting on Dr. Donoghue’s final comments.”
“Good, good,” she said. “You’ll have to work very hard, you know. Not like you did with Step.” I flinched. Here we go. “I was looking online, and it says that, to be an orthopedic surgeon, you need a very high score. You didn’t get that, so you’ll have to focus on research. This is a good start.”
“I have no interest in being an orthopedic surgeon,” I said.
Momma snorted, affronted. I could almost see her face through the line—chin tucked into her neck, mouth downturned in a frown.