Lessons

Tia (not her real name) smashes her face against the glass panel of my door about three to four times a day. I think she enjoys frightening me. What other pleasures do teenage girls have these days? She calls me her adoptive mom and begs to come to my house for dinner. I entertain her. She is funky—I probably would have been friends with her when I was in high school.

Yesterday she was in my room wearing her fedora hat and purple Converse sneakers. She is on a search for a job and got the bright idea to print her resume on pink, sparkly paper.

“Isn’t that a great idea, Ms. E.,” she said. “ I had to do something so they would remember me."

“Tia, one could never forget you, ” I replied.

“You know you love me.” She tilted her head forward in search of a response.

I looked up from my computer and gave her a smirk. “How could I not?”

“So when am I coming over to dinner?” she asked.

I don’t know how many times I’ve had this conversation with Tia, and how many times I’ve told her that she can come over in the summer. I shot her a look of exasperation.

“So what is your husband’s name?” she asked casually.

The sweat gathered down my spine. This was certainly not the conversation I was prepared to have.

“My wife,” I quickly blurted out. “Her name is R.“

Without skipping a beat, Tia reached up and gave me a high five.

“So, I’m coming over your house this summer, right? ” she asked again.

“Yes Tia, of course…”