Malia
The drive there felt like sitting in a pressure cooker.
My mother had her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, her jaw set in away that meant she wasn’t angry, but she was looking for a reason to be.
Beside her in the passenger seat was her colleague Harlow, I think, though I wasn’t introduced properly until I slid into the back seat and she turned with a rehearsed smile.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, reaching for the seatbelt, “is this your daughter? She looks so grown up. What a beautiful young lady.”
I muttered a thank you, tugging at the hem of my short dress. It wasn’t anything special, just the first thing I’d pulled from my closet when Mom ordered me to “get dressed for the concert.” Apparently jeans weren’t appropriate, so here I was, squirming under the fabric an
