The Beauty and The Beast

Juliette's point of view. “So, dear, did you choose your specialty?” Mom asks for the hundredth time this week, making me regret visiting this weekend. I’m in my first year of residency, and I’m currently rotating through different specialties at one-month intervals, including the ER, general surgery, internal medicine, intensive care, and pediatrics. “Not yet, Mom. I still have time.” I try to hide the bite in my voice, but she hears it anyway. She hears everything—at least what she wants to hear. “Yes, three more months,” she snaps, and I hold the urge to roll my eyes. “As I said, I still have time.” To be honest, I would like to pursue family practice, but I’m not gonna tell her that because she’ll be in my hair for the rest of the year because she wants me to become some famous neurosurgeon. I’m honestly shocked that she even asks me what I want to do. To become. I think she asks me this so she'll see if I’m finally brainwashed, finally her little doll who would jump higher than she asks. “I’m sure that by the time your Aunt Marie comes, you’ll come to your senses and choose neuro...” I block her out because I’m about to really snap. Aunt Marie is her sister, but they are so goddamn competitive that one would say they are enemies. The worst part is that Martina, Aunt Mary’s daughter, and I are their pawns. Martina was forced to get into medical school because I got into medical school, and she hated it at first, but luckily, after a while, she started to like it. The two of us get along very well. We try to ignore our mothers and their competition for who has the smartest child, but sometimes we both snap and get angry, not at each other but at them. Don’t get me wrong; we don’t tell them that. We get angry in private. “Yes, Mother,” I reply in a monotonous voice when I realize that she had stopped talking, then push the plate away because my appetite is gone. I realize that ultimately, I’ll do it their way, but no one can blame me for trying to persuade them to let me do what I enjoy for a change. Dreams... And when I thought that things couldn’t get any worse, my mother changes the subject, but not to a better one. “And when will you find a man and settle down?” Her sickly sweet voice is condescending, but I can’t comment or snap at her, so I try my best to keep calm. You see, they’d want me to be the best neurosurgeon the world has seen, and also a perfect Mother. “I don’t have time, Mother. I’m concentrating--” “At your age, I was working and had you, so don’t give me this excuse.” I don’t even know why I tried to reason with her. Now, just to make things clear. She worked a part-time job at a salon because she wanted the discounts. She admitted it one day when she drank too much wine at the church. “It’s different. You were a receptionist, I’m gonna have human lives in my hands. I can’t--” Oh, how I wish I could mute myself sometimes. “You think you’re better than me, girl?!” Her loud voice booms through the house, making me flinch. There’s no trace of any fake sweetness anywhere whatsoever. “No, mother, I was just saying that it would be reckless of me to focus on anything else. I didn’t--” “You don’t get to tell me anything! I made you, you didn’t make me! You should be kissing my feet for that alone, not to mention that I gave you food and a roof over your head!” And I snap. “And I’m grateful for giving me food and a roof, but don’t tell me that I should be kissing your feet because I didn’t ask you to make me! I wasn’t the one who got in bed with Father! You did!” I didn’t actually say that, but I wanted to. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.” That was the actual answer. I know, I’m a coward, but, even though you would never tell, my mother is a very scary woman, and not because she’s tall and has some pounds on her, but because, as she puts it, she’s ‘a woman of God who isn’t afraid to rough me up if needed to guide me on the right path’. In other words, she won’t hesitate to kick my ass into next week, and I don’t want to sport another black eye, cheeks, and split lips. My father is the same. The difference is that I usually black out after my father hits me, so he doesn’t get to do it more than once. Therefore, I only get to sport one bruise. “As you should!” I nod again and excuse myself to the bathroom. I lied when I said I had to concentrate on school. Okay, I have to concentrate on school, but I can have a life in the meantime. The only problem is that I don’t want that life to start right now. So, I made a plan. Until I’m 30, I’ll live my life, then let them marry me to whomever they want to, because I’m sure they won’t ever approve of who I choose. Even if it’s some millionaire surgeon, they’ll find something to say about him just to make me feel stupid. Just to make themselves look more intelligent than me. But, no one except for them is allowed to be more intelligent than I, though. I calm down, leave the bathroom, and join them at the dinner table again. “Your mother is right. You should find a man while you’re young and beautiful.” My father says with a tight smile, and I fake one of my own and stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Dad, I’m 23, and the beauty won’t disappear in 10 years.” I keep my voice soft and my fake smile as well. “I know. You’ll always be beautiful, you have good genes, but you know what I mean.” He’s right, I am beautiful, and I’m not narcissistic. It’s reality, and sometimes I hate it because of the attention I get, but mostly I like it. And he’s right when he says I have good genes, but fortunately, I only got the looks and didn’t get their personalities, or so I try to tell myself. I’m 6 ft tall, and many say that I have a touch of Margot Robbie’s looks. I must say that they are right, except that I have Viking-gold natural hair. It’s longer than hers, though. Mine reaches my lower back, although the waves are more pronounced, and I don’t ever have to style it. It just comes naturally. I have almond turquoise blue eyes that have threads of sea green in them, and I feel good about it because only 3-5% of the human population has true blue-green eyes, and that’s pretty amazing considering that there are over 7 billion people on the planet. Again, I’m not narcissistic, I’m stating facts. I forced myself to stay another couple of hours, excruciating hours, listening to the same goddamn thing over and over again, then I told them that my roommate, who is also my colleague, and my best friend, -but they don’t know the best friend part, and they never met her either because I know they wouldn’t approve of her-, needs the car tomorrow, and I have 11 hours to drive back. I was born and raised in Cave Creek, Nevada. Cave Creek is a town where everyone knows everyone. The population is around 5,000 people, so naturally, everyone knows everyone. And, of course, my parents always pushed me to be the best of the best. I never attended a high school party. All I was allowed to do was go to school, study, go to church, study, church, study, study, and study some more. It paid off because I got into Stanford, which is 11 hours away from them, and I can make plenty of excuses not to visit, and one of them is that Jamesa, or Jamie, as I call her, can’t give me the car, and I don’t have money to travel by plane. I’m struggling to survive, and if it weren’t for Jamie, I would be on the streets because when I turned 18 and went to college, instead of supporting me, my parents refused to give me a penny. They said I have to start being an adult, my own person, and stand on my own two feet. Yes, I get paid as a resident, but I also have a student loan that I have to pay for rent, food, transportation, clothes, and right now, I’m broke. I do have a way to earn fast cash, but I try to avoid it if I can. Jamie gave me the idea when I was just like I am now, and that’s so broke that I can’t even afford to pay attention. She started to practice first and told me about it, too. Escorting. Yes, it’s dangerous from many points of view, but considering it’s a legal escorting company, the risks are not so high, so it somehow soothes my mind. A little. Just a little. But desperate times call for desperate measures.