Page 77 of Goalie Secrets
She steps out, every inch the beauty icon of her ZaraGlow brand. Her ivory coat is cinched at the waist, her heels are high enough to make my ankles ache just looking at them, and her hair falls in waves so precise they might have been carved from stone. Behind her, a sharply dressed woman in a blazer with massive shoulder pads slides out. She has a clipboard and Bluetooth headset and is followed by… is that a cameraman? A scruffy guy in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt lugs a camera so big, this has to be a joke. Except my mother has never been one to joke around.
What. The. Hell.
I stand, frozen for a moment, hoping they’ll take one look at my frumpy outfit and decide I’m not Zara’s daughter after all.But the icon of ZaraGlow is already gliding up the path, heels clicking against the concrete at the pace of a funeral march. The camera guy lifts his lens and my heart sinks.
I yank open the door and lean against the frame. “Um, what is this?”
“Don’t be rude, Vanya,” my mother says, not even breaking stride. “Invite us in.”
I glance at the camera, then back at her. “Turn that off, please.”
They hesitate, exchanging a quick look and silently debating whether they’re required to listen to me. The cameraman reluctantly lowers the lens, but I catch the annoyance in his expression. Clipboard Woman offers a tight, practiced smile. Mom, of course, doesn’t miss the opportunity to roll her eyes at me.
“Put it down for now, Byron,” she says to the guy. “We’ll resume after she signs the consent forms.”
Those Botox injections have severely damaged my mother’s brain if she thinks I’m consenting to this. When the camera is lowered and Clipboard Woman shivers, I stand back to give them room.
“Come in.”
They file in, the scent of expensive perfume wafting past me, along with something metallic. Probably from the steel casing of my mother’s cold heart. Mom stops in the middle of the living room, scanning the space with the same clinical precision I’d use to examine an MRI.
“Cozy,” she says, which is her code forlame and disappointing.
I force a smile. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Black as always. Dairy is such a curse,” Mom replies, sitting at the edge of the couch, her back straight as a beauty queen’s. The other two people shake their heads at my offer.Clipboard Woman perches delicately on the armrest, and the camera guy leans against the wall, fiddling with his equipment.
I set a filled mug on the coffee table. Mom picks it up but crinkles her nose. She doesn’t drink it, instead inspecting the rim like she’s evaluating its worth.
“Still not much of a decorator, I see,” she says with a faint, condescending smile.
“I’m renting it furnished.”
It would have been better to ignore her comment. Unfortunately, her special talent is baiting me into sounding defensive. For all my achievements as an adult, I am reduced to a surly, frumpy teenager again, cringing at her lectures about “elevating my potential.” My sweater feels too plain, my hair too messy. Her presence shines a spotlight on the flaws I thought I’d outgrown.
“Excuse me for a second,” I say, retreating to the kitchen. My hand trembles. Somewhere in the pantry there’s a half bottle of vodka from Ashley’s visit. I dump my shitty coffee and pour some of the liquor in the mug. Chugging it back delivers the worst of all worlds—the bitterness of coffee and the bite of alcohol. Splendid start to this visit.
When I return, mom’s chin is high with pride. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough. Are you ready for my news?” she announces, clasping her hands together.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Will it explain the camera crew?”
“Yes, Van-yaaa.” Her beaming smile barely hides her irritation. God, I hate the way she says my name, the last syllable like a whining dismissal. “You’re looking at the newest star in a reality series. It’s going to be glamorous. Inspiring! Everything my followers want to see.”
“It’s an exclusive deal,” Clipboard Woman jumps in. “Zara is the star, balancing her career, family, and personal life withimmaculate grace. That’s why we’re calling itGlow Up With Zara.It’s about growing up as an Indian woman who navigated multiple cultures as a beauty queen and later as a mother. Get it? Grow up and glow up!”
I stare at them, my stomach twisting. “What does this have to do with me?”
Mom’s smile stiffens, her eyes remain laser sharp and unamused. I know this expression. It’syou better behave or face the consequences later.I’m the only one who notices, of course, because people don’t see past her flawless features. The vehemence underneath has been directed at me for as long as I can remember.
“Well, it’s about mylife,Van-yaaa. That includes being a mother, being part ofyourgrowth, balancing family and career. That’s central to my brand.”
Her brand. I clench my jaw, trying to keep my voice even. “Congratulations on the show, Mom. I’m sure your followers will eat it up. But you cannot seriously want me to be part of your show.”
“We do. In fact, her fan demographics include women your age, Vanya,” says Clipboard Woman like it would make a difference in my decision. “And the fact that you’re a doctor is awesome. I mean, is there a better endorsement of her parenting skills than your success?”
I nearly choke on my saliva. “I’m sorry, we weren’t introduced.”
“A,” she says, hand outstretched.