"Hey, Miranda!" she chirps.
Mom is the only person who uses my given name because everyone else cares that I hate it. According to her, when you take a nickname, it's a personal affront to the person who chose your original name.
"Hey," I groan.
"Are you all right? You sound like I woke you up, but that's impossible, since it's past ten in the morning."
"I'm not working right now," I say, running my tongue over my teeth, which are wearing tiny little sweaters. "I can sleep as late as I want."
"You're not a teenager anymore, honey, but whatever," she says, like she doesn't agree, but she'll just passive aggressively fight me on this one. "I called because I have a favor to ask you."
My mother's favors always involve inconvenience, money or both. The fact that she hasn't mentioned Dad makes me think he never called her about leaving New York and getting engaged. I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to bring it up. Even though she left Dad, I'm pretty sure she won't be gracious about him finding love again.
"I have a fantastic opportunity to get a new car," she says, excitement humming in her voice.
As far as I know, she still has the luxury car she got in the divorce settlement with her second husband. I always thought she should sell it and buy something more practical. Every time that thing needs repairs, she goes deeper into credit card debt. Maybe she has finally seen the light.
"You're getting rid of the BMW?"
"Yes, I'm so over that car. It needs a new transmission or something now, and I swear, it's a fortune to fix it. Robert's friend owns an Audi dealership, and can get me an amazing deal on a sedan—"
"Wait," I interrupt, "a used Audi or a new one?"
She clicks her tongue, like I'm nuts to think she'd buy used. I should have known. My mother has never bought anything pre-owned in her life, except her second and third husbands.
"It's new, of course. But you don't understand, he's going to give it to me for way under asking price. It's a steal, really."
I shove my head under the pillow, remove the phone from my ear, and squeal my frustration into the mattress. A full-on scream isn't possible when my head hurts this badly. When I return to the conversation, Mom is rambling on about all the extras the salesman is throwing in: leather interior, GPS, heated seats. I'm pretty sure most of these things are standard, but there's no use arguing with her.
"This is fascinating news, Mom. What's the favor?"
I already know what it will be.
"You know my credit isn't good." Before I can say a word, she adds, "It's not my fault I was married to a con man so don't even start with me."
Mom's third husband was involved in a Ponzi scheme, smaller than Madoff, but big enough to get him arrested. They declared bankruptcy before they divorced, and I do think Mom should take a little of the blame for marrying a guy who was a crook. The first time I met him, I knew he was a complete douchebag. And let's be real, even if Mom had known he was a criminal, she would have overlooked it in exchange for vacations in the Caymans and a full-time housekeeper.
"I need you to co-sign my loan," she says sweetly. "It won't cost you a thing. Can you come out to the island tomorrow? Robert says I really need to close this deal."
The sharp laugh I let out cuts through my skull like a knife.
"You have got to be kidding me."
Mom is quiet, and I can picture her trying to decide what tactic to use next. Should she guilt me or bully me?
"Miranda, this is not a big ask," she says, casual as can be. "I'll pay for your train, if you want me to, but I really need you to come out here."
I'm weirdly proud of my FICA score. Unlike many people my age, I never miss my student loan payments. I only have one credit card, and it gets paid off each month. Growing up without a lot of money has taught me to be very careful with what I have. If I ever do get engaged, I'm going to be running a credit check on my fiancé before the wedding takes place. That's why the answer to her question is simple.
"I'm sure you want this new car, but I'm not co-signing any loans. Sorry. I've worked too hard on my credit score to screw it up now."
"After all I've done for you, I think you could do this one thing for me."
As if this is the first request she's ever made of me. If my brain weren't pickled in tequila, I'd remind her that I paid for her root canal six months ago.
I can only summon the energy to issue a stern, "No."
As soon as I hear her hang up, I chuck the phone on the floor and dive under the covers. I'm never getting out of bed again.
