I hate it when Aunt Cassandra drives. Her jeweled fingers are always all over the place, spinning the driving wheel and slamming brakes unnecessarily. Each time feels like the last day for me. She is definitely good at over-speeding, unnecessarily overtaking and getting away with it. And she always hums to Justin Bieber's songs, and by 'hums' I mean concert style, her baby pink lipstick leaving footprints on every high and low note. It is as if she's always compelled to drive REAL fast as if the roads will fall apart anytime soon. And I hate that she always laughs like a maniac gorilla whenever I jump in my seat as she skids down the road. Honestly, seatbelts don't even stand up against her.

This time, we are driving to her place, a cozy little Victorian mansion on the outskirts of town. Last time I checked, it was an exact replica of the cast in George of the Jungle. It is going to be my so-called new home, and oh, I'm so looking forward to it.

Kidding.She's one of those overly sweet aunts that put on too much make up, fake lashes pacing back and forth in a SOS motion, and man does she love jewelry. Nose rings, neck chains, rings, rings, rings. Hair pins (ornamental), bracelets, rings, rings, rings. She is somehow an equivalent of some type of jewelry zoo. When I say she sparkles, I never am sarcastic about it.

It hurts me that I have never dreamed of staying under the same roof as her until my Pappa passed away. That was last year. The thing that sucks about it is that he had just wiped our family account clean cause of his debts and the family business had burnt down. In other words, he left us bankrupt. Due to that, here I am riding shotgun with the worst aunt in the world.

The thing that sucks about it is that right after, Mom got fired from her job as a waitress. We were devastated. I should say I am the most unfortunate kid in the world, because two years ago, my big brother Juan had been arrested (arson) and my little brother had gone missing. By gone missing, I don't mean the regular gone missing you're used to. He had disappeared. Into thin air. Okay, that's a bit of exaggeration but that's the thing.

 Right after, my body decided to add colour to the chaos by terminating my anatomy and introducing a cute little condition called Multiple Sclerosis, which needed tons of dollars for the treatment. It was a big blow to Mom, and she died of a broken heart. (Add a sob to that). Yes, my mom got stressed and died of that.

Which left me an orphan. I was in my second year at college by then. Sucks, huh?

That is why, at this late hour, when the sun has set and the world is going to sleep, Aunt Cassandra has kidnapped me from my home and is taking me to hers. I'm forced to breathe Lavender plus Rose and the new Play Girl- seductive perfumes and I might as well suffocate and die of the sweetness. Her old black Lincoln Continental's engine is busy groaning in the background, and cold air is seeping through the air conditioner. The painful squeaks of her voice are making it hard to distinguish between the hand-me-down car she owns and herself, and I guess both she and her car need servicing. Frankly, I am grateful, which is hard to admit, that someone is willing to cover for my expenses, take care of me like her own, and all that, but I'm not looking forward to this. It gives me mixed emotions to imagine spending the rest of eternity with Aunt Cassandra,

So, we ride down the road, and I silently listen to her terrific hums and absently peer into the dusk, looking at the darkening world around me, missing my mother and wishing this was a dream.

Disclaimer: it's not a dream.

“Welcome to your new home, Vivian! I hope you make yourself comfortable. I’ll just leave the fruits in the kitchen, then I’ll show you your room. Will be back!” Aunt Cassandra chirps with a beam on her face, and she trolls her way to her fancy spacious kitchen.

I flop on one of the dining chairs, taking in the scenery around me. The dining hall itself is spacious enough to host an extended family. That thought alone makes me miss my family. I wonder why she needs it when it’s only her and her maids in the house. It might be for the best though.

The walls are coated in dark-brown paint, with the ceiling glaring in its white glory. There is a simple LED bulb where the chandelier is supposed to be; a couple cobwebs adding to the décor. A stack of cartons is piled on the spot where the fireplace is supposed to be, and I guess no one lights a fire in this place, as far as I can tell. The windows are donned with caramel lace curtains, which cast little pretty shadows on the tiled floor. I peer outside, the silver moon shedding ghostly white light. From where I’m standing, an arch way opens into the living room, which is packed with sofa sets and gadgets and stacks of furniture. An open door behind me leads directly into the kitchen which is spotless and I don’t seem to spy any cobwebs on the ceiling. It’s a relief that the cooking area is hygienic and unpopulated by invertebrates.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to pick you up in good time. I’m sure you’re exhausted,” she finally steps out and tosses her keys and purse on the table. I notice that the leather on her purse is wearing off, and the fluffy stuff are poking out. I let that slide.

“Don’t worry about me, really, I’m alright,” I reply with a smile.

“If you say so. Now, bring your bag and let me show you your room,” she says and proceeds to turn on the interior and exterior lights.

It has gotten so dark, and I feel so different. I follow her bulky frame down the hallway and she opens the very last door, steps in and flicks the lights on. My pupils dilate. The room has only sand and cement plaster; no ceiling- no windows; just the frame and concrete for the floor and no bed. A thin layer of mattress stands propelled against the wall.

There is dust in the air, and I continuously sneeze my lungs out, as I drop my suitcase at the far corner of the room, near one of the windows. I offer her a thin smile and she clears her throat.

“Oops, I keep forgetting that this ain’t the guestroom. Sorry, and please come with me,” she attempts a dry nervous mimicry of laughter, and I hoist my suitcase up, trailing behind her as she gets out of the room, leaving the bulb on.

She opens the door on the left, which, I notice, is the only door with an antique handle. It has an aged appearance, with silver ornate decorative designs that make it feel like I'm going to step into a vintage otherworld.

Aunt produces a silver key, its head shaped like an Ace, with faint initials J.M etched in cursive. She sticks it into the keyhole, and a loud click follows as she turns it. Holding the handle gingerly, she opens the door and steps in. I follow suit,

Inside, a low hanging Japanese bamboo chandelier dangles from the ceiling, casting a warm glow. I set my luggage on the white tiled floor, and flop on the bed. It’s got a grey pillow on top of the two white ones, and I immediately feel like sleeping. I like the covers; white and brown duvet which, grievingly so, makes me think of chocolate buns. Now, I feel like eating. The walls are painted brown in woody patterns (I almost thought it’s actual wood), and two bedside bubble pendants hang from each side of the bed, looking like paper lanterns. It takes me a minute to realise that they’re a better alternative for bedside lamps.

“I just have to take care of something. You’ll find me in the kitchen. Take your time!” the lady says and exits the room. I heave out a deep sigh and drop on the floor, hitting the soft black rug that spreads out from the bed. I feel exhausted, but I’m still fascinated by the beauty of this room.

I pull my suitcase towards where I’m planted, and open the zipper. I have to at least take out a change of clothes; a pyjama probably, and pack the rest into the closet which is stationed on the left side of the bed. I probably should head to the kitchen first. Plus, I need to make myself useful in the kitchen. Aunt must be tired after the long drive; I say to myself and trudge my way to the kitchen.

I carry the last pile of dishes to the sink, multiple thoughts piling in my head. Worse still, my eyes are hurting and I can still taste bitterness in my mouth. Aunt Cassandra is tapping away on her fancy cool Samsung Galaxy S25 smartphone, and she has put on headsets to shut the world out, I guess.

For someone who cooked food only for two people, she surely has a knack of messing up lots of dishes.

I was starving today, and seeing steak and rice in a plate was enough to make me forget my misery. I wonder why I had to get to this state…

 It started last year when I was a freshman; second semester of my Bachelor of Science in Computer Science program at University of Arkansas, Little Rock. We had just resumed learning, after a mid-semester break, and as usual, I was hyped up for school. My grades were fine- excellent in fact- and I had a project underway. I wasn’t necessarily the smartest, but I was good enough to not get withdrawn. I had a tiny social circle around me. In fact, I only had two people that I regarded as friends; Ingrid and Karl. Ingrid was that short, a little chubby, well-to-do friend people have, caring at most but not clingy either. Whereas Karl was that loud mouth extrovert who would skip classes and beg you to write his assignment when it is two hours before due time, all for a treat, of course. The rest were acquaintances. So, on this hot afternoon, as we were strolling down one of the corridors in the campus, Karl suddenly chirped, “why don’t we go grab lunch before class? We got like, an hour to go. Plus, I didn’t get to pay you for yesterday’s report.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes and grunted, “it’s useless talking to her about food. She barely eats anything.”

“You’re right. She can just come along,” Karl said dismissively, as if I wasn’t there at all.

“It’s the second floor we’re talking about. I don’t wanna go up there,” I grunted, dragging my feet along.

“Come on,” Ingrid looked at me, eyes pleading, and heavens knew I wouldn’t say no to her doe eyes.

“I’m actually gonna eat today. What are you guys having?” I said and watched them exchange looks.

“Really? Let’s go! My treat. You get anything you want,” Ingrid sang and danced her way to the Cheddar’s Scratch Kitchen. I could tell she was happy. And famished.

“I’m gonna get a smokehouse burger,” Karl announced, drool in his voice. We hadn’t even gotten in yet.

“That was for Vivian, not you, Karl. You buy your own food,” Ingrid barked and continued to tap dance her way down to the glad doors.

“Ughhh, you’re so terrible,” Karl whined and followed her, with me trailing behind.

“How many times have you ever been here this semester?” Karl whispered to me, a smirk on his face as we perused the interior, looking for an empty spot.

It was clouded, and the brown and woody decors made the place feel … natural- comforting.

 I kinda liked this place.

The potted plants and natural lightings added something to the feel, but the idea of sitting in public and chewing till your stomach gets full was unsettling. Everyone was busy with something; phones, chit chat, a football match debate, menus, loneliness, assignments and whatever people do when they’re in public eat outs.

 Karl was set to teasing me though.

He was on his usual game; annoy me till I attempt to hit his head with a book or something; a mission that never worked because the guy was taller than me.

I mean, I’m tall too, but he’s just a couple inches taller.

“I don’t recall stepping my foot in this terrible place,” I replied and glared at him.

“Oh, you forgot that time when we bought chips and you almost- “

“I was doing school work. Y’all dragged me along,”

“How about the time when we bought you a burger and you wouldn’t ea- “

“I suspected the spinach was not healthy. It had a sickly yellow colour. You can’t expect me to eat that,” I countered and proceeded to scan the place for an empty table. There was one at a corner, and before another bunch of people could claim it, I zipped my way towards it and sat down on the chair that faced the corner, giving the rest of the world my back.

“I called dibs on that one,” Karl whined and sat opposite me.

“Just go away,” I replied and took out my phone in an attempt to ignore him.

“Hey guys, what’s it gonna be?” the waitress came in just in time, because I was getting enough of Karl.

“Smokehouse burger for me, and… the fruit cup. Eating health, y’know,” Karl winked at her, and the rest of us rolled our eyes.

“A chicken sandwich, please,” Ingrid said with a smile on her pretty spotless face.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” I muttered and glared at Karl, who was looking at me like I was a medieval someone from outer space.

The fries hit my tongue, and my stomach lurched. Rancid metal. Like licking a car battery (don’t ask how I know. Just, don’t).

I gagged, clamping a hand over my mouth. Across the table, Karl was already halfway through his mountain of a burger, ketchup smeared on his chin and the tomatoes threatening to fall off.

“Dude, you okay?” he froze, mid-chew.

“It’s…” I swallowed acid. “Does this taste normal to you?” I slid my plate towards him, and Ingrid leaned over, stealing a fry from my plate. She shrugged.

“Tastes like Cheddars. Why?”

Karl snatched my burger. “Maybe you’re just being a dramatic sucker and- oh, hell no, this is delicious.” He took another big bite, reducing it to nothing, and grinning at me innocently.

My throat burned. The world tilted. They couldn't taste what i tasted.

“So, are you okay?” I heard Ingrid say, a hint of panic in her voice.

“How does it taste like to you? And quit making a face like you were eating lemons just now,” Karl leaned forward, smirking and burping.

 “I don’t know what’s going on, but it tastes so bitter,” I replied, bewilderment overwhelming me.

“Well, children, that’s what happens when you skip meals like you’re skipping Communication classes,” Karl muttered.

“Speaking of which, I didn’t see you in Communication class, Karl. Where were you?” Ingrid changed the subject and Karl went on to describe his hang out with the boys, gaming and how that justified missing a class.

I understood, though. They were not taking me seriously. It was probably just a temporary thing anyway. My taste would return, wouldn’t it?

I sighed and watched my two friends blab about gaming, just like we’d always done. They were the talkative ones, and I liked it that way.

“Vee, sweetheart, are you gonna touch that Cola? Asking for a friend,” Karl chirped at me, smiling like an idiot like he’d always done when he wanted to finish my food, and I tossed the can to him.

“You’re the best,” he said and continued chatting away with Ingrid.

I sighed.

I couldn’t come up with a logical explanation as to why my taste was berserk all of a sudden, but I was sure it was very temporally.

“Hey, we about to go to class. Let’s get going,” Karl got up, holstering his black Nike backpack on his shoulders as Ingrid slurped for the last time and picked the empty carton to dump it in the trash can.

She had worn a blue A-line dress today, which had laced sleeves and little glitters on the front. Blue looked good on her. Her hair smelled nice, flowing gracefully to her shoulders. It was longer than mine and relaxed, but it was lovely and richly dark.

For someone who always dressed smart and elegant, she loved slurping a lot.

“Looks like someone is zoning in and out today,” Karl snickered and made his way out.

“Aww, poor baby. You really fancied lunch today, didn’t you?” Ingrid tried not to laugh.

“I’m taking the stairs once we reach school,” I growled and headed to the long flight of stairs just to avoid those two devils.

“We can buy another sandwich for ya,” Karl snickered and let out a loop of laughter.

“Unlike you, I have calories to burn. I don’t even know why I’m friends with lazy hooligans like you,” I said and walked away.

“We love you too, Vee,” Ingrid laughed and I dismissed her.

As much as they joked around and tried to annoy me, I couldn’t scrub away the worried looks in their eyes.

                                                                                      *

 I rinse the last plate and mount it on the drying rack. Aunt Cassandra has already retired to bed, and the only sound loud enough, apart from the little drip-drip of water from the faucet, is that of crickets and hoots of owls.

I feel exhausted.

Tomorrow, I will have to go to the hospital first thing in the morning to start my therapy sessions. I wonder what it is going to be like. What I don’t get is how a therapy session can possibly help bring my sense of taste back. Because I’m now forgetting how even citrus tastes like. Slowly, it’s like my senses are being re-painted with a darker hue, and I only hope things get better.

The arrangement is that I am required to e-learn for a full academic year before physically joining my friends at school again. The doctors insisted it was necessary that my condition be monitored every now and then- therapies inclusive, so being at school would be inconvenient. So, the final sentence is: I have a year off school to recover, then when I’m back on my feet, I’ll resume my studies. To be frank, I still feel awkward not being at school like this.

I put on my brown moccasins and close the front door. Aunt Cassandra and I are going for my first therapy session today. Well, technically, she will just drop me there and pick me up after an hour.

She honks her car with irritation since I seem to be delaying her. Of which I am. On purpose for that matter. The reason being that, though I have never been to a therapy session before, I have always regarded them as overrated arrangements where rich and Westernized people purposefully dunk their fortune down the drain. I guess I haven’t considered the esteemed reality of emotional healing and letting out your feelings to people. Should I trust someone just because they have a paper? Do they have the right to know what’s in my head, when, at the end of the day, they are doing so just for the money and not empathy?

Then, again, I don’t think we are not capable of dealing with our anxieties on our own. Rather, I think most people who opt for therapies have a victim mindset and they don’t want to save their own neck. They are waiting for a saviour.

Thoughts jam in my head as I slam the car door softly behind me, settling down in the car to the most comfortable position, my knees tucked in. The car smells like lavender. Aunt Cassandra sighs heavily and starts the engine.

“What took you so long?” she asks and glares at me through her pink rimmed fashion sunglasses. I freeze on my seat.

“I was putting on my shoes,” I mutter just loud enough for her to hear, staring down at my bony fingers.

“And how long did it take you to put on your shoes?”

“Pretty long. I’ve grown out of them so I was failing to fit,” I reply and stare at the windshield. I don’t know what I’ll stare at next. Her nose ring? Or her palmleaf-like eyelashes. Those things be batting up and down like some bird wings. How the hell are her eyelids keeping up? Man, they are hard workers for keeping up with the weight.

“You better not have forgotten anything necessary in there. Cause we ought to get going,” she growls and reaches for her Louis Vuitton handbag and takes out her lipstick. It is purple and it matches with the cardigan that she’s worn over her black and white tank top and blue jeans. Her feet are squished in glossy black pumps, and she steps on the gas and pulls out of the drive way. Her Sedan groans a little, coughs, and starts skirting down the road.

I swear on my delinquent tongue, I’m gonna give that therapist a reason to terminate these absurd sessions.

I can’t help but admit that I miss my two idiotic friends. Not only them, though, because I still miss being at school: being part of a community where you’re a particle inside the larger substance- where you are not really acknowledged but you feel welcomed… a place full of assorted individuals whom I never knew I’d miss till I got away from them. I believe not even my classmates see a difference now that I’m not there anymore. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not worried. I’m just stating the obvious. Everyone has a life to live and things to worry about and my presence is out of the question. Still, I can’t help but wonder how my acquaintances and classmates are doing.

A random country song plays on the local radio station. I try to make sense out of the lyrics, but the words roll past my ears like a gust of passing wind. Meanwhile, my aunt sings along, beautifully this time, and I subconsciously admire how her voice flows between every high and low note. I realise she sings well if the song is slow and touching…?

‘If I could steal one final glance,

one final step, one final dance with him

I’d play a song that would never ever end

Oh, I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again …’

She sings along, her eyes clouded with a faraway look, and suddenly, she seems so tired. The song continues but she just hums along until it finally ends and the Disk Jockey says, “that was a beautiful touching song, by Kacey Musgraves, a song entitled, uh, ‘Dance with My Father’. Alright everybody, hope y’all havin’ a blast. We playing country songs till 11 am this beautiful Thursday…”

She turns the radio off and glues her eyes ahead. I somehow relate with how she is feeling. Memories of my early childhood flood before me like a hologram. Although I did not exactly spend much time with my dad, the little moments we had when I was a kid were pretty special. Us playing knights in the backyard; Dad wearing cardboard horns and pretending to be a monster; I and Juan would pretend to attack him till he’d topple to the ground. Then, Tommaso, a ‘prince’ would start tickling the ‘monster’ till we join in and everyone would be rolling on the floor with laughter, feeling silly, happy, and whatever it is that kids and dads feel. Mom would glance at us from the kitchen, shaking her head, a pleased smile on her face. That was usually on Saturdays, though it was not consecutive.

Or those times when he would tell us stories after dinner. He liked telling us about how God brings rain to earth. He’d say, “when you hear thunder, it’s actually angels rolling barrels of water. Then they turn the barrels upside down and BOOM! You have rain.” No matter how many times he repeated it, it still sounded real and funny that time. I’d imagine angels rolling barrels hosting water enough to make the plants grow and all that. Looking back, that story is fake, like something out of a kid’s bedtime book, yet it's funny how I believed it for a good while.

Perhaps I would love to go back to those memories, wish them true in this present time, but not all fathers dance with you when you need them to.

So, as the car screeches to a stop, the robots flashing red and impatient pedestrians rushing across the zebra, I begin to wonder what my aunt’s childhood was like, considering how my mom never liked the mention of her own father.

I step out of the car and wait for aunt to get out. We are packed in a tight lot that faces a large three storey building looming in front of us. Of course, this street is packed with extravagant business buildings, and this one is not exceptionally outstanding, yet its simplicity captivates me. We walk towards the entrance and I carefully jot my feet on the white marbled floor, the glass doors welcoming us. The exterior is mostly grey and black, and the words ‘M & C THERAPY CLINIC’ sneer at me in their neon blue majesty. I let out a deep nervous sigh and step inside, cowering behind Aunt Cassandra.

Here goes nothing, good people.

“Good morning, ma’am, how can I help you?” a lady behind a DELL™ monitor says in a robotic voice, her face still glued to her screen. She’s the only lady at the reception, and she seems so unfriendly. Not that I care. She seems to be in her early thirties, and her voluminous afro has white streaks. She raises her sunken eyes towards Aunt Cassandra’s face and smiles inhumanly, y’know, those default smiles you wear when you don’t like your job.

“Good morning, uh, I have an appointment today. Actually, it’s not my appointment- it’s for this girl I’m with-” Aunt Cassandra says, looking at me as a gesture for me to say hi to the lady on the counter. I feel like I’m being handed to a bored vulture.

I give a tiny wave.

“Ah you’re that lady who gave me a hell of a brain workout last week huh? What was your name again? Caroline? Coretta?” the lady asks, sweeping her eyes over my aunt.

“It’s Cassandra Mayor, Ma’am,” my aunt replies, slightly irritated. In fact, it is a good thing that she is ‘slightly’ irritated. This woman has anger issues. Perhaps today is her payday. What’s the date again?

“Oh yes, I remember now. Cassandra. I hate you, Cassandra. Had to squeeze your little freaking appointment up the calendar instead of meeting with my girls. You know how irritating that is? You know, don’t you?” the lady says through her teeth and types something on her computer.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, ma’am,” aunt says and I freeze in place. I had no idea she could be so polite. Ah, I spoke too soon. The way she’s gripping her bag right now, she could actually rip that lady’s head of with her two pretty hands.

We get ushered to a waiting area on the first floor, and I find myself seated on a dark blue couch. Its position lets you face outside a little, which is an incredible view, at the same time you have a full view of the inside. The walls are painted beige, giving the room some soft brightness than the sharp light which white paints emanate. There’s potted cacti at the far corners in brown vases, and the room smells of roses. Air cons whirl in the background, and a huge screen looms on one of the sides, showing happy people growing gardens, having family picknicks and all the fuss electronics try to capture as definitions of happiness and health. I wonder if this facility has only one therapist, seeing how huge it is.

Aunt Cassandra seems to ream my mind, because she suddenly blurts out, “each floor has about three therapists. You get allocated to one by their system.”

“And how do they know the right man for the job?” I ask, my interest peaking.

“Your background. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Ah, I see. Pretty obvious,” I grunt and focus on the shape of my fingernails.

“Charity gave you a card, right?” she suddenly asks, checking her watch anxiously.

“Who’s Charity?” I ask, confusion dripping on my face. Charity? Card?

 “The receptionist. Y’know, the one who said she hates me. Her nametag read ‘Charity Moore’. You can still read, I assume?” she barks a little and I flitch in my seat.

“Oh, yeah, how could I forget. Charity. Yeah, she did. Is it important?” I fumble in my denim jacket’s pocket, looking for the damned little card. After a couple seconds, I fish it out and hand it to my aunt. She reads it and her mouth forms a thin line. Oh no! This is bad.

She flips it and reads the other side. She then lets out a sigh, a deep one, flips it again and reads AGAIN. By now, if she’s playing with my curiosity, it really is working because my heart is beating in my mouth, dying to find out whatever is on the card that’s made her a little pale. Is it a bill? Or have I been rejected the therapy? Actually, that’s good news to me because I definitely want out. I peek at her, and she looks at me, surprisingly back to her normal self. Whatever it is that she felt has been buried just like that.

“Uh, what’s written on the card?” I speak up and she snorts. A lady in a business suit walks past us and heads to the fire escape. I shrug and look questioningly at my gatekeeping aunt. Why won’t she tell me?

“If you’d wanted to know, you could’ve read the moment you received it. How are you this dumb all of a sudden?” she teases and hands me the card. It’s white and has dark blue edges. It has the words ‘M & C THERAPY CLINIC’ engraved in gold. It is like an ID, with my name and date of birth printed in black. The therapist I’ll be seeing is called Mark Edwards, and his credentials have been snuggled next to his name. He reeks of nerdiness.

I flip it, and there’s contact information for both the clinic and Mr Edwards. I wonder why aunt seemed to tense up from this information. Does she know the therapist? Do they go way back? No, these are absurd thoughts.

“This is five minutes before nine. I’ll get going. At nine, you knock on the door that has your therapist’s name. I’ll be back at ten sharp. Understood?” my aunt suddenly says and gets up from the couch. She hastily picks her belongings and smoothens her cardigan.

“Yes ma’am,” I reply, half confused as to why she wants to leave all of a sudden. I glance at the row of doors which seem to stretch to the end of the corridor. Damn, she really wants to bail out huh?

“Uh, what if we finish early?” I ask, taking the thought into consideration.

“You have my number,” she says and turns to leave. One of the doors opens, and a man comes out, splashing his eyes all over the place? Were we being too loud?

An older looking woman gets out, drawing deep breaths, her face somewhat contorted. She must be a patient and taking breaths seems like a technique she’s just learnt today. Who needs to teach you that, for god’s sake?

A wave of relief washes over me, seeing that he was prolly just showing her out. It wasn’t us, after all.

“Cass- Miss Mayor? Good morning?!” the man says with a smile brighter than the sun it almost melts my toes. My aunt turns around and faces him. In contrast, her expression is almost like a plague; a raging storm that even Jack Sparrow couldn’t possibly pirate through. I watch in utter silence. Do these two know each other or he knows her through the appointment?

“Good morning, sir, I just came to drop my patient. Have a good day,” she recites, each word carrying an edge of bitterness that I’m surprised the happy man is not gagging. He remains jovial though.

“You have a great one yourself. See you around Miss Mayor,” he replies with a sugary smile.

Aunt turns to me. I crawl in my seat, the hairs on my neck rising.

“I’ll pick you up at ten sharp,” she hisses and storms into the elevator before I even say ‘yes, ma’am’.

Its nine o’clock.