“None but those that have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science.”
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
Fluffy blue towel? Check. Red bikini from last year’s end-of-season sale? Check. Yummy-smelling sunscreen? Check. Ever so quietly I open the front door.
“Where’re you going?”
Words every eighteen-year-old girl dreads hearing from her mother's lips. I pivot slowly and prop my sunglasses on top of my head. My mom has frozen in the act of washing dishes to stare at me from across the kitchen. The only sound is the hot water that streams from the faucet onto the partially cleaned plate in her hand. It’s a gushing waterfall; the rest of the house is a cathedral of quiet.
As if to answer her own question, she asks, “You’re not going to the beach, are you?”
She turns off the faucet and the waterfall evaporates. “But I told you I needed to talk to you before your brothers get home from school.”
“I thought it could wait 'til tonight.”
“This is really important, Trinity. Ogling the lifeguard with your friends can wait.”
Ouch, my mom knows me too well. “Fine,” I say, “I'll text them that I’ll be late.” Inconvenient chat with my mother? Check.
Her blue eyes crease around the edges. “Once you hear what this is about, you’ll be glad I didn’t wait until tonight to tell you.”
“Whatever.” My mother is cryptic as ever. Being a photographer for National Geographic Magazine has taught her to adopt an air of mystery to everything she says.
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