My mom has this amazing talent for guilt trips. She's really good at it. She has the ability to make me feel guilty for just about anything, even stuff I didn't do. The scary part is that she's completely aware of this ability. She continually uses it to her own advantage. She's always reminding me and my sister of handmade clothes when we were toddlers, sleepless nights when we were sick with one ailment or another, and assistance with countless science fair projects. The list goes on and on. My personal favorite is the 'I was in labor for twenty-three hours' speech. Of course, it's completely untrue. My father innocently let it slip once that she was only actually in labor for nine hours. I'll be the first to admit that nine hours is a sacrifice, but it's nothing compared to twenty-three. I honestly believe that for every year of my life her duration of pain has increased.

Well, never one to miss an opportunity, she began our conversation with this seemingly innocent question, "How's work?"

"Work's . . ." I shrugged. "Work's work, you know."

"Do you like it?"

"I'm a waitress, Mom. What's not to like? People yell at me all day long. I get food spilt on me. There are lots of bad tips." I grinned.

Unfortunately, she didn't.

I sighed deeply. "Yes, Mom. I like my job. I really do like my job."

She stopped what she was doing and gave me her full attention.

Oh, boy, I thought, Here it comes.

"I don't understand, True. From what you just told me, I don't know what there is to like about it."

"I'm good at it?"

"That's beside the point," she informed me impatiently.

"Then I don't know what the point is. I like my job. I'm good at it. The tips aren't . . . that bad. I even made a new friend."

"A new friend?" Her tone implied I had just said something along the lines of 'I've just grown a third foot'.

"Yes, a new friend. I do have friends, you know."

"Uh-huh," she mumbled before turning back to her work.

"Her name is Genevieve." I continued. "We all call her Genev. She's not exactly a natural-born waitress, but she's got potential. Mom, are you even listening?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm listening. Genevieve. Waitress. Lots of potential."

"I think I've even figured out why the two of us get along so well."

"Why's that?" Mom asked without even looking up.

"I don't talk much and she hardly says anything at all." I leaned forward to see her reaction. "That was supposed to be funny."

That really got her attention. She turned and looked at me fully. "Funny? Oh, I see. And spending the rest of your life as a waitress? Is that supposed to be funny too?"

"Mom, please don't start."

Sadly, she was already on a roll and there was no stopping her. "You're never going to take the time to make plans for yourself, are you?"

I felt a chill run up my spine. "What does that mean?" I demanded.

"Your father and I have decided it's time you got a real job."

"A 'real' job? Meaning what? That maybe I should become a mechanic like you."

As if to emphasize my point, she said, "Hand me that eleven-sixteenth's, would you?"

I gave her the desired wrench and she rolled back under the car. Impatiently, I began pacing back and forth. Finally I could stand it no longer. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

"We just think it's time you took some responsibility."

"We? Wait a minute. Responsibility for what? I have a job. It's a good job."

"But you could do so much better."

"What did you have in mind?" I asked sarcastically.

She hesitated.

"Mom?"

She slowly rolled out from under the car, wiped her hands on a rag, and looked up into my expectant eyes. "Your father has set up an interview with a publishing house downtown. We'd like you to be there."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "You'd like me to be there?! You've already set up the interview. It's not like you're giving me much of a choice here."

She rose to her feet and placed her hands on my shoulders. "True, baby, you're our hope for the future. I mean, look at us. Your father's been out of work for months now and, as you pointed out, I'm a mechanic. We're just barely getting by."

"That's not fair," I whispered.

She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. "Ok, look at it this way. Your sister will be graduating soon. We have no means of paying for college."

"Dip has never said anything about wanting to go to college."

"Just because she hasn't said anything . . ."

"Mom," I warned.

"Ok, I want her to go," she admitted, "I wanted you to go."

I stared at her silently.

"This is a wonderful opportunity for you, honey. You'll understand that someday."

I remanded silent.

She seized the moment. "Your father and I have worked hard all our lives just to provide you with the best. This is not so much to ask, True."

"Alright, alright. Just don't do that." I sighed loudly.

She was good. I'll give her that. She had made sure to mention my little sister, point out that I had chosen not to go to college, and the 'we've worked hard all our lives' angle. I was pretty sure the 'twenty-three hours' speech was going to be next and I really didn't want to hear that one.

I gulped. "Ok. It's just an interview, right?"

She smiled brightly. "Right. No strings attached. You just have to make it through the interview, then you can decide what you want to do."

Yeah, right, I thought, then I can decide what I want to do. Now, there's a concept.

"So, you'll go?" Mom asked anxiously.

"Yeah, I'll go." I finally said. "Just tell me when and where."

True Love MacAlister

The Muse Introduction