Spence gave herself ten minutes to get the mess taken care of before her mother came up to get her. Yet, she was not worried in the least. This was her specialty. No one could do it better.

***

Her fork stabbed the roast beef, tiny bubbles erupting within the faint pink liquid that leaked out from under the piece of meat. She smiled, amused by her mother’s culinary choice for the evening, imagining it was her leg that bled, as she pushed the fork in roughly, until the tongs struck the plate below, dragging the meat around the plate, the annoying sound of metal on ceramic piercing the silent dinner table.

It was just her mother and she at the table, her father out playing poker with the guys or banging a 27 year old over a chair at The Hilton. Neither woman knew which was the case; nor cared.

Spencer slipped her hand under her skirt, gently placing her palm on top of the cotton bandage, the heat from her wound throbbing through the bandage. The sensitive nerve endings of her palm recognized the sticky liquid that had begun to seep through the protective layer of cotton. She shifted her leg in the hopes that the blood would rush the other direction, until dinner was finished and she could replace the wrapping. The pain was increasing exponentially, Spencer grinding her teeth violently against the piece of red meat that sat in her mouth.

Her mother had been talking incessantly for the past twenty minutes about some Ben Davis, or Ben Darren, or Darren Davis, a talent agent she had met at some nonprofit benefit. She had told Ben or Davis or Darren how talented Spencer was and that she was sure to become a big star right out of high school. The man seemed very interested, her mother cooed, as though she would be the mastermind of Spencer’s future career as a celebrity, dragging her daughter around from screenings to benefits, her hands waving about in demure fashion, fielding all questions and comments from Spencer’s adoring fans, making sure the world new she was responsible for Spencer’s brilliant career.

She had carried the child in her womb for 9 months; of course she knew what was best for Spencer. Her mother no doubt had bored the man to tears with her jovial anecdotes she learned from The View or some humor column from Glamour. She was no fool, yet was so consumed with her own grandeur, so focused on catching a glimpse of her reflection in a nearby shop window as she ranted on and on, that she was unable to recognize her own falseness that was so utterly and completely above the surface.