Free Heart of Glass by Wendy Lawless Page A

You’re giving her the opportunity to behave properly. And you are telling her that if she doesn’t, you will end the conversation.”
    â€œWow.” It had never occurred to me to hang up on Mother. She was the one who hung up on me, generally after delivering a blistering critique of my character or her latest list of demands.
    Dr. Lopez put her hands up in a “Stop! In the Name of Love” position. “You need to learn to lay down some ground rules and protect yourself. Especially when dealing with such an irrational person.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll try.” I smiled weakly.
    I walked back through the park in the dusky, cold air under the fuzzy glow of the streetlamps, struggling with the mind-boggling notion of attempting to set boundaries with my mother. She had always run the show and had defined the limits, not me. How would I ever be able to defuse her? To not feel a slap across my face at the sound of her voice? I descended into the West Fourth Street subway station and shoved my token into the turnstile. In the overheated traincar, I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back as I stared at the graffiti-covered walls, every space filled with a spray-painted obscenity, initials, or savage curlicue designs. I was so used to seeing it, I hardly noticed it anymore. But now it looked like the sound track of my mind, a terrifying roar, a vomit of confusion.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Michael had almost finished his renovation of the kitchen. He told me I could choose the paint color from a fan of shades. Barely thinking, I picked a pinkish lavender that might have been passable in a discount department store ladies’ lounge but that looked out of place and rinky-dink in a kitchen. Something about seeing that kitchen painted such a horrible color convinced me that it was over between us. I shouldn’t have chosen it, he shouldn’t have let me. It was like our relationship—wrong.
    I was sitting on the living-room sofa, trying to do homework, staring at the cream-of-kidney wall when Michael came home.
    â€œHi, sorry it took me forever, the subway was packed.” He took off his peacoat and draped it over a chair. “Should we just order? Chinese maybe?”
    I nodded and chewed on my pen.
    He started riffling through a drawer next to the phone where he kept all the take-out menus. “Whatcha working on?”
    â€œA paper on Citizen Kane .” We had watched it twice in class; my professor had seen it more than eighty times.
    â€œOh, I love that film. Do you want me to help—look at what you’ve got so far?”
    He looked all eager-beaver, and I was annoyed that he seemed to think I couldn’t write a simple paper without his assistance. I loved the film and had been doing fine until now.
    â€œUm, no, thanks.”
    â€œYou know that Welles didn’t actually write the movie script, don’t you? Herman Mankiewicz did, and Welles took all the credit.”
    â€œWell, that’s not in my textbook.”
    â€œBut it’s true. He also tried to take credit for the cinematography that James Wong Howe created.”
    â€œReally?” I started leafing through the chapter of the book dedicated to the movie.
    â€œAbsolutely. James Wong Howe invented deep focus and used it in Citizen Kane , but again Welles said he invented it.”
    â€œBut Gregg Toland was the cinematographer.”
    â€œNo, that’s wrong. It was James Wong Howe.”
    â€œMichael, it’s here in my textbook—see?” I got up off the couch and walked over to him to show him, using my finger to point to the paragraph about Toland’s groundbreaking techniques in the film.
    â€œThat’s wrong!” Michael became agitated.
    â€œNo, Michael, look—right here. It’s in my book. You’re wrong.” I chuckled smugly, relishing proving him incorrect.
    â€œI’m not!” He slapped me across the face.
    No