“Twenty Questions”

by Jenn Dugan

“It's going to be a full moon tonight,” Linda said, glaring at the silver Lexus that swerved through the rushing cars. “Stupid jerk.”
         Staying five miles per hour above the speed limit, Linda drove along the highway polluted with morning commuters. Several cars passed her, but Linda’s eyes followed the silver Lexus.
         “Look at him,” she told her daughter Dena, who sat shotgun, hugging her purple backpack to her nearly flat chest. “He did all that swerving, and he’s only four cars ahead. Stupid jackass. Don’t ever drive like that, Dena." Linda gripped the steering wheel and glared at the expensive car. "You should always leave early for work, or school, or wherever it is you’re going, so you don’t have to swerve in and out of traffic like that," she continued. "And even if you are in a hurry, you shouldn’t put other people’s lives in danger just because you weren’t responsible enough to leave on time.”
         “Why are you yelling at me?” Dena said, glowering. “It’s not like I’m the one who’s driving like an idiot!”
         “I’m not yelling at you! I’m just saying, don’t drive like an idiot.”
         “I’m not!”
         “Fine! Jesus!” Linda said, running her hand through her graying hair. “Why are you so defensive lately?”
         “I’m not defensive!"
         Linda took a deep breath. “Listen," she said. "I’m just venting, that’s all. I’m not mad at you, and I don’t think you’re an idiot. It just bothers me when I see idiots driving like that, and-”
         “And what? You see idiots driving like that, and you automatically think of me?”
         “That’s not what I said!”
         “That’s what you were going to say!”
         “No, it wasn’t. If you hadn’t interrupted me, you'd know what I was going to say. Jesus, you’re sixteen years old! You should know by now not to interrupt people when they're talking.”
         “Oh god, Mom! I’m not a kid! Stop treating me like one!”
         “Well, quit acting like one!”
         “I don’t act like a kid!”
         “Quit yelling!”
         “Make me!”
         Linda swerved her Ford Explorer into the slow lane, cutting off a white pick-up. Then she drove onto the emergency lane and stopped. She killed the ignition and turned to face her daughter. “I am not in the mood to put up with this shit today, Dena.”
         Dena’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked away. She drew her hand through her long dark hair, which fell, hiding her face. Dena's hand, marked by several pale scars and two fresh cuts, pulled her purple backpack, like a pillow, closer to her chest.
         Linda winced and looked away. "Why are you cutting yourself again?" she asked.
         Dena pulled her long black sleeves over her hands and balled them into fists. She rested her head against her backpack and faced the passenger window.
         “Dena?" Linda said. "Why are you cutting yourself?"
         Dena didn't respond. Linda watched the road and felt, for a second, like a ghost. She had the feeling that, should she attempt to touch Dena, her hands would go right through her and Dena would never notice.
         Linda looked at the sky. The smog was bad today, and it was still cold, despite the glaring sun, its beams stretching just underneath Linda’s sun visor. She squinted behind her sunglasses. Her stomach growled and her throat felt dry.
         Linda watched as expensive cars, ones she wouldn’t mind owning, rushed by. Old, beaten cars that looked similar to some she’d owned in the past also putted along. It would be nice to own a Lexus, she thought. She'd need to work her ass off to afford one of those, though, and she already spent most of her time at the office.
         She glanced at her watch. If she didn’t get the car back on the road soon, she’d be late for work, and Dena would be late for school. Linda glanced at Dena, who was still hugging her backpack and staring out the passenger window. Linda wondered what, if anything, Dena was looking at.
         Linda pulled her cell phone from her purse and said, “You know what? Let’s go to Denny’s.”
         “What?”
         “We’re going to Denny’s.”
         Linda dialed her work number. “Hi, Carol. It's Linda,” she said to the answering machine. “I’m having some car problems, so I'll be a little late today. Tell Sharon I want her report done by noon.” Linda glanced at Dena, who sat brooding.
         “Why are we going to Denny’s?” Dena asked. “I have to go to school.”
         “We need to talk.”
         “But I have to go to school! I have a test!”
         “You can take it later. We need to talk now.”
         Dena shoved her backpack into the foot area of the passenger seat, and crossed her arms. “Fine," she said. "I guess you want me to fail English.”
         “Yeah, Dena, that’s exactly what I want,” Linda said, turning the key in the ignition and stepping on the gas.
         The two drove to Denny's in silence. Dena refused to look at her mother, choosing, instead, to stare out the passenger window. Linda watched the road, glaring at the all-too-frequent idiot drivers. When Linda pulled into the parking lot, Dena said, “What is there to talk about?”
         “Whatever's on your mind,” Linda said. She parked, unbuckled, and got out.
         Dena stayed inside. “I can’t go in there,” she said. “I’m not wearing any makeup.”
         “It’s Denny’s,” Linda said. “Why do you need makeup to go into Denny’s?”
         “I’ve been crying. They’ll know.”
         “So?” Linda said. “Weren’t you just biting my head off because I wouldn’t take you to school? You weren’t worried about looking like you’d just cried then.”
         “The kids at school are dumb,” Dena said. “I don’t care what they think.”
         “But you care about what the people at Denny’s think?”
         “Look,” Dena said, “you can go in without me if you want. But I’m staying here.”
         Linda stood regarding her daughter for a moment. Then, she got back in the driver’s seat and started the car.
         “Are you taking me to school?” Dena asked.
         “No. Rite-Aide.”
         “Why?”
         “To buy makeup.”
         “Mom! I don’t want to go to Denny’s! I just want to go to school and take my English test! I don’t feel like talking to you!”
         “Why not?”
         “Because there's nothing to talk about! And, besides, you wouldn’t understand.”
         “What wouldn’t I understand?”
         “Nothing. Just take me to school, please.”
         “Is it drugs?”
         “No.”
         “Sex?”
         “No!”
         “I understand drugs and sex, you know,” Linda said.
         “I’m sure you do, Mother.”
         “Don’t call me ‘Mother’.”
         “That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re my mother.”
         “I prefer ‘Mom’.”
         “And I prefer going to school and taking my English test. But we don’t always get what we want, do we, Mother?”
         Linda tapped her finger against the steering wheel. “Is this about your father?”
         “No,” Dena said. “You have seventeen more questions.”
         Linda's eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"
         "We're playing Twenty Questions. You have seventeen questions left."
         Linda rolled her eyes. "Don't be a smartass."
         Dena frowned. "No," she said. "If you want to know what's wrong with me, you have to play. If you can figure out what my problem is in twenty questions, I'll go to Denny's with you."
         Linda laughed cynically. "Fine," she said. "Are you still pissed I don't make enough to give you an allowance?”
         “No.”
         “Are you mad at Grandpa for moving away?”
         “No.”
         "Are you still upset our new apartment manager wouldn't let you keep your dog?"
         "No."
         “Are you sure it's not drugs or sex?”
         “Yeah, I’m sure,” Dena said. “Fourteen more questions.”
         “Sixteen!” Linda said. “That last one didn’t count.”
         “Yes, it did, Mother; it counted for two questions.”
         “One.”
         “Okay, fine. You have fifteen more questions, then.”
         Linda clasped her hands together and thought. “Alcohol?”
         “No. Fourteen more questions.”
         Linda put her hands through her hair. “Give me a clue.”
         “Can’t,” Dena said.
         “Why not?”
         Dena sighed. “Okay. One clue. It has to do with a friend of mine,” Dena said. “Her name’s Tina.”
         “Oh. Do I know her?”
         “No.”
         “Well, what’s wrong with her?”
         “It has to be a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question, Mom.”
         Linda sighed. “Is Tina having sex, doing drugs, or drinking alcohol?”
         “God, Mom. You sound like Mr. Mackey from South Park.”
         “Oh, you watch that show?” Linda asked, interested. Then she caught herself and said, “You really shouldn’t watch South Park. It’s not appropriate for minors.”
         “I don’t watch South Park,” Dena said. “M’kay?”
         Linda smiled slightly, despite herself.
         The two were quiet for a moment. Then Dena said, “Mom? You still have nine more questions.”
         “Okay. Is Tina worried about school?”
         Dena paused, then said, “Sometimes.”
         “Why?”
         “It’s kind of stupid,” Dena said. “She’s afraid of failing.”
         Linda raised an eyebrow and said, “And what’s Tina in danger of failing?”
         Dena picked at her nails and said, “Her mother.”
         Linda sighed and put her hand through her hair. “Oh,” she said. “And what’s Tina’s mother like, that Tina’s so afraid of failing her?”
         Dena played with the rainbow friendship bracelet she’d attached to her backpack earlier that year, wrapping it around her fingers. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s hard to say. She’s perfect at everything. But the thing is, she’s hardly ever around. Tina and her mom, they don’t really know each other. Tina doesn't know her mom's opinions on certain issues, and it makes it hard for Tina to tell her things. And sometimes Tina’s mom tries to get Tina to talk to her. It’s like her mom expects her to just open up. Just like that.”
         “Well, I’m sure Tina’s mom is a very busy woman,” Linda said. “She probably loves Tina very much, but doesn’t often have the time to show it. You see, when you’re an adult, you have these things called bills that you have to pay. And, sometimes, especially when your no-good, two-timing husband decides to leave you for a younger woman and refuses to pay child support, sometimes you have to work all hours of the day in order to make sure you and your kid have all the nice things everyone else has. Maybe that’s why Tina’s mom doesn’t talk to Tina very much.”
         Dena blinked a couple of times. Linda thought she might cry again. Instead, she said in a steady voice, “You have eight more questions.”
         “Does Tina cut herself?”
         “Sometimes.”
         “Why?” Linda resisted the urge to look at her daughter’s hands.
         “Because it helps turn her emotional pain into physical pain; it’s something she has control over. That’s what my friend Bianca says, anyway. Bianca's really smart. She wants to be a psychologist someday.”
         Linda was going to ask about Bianca, but just then, an attractive, blond, tan boy, around eighteen and wearing a Vons uniform, approached Dena's window and peered inside. Dena, following Linda's gaze, turned and gasped at the face looming over her. Then she rolled down her window and said, with forced enthusiasm, "Matt! Hey! How's it going?"
         Matt grinned. “What’s up? Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while! I gave you my number. How come you never called?”
         “Oh. I must have lost it, I guess.”
         “Oh,” Matt said, his grin fading a little. “What about my E-mail address?”
         “Um, I don’t really go online that much. But, hey, what have you been up to?”
         “Nothing much. Working. Going to school.” Matt looked past Dena, at Linda, who had removed her sunglasses and was now holding them to her lips and regarding Matt with interest. “Hi, I’m Matt,” he said.
         “Linda,” Linda said, smiling. She reached across Dena and shook Matt's hand.
         Matt looked at Dena and said, "Look, I have to get back to work. Here’s my number. Call me.” He wrote his number on a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Nice meeting you,” he said to Linda.
         Linda watched Matt walk away. Then she turned to Dena and said, “That boy is cute! Where did you meet him?”
         “I don't know... Some party Bianca dragged me to, I guess."
         “Why don't you call him? He seems to like you."
         Dena shrugged and said quietly, “I don’t really like guys, Mom.”
         Linda blinked. Then she said, “I know what’s wrong with you!”
         Dena’s eyes widened. “You do?”
         “You’re PMS-ing!”
         Dena sighed. “No,” she said. “Five more questions.”
         Linda threw up her hands. “I give up. Why can’t you just tell me?”
         “Because you won’t understand,” Dena said. “Four more questions.”
         “That wasn’t a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”
         “I’m throwing out the rules.”
         “Fine. Then I can ask, what’s wrong with you?”
         “Everything is wrong with me,” Dena said. “Three more questions.”
         “What, specifically, is wrong with you?”
         “Nothing,” Dena said, nervously twisting the bracelet on her backpack. Her legs were rigid, her frown deep. “Two more.”
         Linda rubbed her tense neck. “Do you even know what’s wrong with you?”
         Dena looked distressed. “I don’t know,” she said. “One more.”
         Linda sighed and looked out the window. A loud, lone Doritos delivery truck drove past. A small Mazda turned in front of it, cutting it off. The truck braked and just barely avoided hitting the oblivious Mazda that crawled along in front of it. Why are people always in such a damned hurry? Linda thought.
         She sighed and looked at her daughter. "I don't have any more questions, Dena," she said. "I'm all out."
         Dena wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Can I have your last question?" she asked.
         "Go for it."
         "Do you love me?"
         Tears stung Linda's eyes. She looked at Dena. She studied the long dark hair veiling her downcast eyes; her poor posture; her ever-fidgeting fingers. What happened to that happy, self-assured kid Linda once knew? What happened to the kid who never seemed to question the world's love for her, let alone her mom's love?
         Dena again became the freckled little girl who insisted on wearing her hair up, and whose knees were always crusty with scabs. She was the little girl who, on the first day of Kindergarten, marched confidently to the classroom door and yelled "Bye, Mom!" while the other kids clung to their parents and cried.
         Linda remembered Dena's first friend from Kindergarten: a pale little girl with unkempt, red hair. She remembered how loud the two could get. So loud, Linda sometimes felt like screaming and running away. She also remembered the times when the two girls grew suspiciously quiet- the occasions when they would shut themselves in Dena's closet and stay there until Linda grew nervous and knocked, asking what they were up to. There were always nervous whispers, followed by Dena saying something like, "Nothing, Mom, we're just playing house!"
         Linda blinked several times as she remembered the closet door. She looked at Dena, who watched her, unsure and a little afraid.
         Linda saw Dena, it seemed, for the first time in years. She saw the little girl who always yelled, "I love you, Mom!" before going to school every morning. She saw her daughter.
         "Of course I love you," Linda said, tears spilling down her face.
         Dena unbuckled and hugged her. "I love you, too, Mom."
         Minutes passed before they finally let go. The two shared a long, strangely content silence for a moment. Then Linda said, "Do you want me to drive you to school now?"
         "Yeah," Dena said, as she opened the passenger door, "but let's go to Denny's first."
         Linda smiled and said, "Okay."