Next life, Mom—live for yourself

My mom had been a weak, overweight woman.

She would argue with vendors at the market over 50 cents, yet when my dad hit her, she could only curl up and cry with her arms over her head.

I found her embarrassing, so I didn’t even let her attend my college acceptance celebration.

It wasn’t until I was sorting through her belongings after her death that I found an old photograph.

In the photo, a woman straddled a motorcycle, her arms covered in sleeve tattoos. Her gaze was wild and defiant, her beauty sharp enough to steal one’s breath.

A car accident sent me back 20 years to a vocational high school.

The queen bee was surrounded by people, grinding a cigarette butt into the table. She raised a brow at me. “Are you new? Stick with me from now on. Call me Lindy, and I’ll give you my life if it comes to that.”

I stared at her unruly, fearless face, and my tears burst out uncontrollably.

Mom, please don’t become a good housewife this time. Stay reckless and bad.

…

A few young men in half-worn school uniforms started heckling nearby. “Lindy is talking to you. Are you a mute or what?”

“That brick must’ve knocked her stupid.”

I touched my forehead. Sticky blood slid down my brow bone, blurring my vision.

Just minutes ago, I went back in time, crouched beside a trash bin in a back alley, being beaten by a group of young women. They yanked my hair and smashed my face into the wall.

At the moment of despair, the roar of a motorcycle tore into the alley. Lindsey Waterston jumped off with a helmet in hand and drove them away like a warrior.

Now, she sat on the desk, looking at me with her eyebrow raised. “Why are you crying?”

She frowned, pulled a tissue from her pocket, and pressed it roughly against my bleeding forehead. “You didn’t cry when you were getting beaten up. But you’re crying after I said I’ve got you covered?”

I looked at her, completely unable to stop my tears from streaming. “Lindy…”

I choked on the word and grabbed the sleeve of her leather jacket.

Lindsey froze for a moment, then smiled. The smile was bold and unrestrained, tinged with mischief, stunning in its confidence. “Hey, that sounded sweet.”

She reached out and wiped the tears from my face, carrying the faint scent of tobacco. “Alright, stop crying. From now on at Riverside High, just say my name—Lindsey.”

She got down from the desk and patted my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get that cleaned up, and we can grab something to eat.”

I followed behind her, watching her slim but upright back. She walked as if the wind followed her, the hem of her leather jacket swaying.

Who would’ve thought that the queen bee, surrounded by followers, would one day apologize to a man because she burned a fish?

I wiped my tears and hurried after her.

Mom, I didn’t want you to be a good housewife this time. Be reckless and bad. Even if you raise hell, I’d still cover for you.

I became Lindsey’s number one lackey. To keep her from getting suspicious, I made up a tragic backstory for myself, saying that my parents were dead, and I was kicked out by relatives with nowhere to go.

After hearing it, Lindsey slammed the table and swore. “From now on, this is your home.”

She took me back to her rented place. It was a basement barely over a hundred square feet, dark and damp, with half the wall paint peeling off. However, she kept it clean. Motorcycle posters covered the walls, and crates of beer were stacked in the corner.

I clumsily started copying the delinquent look. I tapered my uniform pants, stuck fake tattoos on my wrists, and sucked on lollipops to look cool.

However, more than anything, I watched Lindsey. “Lindsey, stop smoking. It’s bad for your lungs.”

I snatched the cigarette she had just lit and dropped it into a cup of water.

Lindsey glared at me. “Yelena, how dare you? Do you think you can boss me around?”