"Are you really a good student?"
"Yes."
"Do you play an instrument? Were you in school plays? A cheerleader?"
"No to everything," I said. "The school I attend isn't exactly conducive to all that."
"Conducive?" She smiled, acting impressed. I had to smile myself.
"I read a lot. That's a big interest. I like music, but not hip-hop."
"Hip-hop?"
"You know, rap."
"Oh." She fixed her gaze on me a little more intently and for the first time, I felt she was looking for something or someone in my face.
"What about my real father?" I asked.
The waitress brought our order. I waited for my mother to respond before sipping my coffee.
"What about him?" she countered.
"I thought you were smart," I served back to her. "Figure it out."
She looked at me without much expression for a moment and then started to laugh.
"I guess we are related. Okay. I don't know where he is or anything about him now. We met when I was in college. I was not exactly the perfect little rich girl then. In fact, there were times I resented my family, my father and mother, their wealth and position. I felt as if I was part of some oppressive power structure and so I hung around with rebels and protestors, poets and singers. To tell you the truth, they were a lot more interesting. One of them was a handsome African-American man who looked like he could be the next Sidney Poitier. We had a hot and heavy passionate romance. I got pregnant and the rest you know."
"What was his name?"
"Why? Are you going to search for him?"
"I'd just like to know. Wouldn't you?" I demanded.
She softened.
"Larry Ward," she said.
"What happened after you became pregnant?"
"Daddy took me out of college and sent me to a Midwestern school. I met Grant while he was in law school and we became engaged and married shortly after I graduated. Daddy helped Grant set up a practice here. He introduced him to influential people, politicians, and Grant built himself a significant firm and reputation. Now he's thinking about getting into politics, maybe someday becoming Attorney General. He's ambitious and he'll probably do what he sets out to do."
"Weren't you ever curious about my father, what happened to him?"
She sighed, dipped her biscotto into the cappuccino and then nodded.
"Yes. I did hear that he had gone to England. He was very creative, a writer, and he wanted to teach. He always talked about immersing himself in the Elizabethan age, Shakespeare, all that," she said.
"And that's all you know?"
"I'm different now, a different person with an entirely new lifestyle. I don't resent my wealth and position anymore. I don't choke on the silver spoon. I have to erase him from my memory, pretend those years never happened."
"Then you must hate the sight of me," I concluded. She froze for a moment and then shook her head.
"I don't hate you. How can I hate you? I don't even know you. Maybe after a while, I will hate you," she offered.
She kept doing that, unfreezing my face, cracking my ice with