by John Benson
Amber liked tight jeans. So tight they turned guys' heads as she walked by. Not that she was going to give them what they wanted, but being desired was a rush. Amber's mother liked loose jeans. Amber compromised by buying ones that just fit and making sure they were a brand that shrank when they were washed. She was very good at getting her own way. Maybe too good, which is why she was going to do this. She gathered up her wilting strands of courage, promised herself she'd keep her promise.
"Hey, Mom?"
Her mom put down her novel. "Yes dear?" she said.
"Would you do me a favor? I know you're not going to like it much, but it's really, really important."
"I promise to consider it, dear." Mom looked at her, attentive, mildly curious.
Amber took a breath. Here goes. "I know I can be kind of bratty sometimes. Stubborn. Selfish. Annoying, right?"
Mom cracked a smile. "Well, yes, that's true. Go on."
The biggest part of Amber was praying that this was going to work. A smaller part secretly hoped it was going to fail. Her heart was beating too damn fast. Her palms were damp. "I, uh, I want to be punished when I'm naughty. I want you to spank me 'til I cry."
"I... see," Mom said. She was not smiling. "I appreciate your attempt to better yourself, hon, but you're asking me to go up against my own understanding of right and wrong."
Frustration brought anger. "Oh. And does your idea of right and wrong include just ignoring the kid's feelings?"
Mom's mouth was one straight line. "My understanding tells me I should lead by example, and that includes not bending my morals to suit your whims. You asked, and I considered it. The answer's 'no.'"
Amber wanted to cry. She wanted to throw things. She felt lost, unloved, misunderstood. "Okay then, fine." She turned.
"Where are you going?"
"To my room to sulk, okay?"
"Amber." Mom's tone was softer now, a bit conciliatory.
"Yeah?" Amber turned back. Was there still hope?
"Was this totally your idea, or did someone put you up to it?"
"I, um, it was my idea, Mom, but I did get some encouragement."
"From whom, sweetie?"
Oh, fuck. "Tnuctipeh, Mom. He told me it would make me a better shaman."
"That. I thought you were finally through with that."
"Through with talking about it, Mom, 'cause you don't want to hear about it. But it's part of me, and I won't be through with it until I'm dead. If then."
Mom grimaced as if struck. "Lots of girls have an imaginary friend, but they usually put him away with the doll house and the Barbies. You never got over yours. How come?"
"I see things other people do not see, Mom. That doesn't mean that they're not there. I'm a shaman. It's not something I get to decide. The only decision is am I going to be a good one or a bad one. There's too much power. I need to be controlled. I thought maybe, just maybe, you could be some help, but no. You're so fucking sure you're right, that your reality is right, you can't even listen."
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