Author's Note: I'm quite aware that I switched tenses in the middle and then went right back to present. It just seemed to flow that way, so I'm keeping it. Complain all you want, it's not going to get changed.

Disclaimer: I don't ownit. In fact, you'll be surprised to discover I own precious little.

Chapter Fifteen: Decisions, Decisions

It's the day of the date and she's completely forgotten. With everything that's happened recently, especially the revelations concerning her mother, it's easy to forget about Timmy Turner. After all, as important as he may be to her, he's just a boy. And, in the grand scheme of things, an absent mother and a mystery are on a higher pedestal.

Now that she thinks about it, didn't she make a dinner date with her mother? Oh, no, but she has a date with Timmy tonight for dinner! How on earth is she supposed to make both dates?

Unless…

Glancing at the scribbled note to herself regarding her mother's meeting, she notes, with relief, that it's later. If she hurries, she can just make both, barely. Besides, if she's late to her date with Timmy, he'll hardly hold it against her. He should know that a girl like her is always fashionably late.

Now, if only she could be cool enough to pull that off. Her heartbeat races at the thought of seeing the woman who bore her and, for so many years, remained an enigma. What could she be like?

Chewing idly on a pencil, she gazes at the planner, but her eyes are dazed and unfocused. Is her mother more like her? Her father? A mixture of the two? Is she fun loving? Does she like to pull pranks? Or is she all business?

Does she have good fashion sense? Or does she look like a total clod? Are her favorite colors the same as Trixie's?

There are so many factors to consider, and that reminds her- she has to dress the part. If she wears the wrong outfit, she could give off the wrong impression and the results could be disastrous. After all, for someone so fashion minded, dressing inappropriately could wreck any chance she had.

This merits a trip downstairs, to her clothing room. (How on earth could one confine clothing to a closet? It's inhumane!) Once within her chambers, surrounded by the comfort articles bring her, she can finally be at peace. (And, naturally, locate the perfect outfit).

Carelessly leaving her planner out, since she believes none, other than the servants who have no use for it, will read, she leaves her room. On her way down the stairs, she notes an interesting piece.

Some time during her talk with her father and returning to her room, her father has placed up a picture of her mother. It's covered in dust and she can barely make out her mother's face, but somehow, she thinks this may be how he'd prefer it. Although he cannot help the fact she knows her mother's voice, she has a feeling he's not through meddling, not by a long shot.

But she'll worry about that later. For now, her attire beckons.

-

He'd never spoken so openly about Patricia before and it was unlikely he'd open himself up again. He hadn't realized what he'd said when he'd said it and all the damage it'd done. It brought back memories he wished he didn't have and the all too stinging concept- if she was coming back, it wasn't for him.

Take now, for instance. As much as he hated the fact she'd tried to contact Trixie, he'd felt a pang of jealousy. Couldn't she understand this wasn't his fault? He'd fought his parents and he'd lost. It was either that or live on the streets.

And her parents were no prize themselves, either. It was hard to determine who considered the relationship and its aftermath more heinous- her parents or his. Both had their inbred prejudices, their own concepts of the perfect spouse. In his case, it was a beautiful Oriental girl, of course pure blood.

It drove him mad, all these ideas of purity and whom one could and couldn't marry. Simply put, you couldn't choose who you fell in love with, so why deny what was there? Why did you have to fight against what you knew to be true?

But parents didn't operate that way. They had to dictate who was right for you and who was acceptable. It didn't matter to them if you were in love because if you were in love with the wrong person, then you couldn't be in love.

The same thing, he knew, was said for Patricia's parents as well. They regarded anything other than Caucasian to be inferior, especially the nouvelle riche Chinese. Although they were not raging Klu Klux Klan members, they weren't exactly tolerant, either.

Dating outside one's religion, in their minds, was bad enough, but to date someone like that? He wasn't like them, he wasn't perfect. He was flawed and wasn't worthy of their daughter.

He could recall, on more than one occasion, complaining of this to her. (He'd never had the audacity to say that to her parents' faces). When he was on his catbird seat, he'd snap that they'd prefer any Caucasian Protestant, no matter how rude, obnoxious, or cruel he was to her. That they couldn't truly love her if they didn't accept him as her lover.

But even back then, he was all bark and no bite. He lacked the courage to stand up to those who wronged him and could only speak of what he could say to them, not say it to their face. In a way, although he despised it, even if he'd given it all up, he wouldn't have lost Patricia if he'd just told their parents the truth.

Instead, she'd stood alone against them. Even if he'd snuck her into his house, he'd done it behind his parents' backs and when they'd discovered it, he'd remained oddly mute. When they'd asked him about it, words failed him and he merely hung his head.

The day she'd left had burned an imprint into his mind. No words had been exchanged, nor was there a need for them. Each knew where the fault lay and, by now, it was too late to speak it. What good would it have done to bring up the past?

No, the words there had been reserved for one person and one person only, the one who had the least use for them. Patricia, sobbing had pressed Trixie to her breast, whispered she'd be back for her, someday, and told her how much she loved her. If he were capable of any emotions then, if he hadn't gone numb from the guilt, he'd cry with them.

Trixie hadn't stopped crying during the drive home. Nothing he could do would placate her, probably because she missed her mother. Behind those baby eyes, he sensed intelligence lurking, discerning who the bad guy in this situation was. (Unless, of course, it was his conscience acting up and presenting itself within his daughter).

Whatever the case, he'd handed her off to the nanny for a few days while he buried himself in his business. There was nothing as soothing to him as the numbers, completely separate from love and its devices. Among them, he could suffocate himself in the logarithms, the exponential graphs, and the calculations. They would never betray him, never leave him.

After the week was up, he decided to leave Trixie with the nanny. Patricia's absence rendered her looks far too poignant for him to stand- he couldn't be around her. If it were up to him, he'd leave Trixie with the nanny, to raise her forevermore.

Days became weeks that turned into months. By the time Trixie was a year, she'd said her first word: 'charge'. He'd smiled briefly and then returned to work, still reminded of her.

The years passed and, through an act of sheer will alone, he forced himself to habitually take an interest in her activities, from time to time. When he'd heard of Timmy Turner, of course, he realized he was bad news. After all, her situation mirrored his too much for him to take. Trixie deserved better than what this Timmy could offer…and he wasn't quite ready for his daughter to grow up enough for a boyfriend.

The dinner was tonight, he remembered that. If only he knew when her date with her mother was…and head her off before it. She didn't need to hear the rest of the story, nor did she have to know what a coward he was.

Glancing in her room, he discovered the open planning book with her mother's hotel, phone number, and time of meeting written neatly down. Excellent, this would work quite nicely.

-

Trixie's darting about like a chicken with its head cut off (and carrying priceless works of art in her hands, shuffling them from place to place). Here, there, everywhere, in her new outfit, she's startling the servants. Her nails are unfiled, her hair isn't done. What's she going to do!

There has to be someone to take her this early in the afternoon, there just has to be. After all, who would dare turn down Trixie Tang? She can even double their pay, just take her!

This is what she's screaming at the phone, despite the fact it simply isn't working. They don't appear to care who she is, just as long as she gets out of their face and leaves them alone. A screeching ten year old (almost eleven) drives them up the wall and they're this close to hanging up on her.

"How dare you threaten me, Trixie Elizabeth Tang!" Trixie snaps, jabbing her finger at the phone. If she could breathe fire, the drapery around her would be in some serious trouble. As it is, she will maim someone before this day and nightmare is through.

They garble something on the other end, another excuse. How dare they run her through the ringer! She'll run them through the ringer! No one treats her like this!

"I don't care! Get me an appointment and-" There's a buzzing and she realizes there's a call coming through on the other line. Well, she can just put them on hold, can't she? It'll serve them right for shelving her off.

"Hold."

Pressing a button, she hears the click and answers sweetly, "Trixie Tang speaking. Who's calling?"

And it better not be a telemarketer. Just because we're rich doesn't mean we want to buy your crappy product.

"It's Timmy."

Breathing a sigh of relief, she releases the Ming vase she'd carted off from the living room and it shatters on the hardwood floor. Oops…but that's what she has servants for, right? Let them clean up her messes.

"What is it?" She answers coolly, sidestepping the porcelain shards. If she weren't on the phone right now, oh, would she scream for Sheila. Where is that maid when she needs her?

"Trixie, I did a lot of thinking and I made a decision."

There are two anomalies in that sentence, she thinks, amused. One, I've never known him to spend any length of time thinking and two, he's finally made a decision! I bet it's me, I just bet it!

Or it could be Tootie, come to think of it. But what on earth would he see in her? She's just a little kid…I'm a young adult.

"Yes?" She murmurs, aware their fate dangles on a string. C'mon, say it already!

"It was kind of hard to come to, 'cuz I care about both of you, but…" Timmy breathes deeply and she wonders if it's a sigh of relief or despondency. God, if she were prone to them, he'd give her a heart attack. Just get on with it already!

If I could reach through the phone, I would throttle you. Would you get to the point already!

"I already told her, and she didn't take it the way I expected her to. I mean, I know it's a little unexpected, but she completely freaked out on me…"

I will too if you don't get to the point!

She holds her breath and waits for him to drop the second shoe. Around her, servants busily clean up the mess she's made and mutter unkind things about her and her father beneath their breaths. She'll deal with them later.

For her, time stands utterly still. In fact, if she could, she'd hold her heartbeat too. Where's he going with this?

"Trixie, I really like you and-" Timmy starts, but she cuts him off.

"And!" She snaps. "Are you going to get on with it or leave me in suspense!"

"And…I said no to Tootie."

There's utter silence. For a second, she processes this before, jumping up in the air (and startling her servants, who, quite fortunately, have cleared the area), she does something completely and utterly unlady-like. In fact, if her father were to see her, she'd be grounded for certain.

She screams her bloody head off. If she could grab him right now, she'd squeeze him so tightly, he'd pass out. She's floating so high above the ground (not literally, mind you), that she can't even see it. He said no! He said no! He said no to Tootie!

Grinning widely and squealing like a fan girl (or like Tootie), she jumps up and down. Her trained on the scene before her, she fails to se her father sneak out in a business suit, her cell phone and planner in hand.