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“Tired and bored!” I screech. “Mom, I tried so freaking hard!”
We stop laughing. And crying. And breathing. Mel’s eyes widen, and we both look at each other with amusement laced with shock. And gratitude. So much gratitude.
“You called me Mom.”
“I did.” I choke on the words. “I did. You are. You are my mom.”
We meet halfway for a hug that squeezes out all the toxic hatred, frustration, misunderstandings, and miscommunication. The more time I spend in my mother’s arms, the deeper I can breathe. We stand like this in the kitchen for twenty or maybe thirty minutes. Until my legs and arms hurt from standing like this, hugging in a weird position for a long time.
“Mom?” I’m the first one to speak.
“Yes, Lovebug?” I can hear the mirth in her voice, and it makes my heart sing.
“I think your chicken pot pie is burned.”
Love is a battlefield
And I think I fucking died
(last entry)
Graduation Day.
The red cape and matching graduation cap make us look like a menstrual cycle. I shit you not, this thing is brutal. I don’t know who thought of the idea to match our capes to our football gear, but whoever they were, they need to lay off the crystal meth.
Kannon and Camilo trudge behind me in the long line on the stairway leading to the stage as our principal reads out our names.
“At least he shaved.” Cam laughs, elbowing Kannon and jerking his chin toward me. His leg is healing, and though he still has a faint limp, he is surprisingly cool about it. I say surprisingly, but really, if there’s one thing I learned this year, it’s that you rise up to the circumstances when they are presented to you. We are so much stronger than we think we are. But sometimes, we go through decades without having a reason to be tested. The thing about life is, it always hits us. No one leads a charmed life. Even the blond, gorgeous, picture-perfect, popular rich girl harbors secrets. Even the football captain. Even the rich mother of two who married her hot millionaire ex-student. The ballet prodigy. Everyone’s got a story, and we all have chapters we’d rather not read aloud.
“You look good, Penn.” Camilo slaps my shoulder.
“I don’t swing that way, Cam. Stop talking,” I grunt.
“Are Melody and Jaime here?” Kannon asks, snickering some more. What’s with those idiots? They act like it’s the first time they’ve met me, and I’m goddamn Taylor Swift. I adjust my stupid cap and let out a breath.
“Yeah, yeah. Bailey and Via, too.”
“Where are they?” Kannon asks.
“Somewhere in the crowd.” Hundreds of seats are in front of the stage in our football stadium—red plastic ones, of course—but I never bothered to check because Mel texted me earlier telling me that they’re going to grab a place in the back so we can slip out when it’s all over for dinner. The last thing I want is to go on a family dinner, but I promised to play nice with Via, and so far, I’ve succeeded.
“You haven’t even checked? That’s cold.” Camilo pretends to shudder, rubbing at his arms.
I turn around toward them sharply. “What’s with you assholes? If this is about Via or Bailey, no, you can’t hit on either of them. Bailey’s not even fifteen, you goddamn pervs.”
Kannon bursts into laughter that makes the girl behind him jam an elbow into his ribs while Camilo shakes his head on a smile, and says, “Just look for them in the crowd, you basic piece of shit.”
Reluctantly, my eyes swipe over the rows of seats. The principal calls the girl two people away from me. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
“Left, bro. Look left,” Kannon is losing patience. My eyes dart to the last row on the left side, and then a sharp sound of glass shatters in my ears, and it’s probably my heart.
Daria is there sandwiched between Melody and Jaime. She is wearing a purple dress that makes her look like some kind of…I don’t know, fairy or some shit. So pretty I can’t blink because I’m afraid she’s not even real. She is staring right back at me, throwing me a bone. A timid, unsure smile. I want my mouth to break into a shit-eating grin, but my brain has officially disconnected from the rest of my body, and I can’t function.
Function, Penn. Function. Don’t be that creep. Smile back.
She stands because she can, because she is in the last row, because this, I understand now, was planned, and she is holding a sign in her hand. A generic brown piece of cardboard with one word written on it in black Sharpie.
Talk?
I nod, feeling the smile finally spreading across my face, letting loose.
Yes. Fuck. Yes.
“Penn Scully,” Principal Howard yells for what seems to be the millionth time by the impatience in her voice. How long have I been standing here, ogling Daria?
