Page 30 of My Own Kind of Person

She checks the time and sticks her tongue out. “I do not feel like doing deliveries tonight.” She starts lifting throw pillows and looking around her feet. “Where are my…”

I pull her keys out from where they always are between the cushions. She thanks me and shuffles to the front door.

I don’t want her to go. It’s a feeling like a baby has when their mother leaves the room. Like when she’s gone she’ll be gone for good. And this gig—delivering groceries and dinners—doesn’t require her to work specific times. She sets the hours herself. She could stay home if she wanted to.

“I don’t want you to go,” I say.

“Oh.” Her face sinks. She stares for a while. “Can I tell you how I think about going to work?”

“Please.”

“I don’t want to go to work either. But if I think about myself and what I want, I will sit and think about myself all night. Instead, I turn my attention to the people I love. That’s you. And while I also would love to stay and sit with you all night, I know the way for me to take care of you is to go to work.”

I’ve never heard Mom be so honest. I allowed myself to be—what is the word? I don’t even have the language. I let myself say what I felt, and what Mom said back to me was genuine and real.

“We aren’t alone in this life,” she says. “Even if it feels like it sometimes.”

I see now that her eyes are grayish green, like mine.

She puts her hand on the doorknob. “Good luck writing your new set. Anyone who gets to know you, onstage or in life, is very lucky.”

My body relaxes. “Thank you, Mom.”

She pulls open the door to reveal Christy about to knock.

Mom’s face lights up. “Oh my God, hi!”

I stand and adjust my shirt.

“Nora!” Christy is the only person my age who calls my mom by her first name, but I guess she’s the only one who asked my mom what she’d like to be called. Christy gives her a one-armed hug and shows her a shopping bag of ingredients. “We’re making pignolis.”

“I have no idea what those are. Save me some?”

“Of course.”

Mom blows us both kisses and walks to her car. I find myself walking to the screen door to watch her.

Christy puts a bag of flour on the counter and says, “I love Nora.”

I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want to grow up.

“She’s pretty great,” I say as I watch her drive away.

“I wish I had your mom.”

For a brief moment I don’t have access to my thoughts, but then I think, what if I allowed myself to speak honestly with Christy? While we make pignolis in the kitchen, I talk more than usual, or differently than usual. I tell her about Mom zoning out sometimes and about how I want to do the opposite of zoning out, be here and only here. While the cookies are in the oven Christy tells me about an old conversation she watched online between a writer she loves, Nikki Giovanni, and a writer she says I’d love, James Baldwin. She goes through everything they discussed about race and art and activism and it feels as if there’s a whole layer of life I’ve never accessed because I’m always trying to keep things light and silly.

When the cookies are done, we slide them onto a big plate and bring them to the couch. They’re crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside and taste like nothing I’ve ever known.

“Perfection,” Christy says.

“Truly.”

Usually I go down on Christy first. After it goes well, I know she’s okay and I can relax when she goes down on me. Usually before either of those things we kiss for a while. So it’s a surprise when she gets on the floor in front of the couch and starts unbuttoning my pants.

“Excuse me,” she says, and puts me in her mouth.

“Oh!”