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“You know,” I mused, twirling a lock of blonde hair that spilled from my unfashionable updo, “you’re not even half as nice as people think you are.”
“Been saving all this venom ’specially for you.” He tilted his ball cap down like a cowboy. “Any parting words, Tennessee? I have a date waiting in my car.”
Right, right, right.
His shiny Audi Q8 to go with his shiny girlfriend and his shiny life.
To that question, I answered with my middle finger, taking advantage of the fact everyone around us was talking animatedly about what happened to Straw Choker to notice.
It wasn’t my most elegant answer, but it sure was the most satisfying one by a mile.
That evening, I was in danger of letting the waterworks flow.
I tried not to dwell in self-pity, but some days were just harder than others.
My son really wanted the new Assassin’s Creed game, but I couldn’t afford it. The worst part was he didn’t even ask me.
I’d had to find out through my mother, over a phone call on my way home from work while my Honda Odyssey stumbled its way up my street like a drunken sorority girl after a block party.
Apparently, Bear had offered to mow her lawn for cash to be able to purchase it.
“I would buy it for him in a heartbeat, honey, you know, but those games are mighty violent, and I’m not sure he should be playing them anyway.”
It was pointless to explain to her it was a Sisyphean battle to have Bear not play video games. That was what he and his friends did. It was the norm.
At the same time, I felt depressingly inadequate as a mother. A true failure. I couldn’t even buy my son a video game.
Maybe Gabriella was right.
Maybe I needed to shut up, tell her the burger she had was organic, and suffer the occasional abuse for a nice, fat tip.
I pushed the door open to the weathered rental bungalow. The exterior was pale blue. Bear and I had painted it ourselves to knock down some of the rent money the owner had asked for. The inside consisted of not much more than hand-me-down furniture from friends and family.
But it was ours, and we were proud of it.
I kicked my heels off at the door and dumped my jacket and purse onto the credenza, feeling bone-tired and weary.
Weary of not being able to afford the things my son wanted.
Of pimply, rude teenagers who pinched my butt at work.
Of Gabriella and her slim legs and easy, fat-contracts life.
And of Dr. Cruz Costello, who seemed hell-bent on hating me.
I really needed to get out of this town, and was going to do so as soon as Bear graduated from high school.
“Care Bear? You here?” I called out.
Pans and utensils clattered in the kitchen, growing louder as I made my way through the darkened, small living room.
“Mom? I made pasta. Sorry, I had a ton of homework and forgot to take the chicken out to thaw.”
I entered the kitchen and pulled my son into a bone-crushing hug. After I took a step back from him, I took inventory of his face, before tugging at his velvety earlobes and smacking a wet kiss on his forehead, something he disliked, yet indulged me nonetheless.
At thirteen, Bear was already a head taller than me. Not a huge surprise, seeing as he took after his father, who was a six-three tight end in high school.
It probably should depress me.
