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“Jake. Zach is not your measuring stick.” She set her hand on his chest. “Thisis your measuring stick. You’re not Zach’s clone. You’re his brother. Your own unique self. Be the best Jacob Conrad Jessup you can be. All anybody can be is their best own self.”
He loved his mother so fucking much. He’d known he’d get no judgment from her, only sympathy and comfort. But even as her words soothed his wounded pride, he couldn’t help but see that they were the equivalent of that cheap little ‘good sport’ trophy the T-ball kids who didn’t do much more than show up got.
Jake had gotten a lot of those shitty plastic trophies. Zach, on the other hand, had a shelf full of trophies that said things like ‘MVP’ and ‘Home Run King’ and ‘Best Fielder.’
“That’s what people say to a loser so they don’t off themselves,” he said, trying not to sound like a whiner.
Mom’s brow pulled in tight. “No, it’s whatIjust said to my son I’m proud of. And I don’t like you talking about offing yourself, even if you’re being facetious.” She took his hand and led him away from the door, to the wicker furniture on the porch. “It’s just a test, Jacob,” she said as she made him sit beside her. Marv and Rose dropped to the floor, their front paws dangling off the edge of the porch and their long tongues lolling from their grinning maws.
“It’s more than a test, Mom. You know that. I can’t be a real mechanic if I don’t pass it, and if I’m not a real mechanic, I’m stuck being a pump jockey and fuckin’ cashier for my whole life.”
“Then you’ll pass. You only have to retake four exams, and now you know what taking that test is like, so you can work on ... I know you hate this word, butimaging.”
She always wanted him to imagine taking the test, all the way to picking answers—not just doing practice tests, but closing his eyes and imagining himself picking the right answers. It was so lame—and it didn’t work. He still got shit wrong.
He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t work, Mom.”
“It does, Jake. You do better every time you’ve ever done a retest. When you know what to expect . Just because you don’t do perfectly doesn’t mean it isn’t working.”
“Whatever.”
A sharp chuckle burst from her mouth. “Okay, baby boy. You’re not a good audience for a pep talk right now.” With a pat of his knee, she stood. “It’s Friday, so I’m assuming you’re going out tonight?”
“Yep. Meeting Dunc at the Dawg.” Jay stood, too, and followed her to the door and through it. She headed toward the kitchen, and he followed. So did the dogs, racing past them so they could get to the kitchen first and assume begging positions.
“They should put your names up at the bar there. A place of honor.”
“There’s three bars at the Dawg, Mom. It’s not a corner bar. You don’t know anything about the Tulsa scene. You’re such a Boomer.”
“Fuck off! I’m Gen X. Your father’s a Boomer.”
“Where is the old man, anyway?”
“He’s in Enid, taking a look at a bike he might buy. You want something to eat before you go get pretty for your date?”
Giving her the look that little snark deserved, he said, “Yeah, if you’re making something. Is it a new bike or a project?” Pop was retired for the most part, and since his third heart attack, he usually rode on three wheels or four, but he still kept his hand in on bike restoration.
“Project. An old Triumph, I think. I was going to reheat some manicotti from the other night. You want in?”
“Yeah, sounds good. You want me to put a salad together?” He could take or leave salad, but Mom was militant about everybody getting fresh fruits and vegetables in around their primarily beer-and-burger diet.
“Please! And whip up that balsamic dressing you do. I love that.”
Jay was a pretty fair cook—Zach was better, of course—because Mom had insisted they both learn all the girly house stuff, like cooking and laundry and ironing. They could grill, too, because that was the kind of cooking Pop enjoyed. He could cook more than that, but he didn’t like it.
Mom said it was lame that men only considered cooking manly when there was danger involved, and she wouldn’t have cavemen for sons. The implication being, of course, that Pop was a caveman.
Pop just listened placidly when she went on one of those rants. He damn sure didn’t argue with her about it.
As Jay and his mother moved around the kitchen, talking and making a meal to share, he realized he didn’t much care about the test anymore. Not right now, at least.
That was Mom’s superpower. She made everything better.
