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I sat up from the couch and ducked my fingers underneath my glasses to scrub my sleepy eyes. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten o’clock.”
Ten o’clock. School would’ve started by now.
“You dolooksick,” Mom amended, tilting her head affectionately. “Do you need some medicine?”
It wasn’t medicine that would make me feel better. What I truly needed was to pull the plug in my mind, let all the worries and negativity run down the drain. “I’m sorry I’m not more creative,” I said, pressing my fingers firmer against my eyes. “I’m sorry I’m so analytical and straightforward.”
Mom didn’t say anything at first, taken aback by the sudden subject change. No doubt she was trying to figure out how our conversation train had arrived atthatstation. “Why is that something to apologize about?”
“I know you and Dad wish I was more like you. More artistic. Like Jozie is.”
She let out a soft sigh as she sat down on the couch beside me, the cushions shifting under her weight. “Your father isn’t very artistic, you know.”
“He paints all of your sets for the exhibits.”
“Yeah, and you know something about painting sets and walls?” Mom nudged me, forcing me to pry my fingers apart to look at her. “You have to be precise. Patient. It’s not as creative as painting a canvas.”
I guess I knew that to some extent, but I wasn’t sold. “He goes to galleries with you all the time.”
“He likes to look at the sets and exhibits,” Mom said, amending, “though he likes art too. He thinks it’s fun to imagine how someone might’ve been feeling when they painted a piece. I’m more into searching for hidden meanings, but he likes looking at the psychology behind it, I suppose.”
“There’s psychology to art? I’ve never thought about that before.”
Mom watched me, eyes betraying no emotion. “You should ask Jozie about the relationship between psychology and art sometime. You might find it interesting.”
I hadn’t spoken to Jozie since our late-night chat Friday night, but she had texted me a few times, just her normal encouragements. And of course today, the day that I needed that encouragement the most, she hadn’t texted.
“But, Maisie.” Mom lifted a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, careful not to let it hook around my glasses frames. “Just because you don’t like art doesn’t mean you aren’t as valuable. Don’t apologize for having different passions, Maisie.”
“You and Dad were so supportive of Jozie going to art school, and I’m afraid you won’t be as supportive of me going for a career involving mathematics.”
“What do you want to do with mathematics?” Her smile seemed a little sheepish. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked before.”
I didn’t think she ever had either, because it felt like I was speaking my answer for the first time. “I think I want to be a math teacher. Maybe a professor in a more advanced math course, even. I just know I like teaching the formulas and finding ways to help students understand it.”
It was rare that I ever knew what Mom was thinking. Her mind was a maze to me, hard to navigate, to fully understand. But as she looked at me, expression filled with warmth, I could practically read her mind. “I think that would be a wonderful path for you.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Your father and I will always support you in whatever path you choose. As long as it doesn’t involve drugs.”
“Wow. Supportive to an extent, huh?”
“Everyone has their limits.” Mom gave me a squeeze before looking at me with a serious gaze. “I’m sorry that we took money from your college fund for Jozie’s. I didn’t realize it might’ve put stress on you until you asked about scholarships. It wasn’t right of us to ask.”
“It was okay to ask,” I murmured, inhaling her perfume. “I guess it was kind of nice, knowing you believed in me.”
“Always.”
She kissed the top of my head, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt okay. Especially with her. We could fight tomorrow—and given our history, it was totally possible—and we both might say the wrong things, but at this moment, we understood each other. I smiled at our shadowy reflections in the turned off TV. That was all I could ask for.
With one last squeeze, Mom let me go and got to her feet. “I have some time before I have to get back. I’m going to make some coffee. Want some—”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“—pancakes,” she finished, casting me a chastising glare. “Jozie’s the one who likes coffee, andyouare the one who likes blueberry pancakes.”
For the first time all day and for a brief moment, I felt happy. It was something small, but it was exactly what I needed in that moment. “I’d love some pancakes.”
* * *
