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“That’s enough, Holden,” she says, only this time, her tone is authoritative. It’s impressive, really. She’s quick to wipe at her tears before lifting her chin defiantly. “So what if I want to keep a closer tab on you and—”
“So just say that, Mom,” he cuts in, bringing her in for an embrace. Whoa.Mom? This is a plot twist I was not expecting. And neither is the sincerity in the way he holds her, the way he strokes the back of her head as he brings her into his chest. “If you need me to do this to take away your guilt, Ma, then I’ll do—”
The office door opens, and a man appears. From the research I’d done on the school, I assume this is Mike Hemmings, the principal. Hemmings’ eyes go from Holden and his mom to me sitting here, completely enthralled in what’s happening in front of me. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hemmings tells them. “But I have other students I need to see today, so…” He looks as awkward as I feel, and he didn’t even witness what I did.
Holden’s mom pulls away while Holden nods and states, “I’ll do it.”
Hemmings returns his nod with a flat, “That’s good.” Then he smiles, first at them, then at me. “Jameson?” he questions.
I get to my feet, run a hand down my skirt. “Yes, sir.”
He opens his door wider. “Come in.”
“Thank fuck that’s over,” Holden murmurs as I pass him, throwing an arm around his mother’s shoulders and spinning her toward the exit. Right before I step foot in the office, I hear his mom’s reply, “No shit.”
“I’m Principal Hemmings,” the man dressed in a neatly pressed suit introduces himself as I move around him. He closes the door after me and points to the chair on one side of his desk as he makes his way to the other. I notice the shine on his black dress shoes while his cologne wafts through the air. Sitting in his high-back chair, head bent to look down at what I assume is my file laying open on his desk, he asks, “Are your parents here with you, Jameson?”
My heart skips a beat. Two. “Jamie’s fine, and no,” I sputter, my voice barely audible as I link my fingers on my lap and push my palms together. After clearing my throat, I add, “I take it you haven’t read my file?”
Hemmings glances up but keeps his head down. “No, I’m sorry.” He seems sincere enough. “It’s been a helluva day. Can you give me a moment to skim it?”
I press my lips tight and nod once. When his eyes start shifting from side to side, reading the cliff notes of my academic life, I take the chance to get a good look at him. He’s in his late forties, with dark-brown hair combed and styled to the side. His desk is immaculate, just like his clothes. I wonder if the way he displays himself for the world is an extension of who he is—or if he’s faking it just like I am. I don’t have a lot of time to ponder that thought before I notice his eyes widen, and I know he’s just read the part in my file that will no doubt label me for my last year of high school. When he looks up, frowning, his eyes can no longer focus on mine. “Emancipated?”
3
Holden
“I’m proud of you,”Mom says, sitting opposite me at the kitchen table while we try to fake some form of normalcy over our bowls of cereal. I can’t even remember the last time we sat down for breakfast together, but it’s important to her, so I’mtrying—which is all I could promise her. She’s either going through some form of a mid-life crisis, or everything that happened over the past few years is catching up to her. From the divorce and the relocation to the death of someone she considered a second father to the downfall of my best friend—a girl who my motherwisheswere her child.
I get it. It’s a lot to take in, and besides my grandparents, there aren’t many people in her life. When my parents split, Mom moved us to Tennessee, where her parents were, and Dad stayed in North Carolina to continue running the family business. She has no real friends. No reallife.I’m all she has. So, I sit, and I smile, and I watch her eyes cloud with tears as she looks over at me and says, “I can’t believe I have a high school senior.”
Iwantto roll my eyes. I don’t. Instead, I plaster on a smile. “It’s crazy, right?”
“It seems like only yesterday I pushed you out of my vagina and held your conehead, alien body for the first time.”
A chuckle bubbles out of me. This is the mom I know—the one who raised me. “That’s not gross at all, Ma,” I murmur.
Her lips kick up at the corners as she pushes her bowl to the side, replacing it with the felt mat displaying the half-completed jigsaw puzzle we’d started a few weeks ago. I can’t remember a time in my life when puzzle pieces didn’t take over a section of the kitchen table. It had always been our thing—Mom and me. When I was a kid, it was our after-dinner activity, and when Mia wasn’t around, or Dad was busy working, we’d settle at the table with a hot chocolate each and spend hours focused on hundreds of pieces of tiny cardboard shapes.
My eyes catch on a completely blue piece, and I move it to the part of the puzzle where it’s nothing but the sky. It connects perfectly, and I smile when Mom says, “I hate that you can find them so fast.”
“It’s not a competition.”
She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Says the most competitive boy I know.”
I shrug, down the rest of my cereal, and get up to dump the bowl in the sink. “I have to go. Coach set up a morning weights session.” I drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Maybe you’re just getting old, Ma. You should get your eyes checked.”
Gasping, she holds a hand to her chest in mock horror. “I’m thirty-four, you smartass.” When she stands, I can’t help but look away. Even beneath her robe, it’s clear how much weight she’s lost over the past couple of months. Her cheeks are hollow, dark circles are under her eyes. She’s tired and worn, and maybe even a little broken. I’d never seen her like this. Even during and after the divorce, she’d been a pillar of strength. Not just for herself but everyone around her. I hate this version of her. And the problem… the thing I’ll never admit to anyone but myself… I don’t think I have the strength to fix us both. “I told your dad I’d get a photo of you on your first day,” she tells me, grabbing a sheet of paper off the kitchen counter. It’s one of those lame first-day signs kids in elementary school hold up so their doting parents can share it all over social media for friends and family to coo over.
I hold back another eye roll, force another smile. “Sure.”
After collecting my shit, I stand on the front porch, the stupid sign held out in front of me, and wait not-so-patiently for Mom to take all the pictures she thinks she needs. She sends them to Dad, and after I promise to call him, she waves from the front yard while I reverse out of the driveway, the speakers in my truck already sounding with a ringtone.
Dad answers the call after a few rings with a single word: “Son.”
“Dad.”
“Ma’s still making you take those pictures, huh?”
