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“Honey,” she says, drawing out the endearment she uses when she wants something, “you’re coming home this weekend, aren’t you?”
Of all weekends, this is one I am absolutely not going home.
“I can’t, Mom. I’ve already talked to Mandy about it.”
“Oh,” she says in a clipped voice.
I want to support my friend Mandy. I do. But attending her baby shower is not the best way for me to do it.
Mandy is my one friend from home who, like me, always dreamed of ‘getting out.’ She didn’t choose the college route like I did. She opted for something much more exciting. She became a flight attendant. And she fell in love with it.
For my first couple years in college, and hers with the airlines, we thought we had it made. We set goals for ourselves. We were on our way. The mean girls from high school, already married and deeply immersed in motherhood?
They could suck it.
We had plans. We were going places.
We mocked those girls.
Which, as it turns out, is not good for karma. At all.
Pride goeth before a fall, as it says in the Bible.
First, Mandy gets knocked up by a pilot. One who was married and wanted nothing to do with a second baby mama.
Then, she quits her job and moves home with her parents, who are now throwing her a baby shower.
Which I can’t go to. I just can’t. It’s too heartbreaking. Mandy was supposed to be my ride-or-die.
Now she’s going to be changing diapers. I’m not being all judge-y and shit, it’s just that I know that’s not what she wanted.
I can hear my mother pacing the kitchen in the background, most likely wiping up imaginary crumbs from the counter or scrubbing an invisible spot on the floor. “Rose, you really should consider it. Everyone will be there—”
Everyone includes all the mean girls, who took Mandy under their wings when she moved back home and they found out she was expecting. She’s become one of them, by virtue of her uterus, and they are now happy to have her.
Strange how things work out.
“I’m not going,” I snap.
She’s silent for a moment, her way of letting me know she’s displeased.
Then, like no harsh words were ever exchanged, she continues in her most chipper voice. Because she’s about to talk about something that she knows pains me.
“You still struggling in calculus, Rose?”
Why did I ever tell my parents how hard calc is?
“It’s super hard, Mom, but I think I have some… friends willing to help me. They aced the class.”
They may ace some other things if all goes according to plan.
“Honey, I don’t know why you put yourself through this,” she sighs, like she’s feeling my pain.
Here it comes.
“You know, you can just leave that awful place. Come home. Like a good girl.”
“Mom, why can’t I go to college and be a good girl?” I ask.
