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Authors: Rachel Schurig
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thinking of me?
It frustrates me to no end. I’m not one of those girls who obsesses over boys to the point of distraction. I have enough real shit to worry about without adding Jet freaking Taylor to the list.
But he seemed so into me in the woods.
On Wednesdays I usually meet up with Ellie for lunch in the food court on campus. She’s taking classes through the college to become licensed in hairdressing—or, as she would say, the atheistic arts. She’s a lot farther along than I am, however, having started her program right after we graduated high school. She’ll be finishing up at the end of the summer.
Ellie takes one look at me and shakes her head. “You look stressed.”
I plop my backpack down on the table and take a chair across from her. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Run-of-the-mill Zoe problems or more specific hot-boy problems?”
“Take your pick.”
“So he still hasn’t called? I guess he’s just an asshat like all the rest.”
“I guess so.”
“Listen, babe. Any guy who causes you this much angst is so not worth it. You’re already the angstiest girl I know—you’re about to OD on it. Let’s go out tomorrow and find you a no- strings-attached, angst-free guy to play tonsil hockey with for a few hours. You’ll be over Jet in no time.”
I don't tell her that I doubt any guy could come up to par after our scorching lip lock in the woods. Maybe she’s right. I usually base my romantic conquests purely on their potential to be hassle free. I have real life to provide me with drama and worry. I certainly don’t need it from any guy.
I take a sip of my Diet Coke. “Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.”
“Great. I’ll round up Hunter and Everett and pick out a bar to hit up.” She’s quiet for a moment while she steals fries off my plate. “Shame, though,” she finally says. “He was super hot. I’m bummed we won’t be finding out what kind of heat he’s packing under those motorcycle-dude clothes of his.”
I laugh, feeling slightly better. “C’est la vie.”
My improved outlook lasts about as long as it takes to finish my classes for the day and head home. My mom managed to make it out of bed this morning, but that’s hardly cause for celebration. I find her sitting on the couch in her bathrobe, crying into a cold cup of tea.
As hard as it is to watch her sleep every day away, watching her cry is even worse. I feel so helpless. When I was younger and she had these episodes—those days she used to call her blue hours—I used to be able to cheer her up by singing to her, or playing games, or sitting on her lap and holding her tightly. But that was a long time ago, long before I realized how bad things could really get. And her brother had been around in those days. Peter could always make her feel better. But thinking about my uncle brings on a familiar rush of rage that I struggle to tamp down so my mom won’t get even more upset.
The house is in desperate need of cleaning, and no one else is going to do it. While I dust and vacuum and do the dishes, I keep up a steady stream of conversation, trying to draw her out of her crying spell. Instead she cries harder at the evidence that I’m spending my early twenties caring for her instead of out living my life. I get her to eat nearly an entire meal of grilled cheese and canned tomato soup. By the time she goes back to bed, I’m almost relieved, though it’s nowhere near a normal person’s bedtime. It’s exhausting, trying to pretend like we’ll be fine.
I finish drying our bowls from dinner and put them away in the cupboard before leaning against the counter and gazing around the silent, empty kitchen. My cleaning spree has resulted in spotless floors and counters, but no amount of cleaning can hide the cracked linoleum tiles or the cheap, peeling laminate edges on the countertops. I hate this kitchen. Though our old house hadn’t been anything fancy, the kitchen had, at
It frustrates me to no end. I’m not one of those girls who obsesses over boys to the point of distraction. I have enough real shit to worry about without adding Jet freaking Taylor to the list.
But he seemed so into me in the woods.
On Wednesdays I usually meet up with Ellie for lunch in the food court on campus. She’s taking classes through the college to become licensed in hairdressing—or, as she would say, the atheistic arts. She’s a lot farther along than I am, however, having started her program right after we graduated high school. She’ll be finishing up at the end of the summer.
Ellie takes one look at me and shakes her head. “You look stressed.”
I plop my backpack down on the table and take a chair across from her. “I haven’t been sleeping much.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Run-of-the-mill Zoe problems or more specific hot-boy problems?”
“Take your pick.”
“So he still hasn’t called? I guess he’s just an asshat like all the rest.”
“I guess so.”
“Listen, babe. Any guy who causes you this much angst is so not worth it. You’re already the angstiest girl I know—you’re about to OD on it. Let’s go out tomorrow and find you a no- strings-attached, angst-free guy to play tonsil hockey with for a few hours. You’ll be over Jet in no time.”
I don't tell her that I doubt any guy could come up to par after our scorching lip lock in the woods. Maybe she’s right. I usually base my romantic conquests purely on their potential to be hassle free. I have real life to provide me with drama and worry. I certainly don’t need it from any guy.
I take a sip of my Diet Coke. “Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.”
“Great. I’ll round up Hunter and Everett and pick out a bar to hit up.” She’s quiet for a moment while she steals fries off my plate. “Shame, though,” she finally says. “He was super hot. I’m bummed we won’t be finding out what kind of heat he’s packing under those motorcycle-dude clothes of his.”
I laugh, feeling slightly better. “C’est la vie.”
My improved outlook lasts about as long as it takes to finish my classes for the day and head home. My mom managed to make it out of bed this morning, but that’s hardly cause for celebration. I find her sitting on the couch in her bathrobe, crying into a cold cup of tea.
As hard as it is to watch her sleep every day away, watching her cry is even worse. I feel so helpless. When I was younger and she had these episodes—those days she used to call her blue hours—I used to be able to cheer her up by singing to her, or playing games, or sitting on her lap and holding her tightly. But that was a long time ago, long before I realized how bad things could really get. And her brother had been around in those days. Peter could always make her feel better. But thinking about my uncle brings on a familiar rush of rage that I struggle to tamp down so my mom won’t get even more upset.
The house is in desperate need of cleaning, and no one else is going to do it. While I dust and vacuum and do the dishes, I keep up a steady stream of conversation, trying to draw her out of her crying spell. Instead she cries harder at the evidence that I’m spending my early twenties caring for her instead of out living my life. I get her to eat nearly an entire meal of grilled cheese and canned tomato soup. By the time she goes back to bed, I’m almost relieved, though it’s nowhere near a normal person’s bedtime. It’s exhausting, trying to pretend like we’ll be fine.
I finish drying our bowls from dinner and put them away in the cupboard before leaning against the counter and gazing around the silent, empty kitchen. My cleaning spree has resulted in spotless floors and counters, but no amount of cleaning can hide the cracked linoleum tiles or the cheap, peeling laminate edges on the countertops. I hate this kitchen. Though our old house hadn’t been anything fancy, the kitchen had, at
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