Read Online My Senior Year of Awesome by Jennifer DiGiovanni - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer DiGiovanni
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out, I don’t need to invent a new dinner recipe. When I enter the apartment, the aroma of homemade spaghetti sauce nearly knocks me back into the hallway.
“What happened to my mother? Did she hit the Powerball jackpot and hire a personal chef?” I sniff the air, cross into the kitchen, and swipe the lid from a simmering pot. A delighted groan escapes my lips at the sight of simmering tomato sauce.
Mom leans against the counter, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. When I smother her with a hug, she bats me away with a claw-shaped utensil.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “You’re attempting to cook real food?”
“I can cook,” she says, a tad bit defensively, running her free hand through her layered brown hair, the same color as mine, but chopped eight inches shorter.
“Theoretically, everyone can cook. I thought you had some strange fear of turning on the oven. Like a traumatic childhood experience related to baked asparagus.”
“If that’s the case, then I must really be desperate. I thought if I made something you liked, you might take the time to sit down and eat with me.” Her eyes meet mine at a level height now that I’ve caught up to her size-wise. Mom never seems to mind being petite, but I wonder if her attitude would change if I surpassed her in inches.
Even without her direct accusation, I get the idea that it’s my fault we’ve missed each other so much lately. Truth be told, my amped-up activity schedule has cut into the number of hours I spend lounging around the apartment. But Mom is usually pretty busy herself, with her job and her social life (Oldies nights at the bars on Main Street). I’ve grown accustomed to eating tuna sandwiches solo.
“Do you have plans tonight?” she asks as she scoops pasta out of the pot and hands me a plate. I carry my food to the dining room portion of our cramped apartment, differentiated from the kitchen by a rusty metal strip and a black and white Ikea throw rug under our antique (a.k.a. old and decrepit) table.
“Jana and I are trying out for the spring musical.” I settle in and suck my first strand of spaghetti through my teeth. “Auditions start in less than an hour. Aren’t you going out, too?”
Tuesday nights are Eighties Dance Jams at The Green Lagoon Pub. My mother’s personal form of religion.
“Not until seven.”
“Don’t you leave early to get a good seat at the bar?”
“I asked Margie to save my regular spot.”
“Okay, Mom, but you can’t call me before nine, no matter what,” I warn her. “This audition is really important.” I recite a quick prayer in my head. Please, whoever’s up there in heaven looking out for me, grant my mother enough self-control to make it through the night without needing bail money.
“Well, look at you, Miss Actress. I’ve never seen you so interested in after-school activities. This isn’t about a boy, is it?” She appears beside me with a steaming pot and dumps about a billion peas onto my plate. “Because we’ve talked about letting boys become a distraction.”
And then you wind up dropping out of school. Or getting pregnant. I silently add Mom’s unspoken worst case scenarios. The ones she’s lectured me about for close to eighteen years now. “No boy. Just a last blast of fun before graduation. I’m trying to make the most of my high school years. Maybe learn something new.”
“Yes, do that.” She sets a water pitcher on the table in front of me. “After high school, life is nothing but a bunch of miserable dead-end jobs and guys with bad breath and ugly shoes hitting on you.”
My mother and her wonderfully optimistic view of life.
***
For my first musical audition I throw on jeans and the loose flowery top my grandparents sent me for Christmas, because it’s dramatic (or at the very least, eye-catching). After an unanswered, shouted good-bye to Mom, I speed down Main Street to meet Jana. We walk the last few blocks to tryouts belting
“What happened to my mother? Did she hit the Powerball jackpot and hire a personal chef?” I sniff the air, cross into the kitchen, and swipe the lid from a simmering pot. A delighted groan escapes my lips at the sight of simmering tomato sauce.
Mom leans against the counter, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. When I smother her with a hug, she bats me away with a claw-shaped utensil.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “You’re attempting to cook real food?”
“I can cook,” she says, a tad bit defensively, running her free hand through her layered brown hair, the same color as mine, but chopped eight inches shorter.
“Theoretically, everyone can cook. I thought you had some strange fear of turning on the oven. Like a traumatic childhood experience related to baked asparagus.”
“If that’s the case, then I must really be desperate. I thought if I made something you liked, you might take the time to sit down and eat with me.” Her eyes meet mine at a level height now that I’ve caught up to her size-wise. Mom never seems to mind being petite, but I wonder if her attitude would change if I surpassed her in inches.
Even without her direct accusation, I get the idea that it’s my fault we’ve missed each other so much lately. Truth be told, my amped-up activity schedule has cut into the number of hours I spend lounging around the apartment. But Mom is usually pretty busy herself, with her job and her social life (Oldies nights at the bars on Main Street). I’ve grown accustomed to eating tuna sandwiches solo.
“Do you have plans tonight?” she asks as she scoops pasta out of the pot and hands me a plate. I carry my food to the dining room portion of our cramped apartment, differentiated from the kitchen by a rusty metal strip and a black and white Ikea throw rug under our antique (a.k.a. old and decrepit) table.
“Jana and I are trying out for the spring musical.” I settle in and suck my first strand of spaghetti through my teeth. “Auditions start in less than an hour. Aren’t you going out, too?”
Tuesday nights are Eighties Dance Jams at The Green Lagoon Pub. My mother’s personal form of religion.
“Not until seven.”
“Don’t you leave early to get a good seat at the bar?”
“I asked Margie to save my regular spot.”
“Okay, Mom, but you can’t call me before nine, no matter what,” I warn her. “This audition is really important.” I recite a quick prayer in my head. Please, whoever’s up there in heaven looking out for me, grant my mother enough self-control to make it through the night without needing bail money.
“Well, look at you, Miss Actress. I’ve never seen you so interested in after-school activities. This isn’t about a boy, is it?” She appears beside me with a steaming pot and dumps about a billion peas onto my plate. “Because we’ve talked about letting boys become a distraction.”
And then you wind up dropping out of school. Or getting pregnant. I silently add Mom’s unspoken worst case scenarios. The ones she’s lectured me about for close to eighteen years now. “No boy. Just a last blast of fun before graduation. I’m trying to make the most of my high school years. Maybe learn something new.”
“Yes, do that.” She sets a water pitcher on the table in front of me. “After high school, life is nothing but a bunch of miserable dead-end jobs and guys with bad breath and ugly shoes hitting on you.”
My mother and her wonderfully optimistic view of life.
***
For my first musical audition I throw on jeans and the loose flowery top my grandparents sent me for Christmas, because it’s dramatic (or at the very least, eye-catching). After an unanswered, shouted good-bye to Mom, I speed down Main Street to meet Jana. We walk the last few blocks to tryouts belting
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