I’m a pale comparison.
I’ve been told enough about how pretty I am that I
believe it, yet I could truly care less about my looks. I don’t want to be like
my mother. She has a good heart, but a nearly empty head. Clothes, makeup,
hair, and house decoration are what dominate her brain cells. I’m not sure if
she was always this way or if centering her entire self-esteem and self-worth
on her appearance produced her airhead. Though she has always tried, I’ll never
be like her.
Attempting to be a bit honest, I say, “Good. I won’t
need a dress. I’m not going this year.”
“Why ever not?” she says in a stupefied tone.
My mother never went to college, but she imagines it
as an extension of high school. Perhaps for some people it is, however I’m here
to get an education, start a career, and above all, eventually help others.
“Too busy with my last semester,” I say, lying
through my teeth and dropping a few things in a waiting donation bag outside
the closet. The bag stays there, since my wardrobe is replenished almost
constantly.
“April,” my mother whines. “A four point isn’t worth
giving up a social life.”
I stroll toward the kitchen. “I have lots of
friends, Mom. I went to a dinner party this weekend.” Of course, I don’t tell
her about the piercing that is now making my belly button itch like crazy.
She’d pass out from mortification, if I told her about that.
“Did you have a date?” she asks her voice full of
excitement.
Grrr .
She never lets the dating thing go.
I’m aware she hopes I leave college with a degree and an engagement ring on my finger. She has been planning my
wedding since the day I was born. “No, but I met someone nice, so maybe,” I
say, lying for a second time as I open the fridge. It’s as empty as it was this
morning.
“Did he ask you out?”
I shut the fridge, ignoring my hunger pains. “Um,
no, but he got my number.” It’s not that I want to lie. I just spent most of my
teenage years in conflict with my mother, and now in guilt over my younger
stubborn self, I over appease her.
Someone knocks on my door. Probably the girls in two
apartments over. They have a habit of starting to bake something without all
the ingredients. They’re forever borrowing eggs, sugar, or flour. Or at least
trying to borrow them. I usually only have half the stuff they ask for.
“Has he called yet?”
“Mom, my neighbor’s at the door. I need to go.
Thanks for the clothes, but I really, really don’t need anymore.”
“You can always use them for work eventually, you
know.”
“Mom,” I whine as I open the door.
“I’ll try…”
I don’t hear whatever she says next because I’m
shocked at the person standing outside.
“Got to go.
Bye,” I say, trying not to stare bugged-eyed at a grinning Gabe, his white
teeth a triangular slash in his face. He’s dressed in all blue, a mechanic’s outfit
I realize. “Um…” I peek past him around the corner, looking for Riley or Romeo or someone .
“What are you doing here?”
“An unexpected opportunity,” he says in a carefree
tone.
Confused and feeling lost, I repeat his last word.
“Opportunity?”
He leans his long body on the doorframe, crossing
his arms. “A friend, well, more like an acquaintance, loaned me his bike for a
few hours.”
“Bike?” I repeat, sounding like an idiot parrot.
He pushes off the doorframe, stretches out curled
hands, and twists his fists, saying, “You know, vroom, vroom as in motorcycle.”
My brows lower and my fingers clamp around the edge
of the door. “What? A motorcycle?” Rachel’s list lingers in my brain until I
put two and two together. “I’m not…I couldn’t…I don’t have a helmet. Plus I
need to go grocery shopping. So um…”
He grins fully. “I brought an extra helmet, but are
you that scared?”
“A bit, maybe a lot,” I add out of the side of my
mouth, always so damn honest with him. I force myself to let go of the door.
I’ve been told enough about how pretty I am that I
believe it, yet I could truly care less about my looks. I don’t want to be like
my mother. She has a good heart, but a nearly empty head. Clothes, makeup,
hair, and house decoration are what dominate her brain cells. I’m not sure if
she was always this way or if centering her entire self-esteem and self-worth
on her appearance produced her airhead. Though she has always tried, I’ll never
be like her.
Attempting to be a bit honest, I say, “Good. I won’t
need a dress. I’m not going this year.”
“Why ever not?” she says in a stupefied tone.
My mother never went to college, but she imagines it
as an extension of high school. Perhaps for some people it is, however I’m here
to get an education, start a career, and above all, eventually help others.
“Too busy with my last semester,” I say, lying
through my teeth and dropping a few things in a waiting donation bag outside
the closet. The bag stays there, since my wardrobe is replenished almost
constantly.
“April,” my mother whines. “A four point isn’t worth
giving up a social life.”
I stroll toward the kitchen. “I have lots of
friends, Mom. I went to a dinner party this weekend.” Of course, I don’t tell
her about the piercing that is now making my belly button itch like crazy.
She’d pass out from mortification, if I told her about that.
“Did you have a date?” she asks her voice full of
excitement.
Grrr .
She never lets the dating thing go.
I’m aware she hopes I leave college with a degree and an engagement ring on my finger. She has been planning my
wedding since the day I was born. “No, but I met someone nice, so maybe,” I
say, lying for a second time as I open the fridge. It’s as empty as it was this
morning.
“Did he ask you out?”
I shut the fridge, ignoring my hunger pains. “Um,
no, but he got my number.” It’s not that I want to lie. I just spent most of my
teenage years in conflict with my mother, and now in guilt over my younger
stubborn self, I over appease her.
Someone knocks on my door. Probably the girls in two
apartments over. They have a habit of starting to bake something without all
the ingredients. They’re forever borrowing eggs, sugar, or flour. Or at least
trying to borrow them. I usually only have half the stuff they ask for.
“Has he called yet?”
“Mom, my neighbor’s at the door. I need to go.
Thanks for the clothes, but I really, really don’t need anymore.”
“You can always use them for work eventually, you
know.”
“Mom,” I whine as I open the door.
“I’ll try…”
I don’t hear whatever she says next because I’m
shocked at the person standing outside.
“Got to go.
Bye,” I say, trying not to stare bugged-eyed at a grinning Gabe, his white
teeth a triangular slash in his face. He’s dressed in all blue, a mechanic’s outfit
I realize. “Um…” I peek past him around the corner, looking for Riley or Romeo or someone .
“What are you doing here?”
“An unexpected opportunity,” he says in a carefree
tone.
Confused and feeling lost, I repeat his last word.
“Opportunity?”
He leans his long body on the doorframe, crossing
his arms. “A friend, well, more like an acquaintance, loaned me his bike for a
few hours.”
“Bike?” I repeat, sounding like an idiot parrot.
He pushes off the doorframe, stretches out curled
hands, and twists his fists, saying, “You know, vroom, vroom as in motorcycle.”
My brows lower and my fingers clamp around the edge
of the door. “What? A motorcycle?” Rachel’s list lingers in my brain until I
put two and two together. “I’m not…I couldn’t…I don’t have a helmet. Plus I
need to go grocery shopping. So um…”
He grins fully. “I brought an extra helmet, but are
you that scared?”
“A bit, maybe a lot,” I add out of the side of my
mouth, always so damn honest with him. I force myself to let go of the door.
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