Maeve stills, picking them up. “What are these?”
“I, uh, made you flashcards.” I grimace at the shake in my voice. “They’re color-coordinated. It helps p-promote active recall in our brains. Moves it from short-term memory to…long-term.”
I’m rambling.
“You made these?” She gawks at me. “Lastnight?”
My cheeks feel like they’re on fire as I nod.
Flipping through them, she asks, “How do you know all this stuff? These are literally my…”
“I saw your books yesterday,” I mumble sheepishly, feeling like my body might cave in on itself. “Your notes.”
“The photographic memory,” she recalls with a laugh of disbelief, I think, slipping from her lips. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Just thought it might h-help.”
My jaw clenches as I look down at my lap, staring at my hands underneath the table as they rest on my bouncing knees. One of my mother’s boyfriends, the tattooed loser who introduced her to heroin, used to make fun of my stutter. Everytime I get nervous, I stutter. I can’t help it, just like I can’t help hearing the jerk’s voice in my mind when it happens.
Spit it out, kid.
What are you? Stupid?
At least the worst I ever got from him was humiliation; it beats what I got from some of the others.
I can feel Maeve staring at me, and that only makes me want to shrivel up and hide even more. She probably thinks I’m a stalker on top of everything else. Stalker… Serial killer… Freak. This trip might be over before it’s even started, all because I have no idea how to function like a normal human being. Shouldn’t it be in our blood? Being social? I already know the answer, but it doesn’t make me feel better, nonetheless.
“Extra brownie points for you,” she muses, easing my nerves with only five words. It’s crazy how she has the power to do that. “Thank you, Tate. Seriously.”
“No problem.”
I’m so thankful when we fall into our usual, comfortable silence, freed for a moment from fighting for my life to communicate normally in front of her.Toher. I appreciate that she enjoys the quiet, too, like she mutually understands that not every moment needs to be filled with talking. Or maybe she can see just how pitiful I really am and thinks I need it. Oh God. If she does, she doesn’t show it on her face as she starts to study with the flashcards.
The moment is soon interrupted by her phone lighting up on the table, but I quickly avert my eyes because I don’t want to seem nosy.
“Hey, Mom,” Maeve answers as she brings the phone up to her ear.
Is that what it’s like to have a normal parent? They just call you whenever they want, hoping to see you during holiday breaks or just to hear your voice? My dad was never in thepicture, so I can’t miss much when it comes to him, but my mom… Thinking of her still brings a tightness to my chest. I’ve had years to mourn the life I could have had if she was sober and worked on healing with the help of therapy and medication, but that doesn’t change the fact that it still sucks.
“Change of plans,” Maeve continues, pulling me from my thoughts as my eyes flicker up to meet hers. “I’ll be home for Christmas after all.”
I can’t hear what her mother says, but I can make out the faint sound of squealing on the other end.
“Should be there next Friday night.” She pauses. “No, Mom. Uh, I… Landon and I broke up. I have a friend who’s bringing me, actually.”
Landon.
Hearing of her breakup makes the tiny puzzle pieces in my mind come together slowly. The way she’s been coming to the library every single day around the same time, the reason why she didn’t have a way home for Christmas in the first place, the solemn look she has on her face sometimes when she’s not distracted by her thoughts or what’s going on around her.
“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” she laughs awkwardly, so I make a point not to gawk, even though my mind whirls with curiosity when it shouldn’t, “can we, you know, talk about it later?”
The topic makes a weird feeling stir in my gut, something I’ve never felt before, but it doesn’t necessarily feel good. It must be a touchy subject if she doesn’t want to talk about it in front of me, and especially since her family wasn’t even aware that they had broken up.
“Yeah, talk to you soon,” she says. “I love you.”
Had I ever told my mom that I loved her? Maybe when I was younger, before I was old enough to realize that she’d never really lovedme.
“Sorry about that.”
