There’s another long pause; for a second I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. Maybe I should’ve just left things alone after he told me about his mascot anxiety?
Easton:Honestly? No.
I sit up straighter, my heart picking up speed.
Me:What else is going on?
The three dots appear, then disappear. Appear. Disappear. I picture him in his bedroom on his bed the same way I am, phone in hand, thinking about how to explain whatever’s weighing him down.
Easton:My parents.
I frown, my thumb hovering over the screen. His parents? I met his mom and think she’s wonderful. I assume his dad is, too. His mom is so easygoing. Way more friendly than my mom, who hasn’t been home a single time he’s been here.
Me:What about them?
Easton:I dunno. They’re just always…on my ass.
I blink at the message.
Me:Your parents are always on your ass???
I press send and wait.
When his next message pops up, I can practically feel the frustration coming through the screen.
Easton:YES.
Me:But your mom seems so cool.
Easton:THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE SAYS!
Me:Shit. I didn’t mean to get you all worked up. You’re shouting LOL.
Easton:See, here’s the thing: My parents act like everything is cool, as if they were soooo laid-back. But they’re not. They constantly push me. It’s like I have to be the best at everything. My dad is the fucking worst.
I feel a twinge of guilt. I don’t have that problem with my parents. The only thing they expect of me is decent grades—not even perfect scores. Good grades. Stay out of trouble. Be kind and respectful, blah blah blah.
I’m sure Easton gets good grades, right? Athletes have to maintain a certain GPA—plus, he’s popular. He has that wholeeveryone’s best friendvibe. Now that I think about it, though, maybe those things aren’t as effortless as they seem.
Me:What do they want you to be the best at?
Easton:Everything. Grades, hockey. My acceptance to college. My scholarship, which I may have pissed away by being a fuckwad and pulling that prank.
Me:You’re not a fuckwad LOL.
He keeps venting to me as if I haven’t given him a compliment.
Easton:My dad’s always preaching about how I need to “take responsibility” and “show leadership” and crap, but it’s like…I can’t mess up. Ever.
I have no idea what to say to that. The Easton I know is always joking around, always relaxed. But there’s clearly a lot going on beneath the surface.
Me:That sounds exhausting.
He’s not done yet.
My phone is blowing up.
Easton:It is. And if they found out about the mascot thing? HOLY SHIT. For real I don’t even wanna think about what they’d do. They’d never say they’re disappointed, but their silence would be way fucking worse. They have this look they give me—Disappointment Deluxe, I call it.
