“What’s on your mind, honey?”
Pfft. Only a mess so tangled I wouldn’t know where to start.
“Just…stuff. You know how it is.”
My mom nods in that way she nods when she wants to be sympathetic and understanding even though I’ve given her zero information to work with.
“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes,” she says quietly. “Whatever is bothering you will still be there in the morning.”
Little does she know the pressure I’m under.
Stealing. Trespassing.
And not only that, I was railroaded into a double date tonight, via group chat hell.
Myfirstdate. In all my seventeen years I’ve not been on one date and here I am: cornered into it.
Guilt assails me.
Cornered? Railroaded? Shit. I’d be embarrassed to say those words to Harper’s pretty face. She would be devastated.
On the other hand, she would kind of deserve it.
Mom continues rubbing my back in small, circular motions, then brushes the hair off my forehead.
My eyelids grow heavier.
“You know if you want to talk about anything, you can tell me,” her soft voice reminds me. “I’m here.”
I know. But I have a feeling she isn’t ready for the things I’d tell her, especially the trespassing-and-theft-of-a-mascot bit.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom pauses some more, hand on my back. “How was school today? I didn’t get the chance to ask.”
No, she didn’t.
As I mentioned, Mom is an attorney and gets home late sometimes, depending on what cases she has. There are evenings I don’t see her at all. Dad is the one who primarily drove me to and from youth hockey—and my sister to her stuff—since his schedule is more flexible. I don’t resent her for being busy; she’s there when it matters.
“School was good.” I bite my bottom lip before deciding to roll to my back so I can see her face. Swallow my nerves for this next part. “So, uh. I was kind of thinking of…asking someone to prom.”
“Wow, Easton.” Mom’s eyes go wide. Her mouth falls open. “You are?”
She’s shocked, which is no surprise—I’ve never gone to a dance before, not even with a group of my friends.
“Do I know her?”
I shake my head. “Her name is Harper.”
I can see my mother racking her brain, moving around puzzle pieces, hoping to click the name Harper into place.
“What’s her last name?”
“Conrad.”
Mom loves this game. She always asks for a last name, goes to the database in her brain, and tries to make a match with anyone she may have also gone to high school with whose child this couldbe.
“Hmm. I don’t know any Conrads…”
