“Mom’s working for his dad. She told me not to get involved.” It’s a lie, but sadly, it’s probably not too far from the truth.
“Seriously? That sucks.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, I need to focus on my music what with the contest coming up. Boys are too much of a distraction.”
“But what a fab distraction they are.” Rae yawns.
“I thought you were done with jocks.”
“I was, but the heart wants what it wants. You should write a song about that.”
“Selena Gomez already did.”
“Ah, damn.” There’s some more rustling on her end. And then: “Crap. I promised the parents I’d brunch with them. Crap,” she repeats, as drawers creak and slam. “I’ll pick you up on my way home. Around three?”
“I’ll be ready.”
After we disconnect, I step under the shower’s spray and loofah my skin until I feel more human punching bag than roadkill. I change into my comfiest leggings and my all-time favorite T-shirt that readsNOT ANOTHER ROLLING STONE.
I bought it at the Mona Stone concert Rae invited me to. Most people in Nashville get the double meaning, but not Mom. It took me spelling it out for her to understand the slogan had nothing to do with the rock band.
Even though my stomach feels like a piece of trampled gum, it lets out a pathetic grumble, so I head down to the kitchen, where Mom’s frying some eggs. I walk over to the percolator, and although I’m not usually a coffee fan, I pour myself a cup. It’s bitter and hot, and scorches the lining of my throat. Lynn’s always on my case about drinking lukewarm beverages to preserve my vocal cords, but I can’t do tepid. Water has to be cold and tea has to be hot.
Mom side-eyes me. “How was the football game? Heard the home team won.”
“It was fun.”
“What’d you do after?”
I shrug, and the tiny movement makes my head ache anew. I should’ve swallowed some painkillers before coming down. “Hung out at Rae’s.”
“What happened to your chin?”
I touch the spot I left bandage-free so the puckered, reddened skin could scab over. Thankfully, it’s on the underside of my jaw, so not too visible. “I fell off my bike.” I point to my leg, which she can’t see through my leggings. “My knee got the brunt of it.”
Mom slides the crispy eggs onto a plate. “Baby, I’d really like you to consider getting your driver’s license. Bicycles aren’t safe—”
“Dad was driving a car.”
Mom’s fingers tighten around the spatula. “And what? You think he would’ve survived had he been on abicycle?”
I jerk from the intensity of her voice, and coffee sloshes out of my cup and trickles down my wrist. “No. That’s not what—”
“Angie, I know you have it in your mind that cars aren’t safe because of what happened to your father, but they’re a hell of a lot safer than a scrap of metal with two wheels and a handlebar. I’m signing you up for driver’s ed. Once you get your license, it’ll be your choice whether to drive or not, but at least you’ll have the tools to make an informed decision.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve fought about my preferred method of transportation, but it’s the first time Mom has put her foot down so hard. I half expect the tiles to crack from the impact of her ultimatum.
I’m about to tell her that she can sign me up but I won’t go, when I realize I can milk this. “I’ll do it if you agree to let me enter the Mona Stone songwriting contest.”
Her summer tan leaks right off her face. “What?”
“I want to submit the song I wrote. The one I played you.”
“Is that”—her voice falters—“why you wrote it?”
My migraine feels like it’s migrated to my chest. “Yes.” I wait with bated breath for my mother to say something. Preferablyokay.
She eyes the congealing eggs as though waiting for them to advise her.
