crapping on yourself.
5. Eat a muffin without counting.
Armistice Day
“Here,” I say, and show my mom, but I don’t stick around for her to act like she won. Bottom line: at least it’s done.
Later, she comes up to my room and hands back the notebook. “This is really good,” she says. “I’m glad you did that.”
This seems to put an official end to yesterday’s battle, and I note, silently this time, that my dad’s earlier threat of taking away
extra activities
has still not been cashed in. So Arts Night is still on.
“Yeah” is all I say to respond. But then Mom doesn’t leave. She stands there for another minute. I hear her sniffle. “What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re just so grown-up, that’s all. Those dreams in your list … the band, the muffin …” She sniffs again. “They’re just very different from when you were little and you wanted to take a vacation to the moon.”
I don’t like to hear Mom cry. The sound fills me with the same nervous worry it has since I can remember. And yet Ialmost tell her that I don’t feel grown-up. And what is it with parents being sad about us growing up? It was their idea to have us. They knew what would happen.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to run a triathlon,” she adds.
“Mom, it’s just a list.”
“I know.” She nods, then wipes at her face. “Okay. Good night, kiddo.”
“See ya.”
I have an urge, like we should hug or something, like that would be good and when was the last time that happened? But I don’t move and she leaves and closes the door.
I sit there for a minute, wondering how I’m supposed to deal with sad Mom and angry Mom. Does she love me or is she disappointed in me?
I grab my phone and look for a response from Keenan. Still nothing.
I can’t believe the whole day has gone by without a reply. Maybe he hates it. If he does, that will make it easier to change the lyrics. But wouldn’t he be wrong? It was good, wasn’t it? Enough time has passed since I made the recording that I’m starting to doubt. And I don’t want to listen to it again, because what if I’ve been completely wrong about it this whole time? I wish I had some feedback.
I send yet another text—
Report in, soldier
!!—and then Dad offers to take me to the new James Bond movie, so I go.
The movie is pretty good, especially the chase scenes and gadgets. And there’s a girl who’s super hot and obviously a double agent. But afterward Keenan still hasn’t responded.
The Crowd Groans
It’s Sunday afternoon and I am hanging out watching football just after the early game is over and the Seahawks have stomped another hapless foe on the road. The late games haven’t started yet so it’s highlights (which is kind of the best part anyway), when Keenan finally calls.
“Hey,” he says in his mumbly Keenan way.
“Where have you been?” I ask him, and what I am dying to know is if he heard the song and if he liked it or what but then he is saying:
“Me and Skye broke up.”
Whoa.
“You did?” I ask. “What happened?”
“She was really mad about that whole Vera thing,” says Keenan, “because she wanted us to go to Red Robin with Meron and Katie. Then when you bailed, I said we could do her plan but then it was too late for some reason and she just went with them and I ended up doing nothing and thenwhen she texted me yesterday morning, she said we were too different.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“I guess,” says Keenan. “She says I always choose my friends over hers.”
“Yeah, but I’m your bandmate. It’s different.”
Keenan just sighs. “And I guess last Tuesday, I got annoyed at her chewing gum while we were watching a movie. I don’t know, I don’t even remember.”
“Huh.” Keenan sounds actually depressed. I’ve never really heard him this way. “So she broke up with you over
text
?”
“Yeah, but shut up, you got dumped in a drink line.”
“True.”
For a second I imagine a big
5. Eat a muffin without counting.
Armistice Day
“Here,” I say, and show my mom, but I don’t stick around for her to act like she won. Bottom line: at least it’s done.
Later, she comes up to my room and hands back the notebook. “This is really good,” she says. “I’m glad you did that.”
This seems to put an official end to yesterday’s battle, and I note, silently this time, that my dad’s earlier threat of taking away
extra activities
has still not been cashed in. So Arts Night is still on.
“Yeah” is all I say to respond. But then Mom doesn’t leave. She stands there for another minute. I hear her sniffle. “What?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re just so grown-up, that’s all. Those dreams in your list … the band, the muffin …” She sniffs again. “They’re just very different from when you were little and you wanted to take a vacation to the moon.”
I don’t like to hear Mom cry. The sound fills me with the same nervous worry it has since I can remember. And yet Ialmost tell her that I don’t feel grown-up. And what is it with parents being sad about us growing up? It was their idea to have us. They knew what would happen.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to run a triathlon,” she adds.
“Mom, it’s just a list.”
“I know.” She nods, then wipes at her face. “Okay. Good night, kiddo.”
“See ya.”
I have an urge, like we should hug or something, like that would be good and when was the last time that happened? But I don’t move and she leaves and closes the door.
I sit there for a minute, wondering how I’m supposed to deal with sad Mom and angry Mom. Does she love me or is she disappointed in me?
I grab my phone and look for a response from Keenan. Still nothing.
I can’t believe the whole day has gone by without a reply. Maybe he hates it. If he does, that will make it easier to change the lyrics. But wouldn’t he be wrong? It was good, wasn’t it? Enough time has passed since I made the recording that I’m starting to doubt. And I don’t want to listen to it again, because what if I’ve been completely wrong about it this whole time? I wish I had some feedback.
I send yet another text—
Report in, soldier
!!—and then Dad offers to take me to the new James Bond movie, so I go.
The movie is pretty good, especially the chase scenes and gadgets. And there’s a girl who’s super hot and obviously a double agent. But afterward Keenan still hasn’t responded.
The Crowd Groans
It’s Sunday afternoon and I am hanging out watching football just after the early game is over and the Seahawks have stomped another hapless foe on the road. The late games haven’t started yet so it’s highlights (which is kind of the best part anyway), when Keenan finally calls.
“Hey,” he says in his mumbly Keenan way.
“Where have you been?” I ask him, and what I am dying to know is if he heard the song and if he liked it or what but then he is saying:
“Me and Skye broke up.”
Whoa.
“You did?” I ask. “What happened?”
“She was really mad about that whole Vera thing,” says Keenan, “because she wanted us to go to Red Robin with Meron and Katie. Then when you bailed, I said we could do her plan but then it was too late for some reason and she just went with them and I ended up doing nothing and thenwhen she texted me yesterday morning, she said we were too different.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“I guess,” says Keenan. “She says I always choose my friends over hers.”
“Yeah, but I’m your bandmate. It’s different.”
Keenan just sighs. “And I guess last Tuesday, I got annoyed at her chewing gum while we were watching a movie. I don’t know, I don’t even remember.”
“Huh.” Keenan sounds actually depressed. I’ve never really heard him this way. “So she broke up with you over
text
?”
“Yeah, but shut up, you got dumped in a drink line.”
“True.”
For a second I imagine a big
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