Tongs to the sternum made it clear our chat wasn’t over.
Head tilted, eyes narrowed like a stalking cat, she said, “The library? How odd.”
Her whole manner said I was toast. Ordinarily I’d have buckled, spilled my guts, but I thought I might have a chance if I stayed calm. Ignoring the frantic inner voice screaming, “Run away,” I attempted Lex’s supernatural cool.
I oozed innocence. “What? You expect us to make High Honors without studying?”
Mom grabbed hold of my shirt collar with the tongs. Impressive dexterity. “No. What’s odd is that Alexis called for you this afternoon. Twice.”
Gulp.
“So,” a tong twist punctuated her question, “want to take another stab at it?”
“Uh … okay.”
“And Evan, a friendly suggestion: the truth.”
It’s scary how, in such moments, the human mind kicks into hyperdrive, like there’s an extra lobe, independent of the conscious brain. Miss Delateski never mentioned it, but it must be there, and apparently its purpose is rapid deception. Before I could even react, my auxiliary lobe, my “fabrication station,” took over, constructing the ideal response. Brief, touching, believable, it was the perfect lie, because it was built around a grain of truth. I could hardly believe I was saying it.
“I was at the mall. By myself.” Awkward pause/shoe scuff. “This is embarrassing … I couldn’t tell Lex, because … I went to buy her a Valentine’s gift. I like her, Mom … as a girlfriend. But I haven’t told her yet.”
I was immediately awash in emotion — chiefly guilt. Not for the lie, but the truth at its heart. It was like cheating on Lex, using her as escape hatch. But the story, or my flushed face, did the trick. Setting the tongs on the hall table, Mom pulled me into a stiff hug.
“Oh, Ev. That’s sweet. But be careful. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”
“Okay, Mom. Look, it’s no big deal. I didn’t even buy anything. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s better we just stay friends.”
“Friends is good.”
“Yeah. Um, homework.”
“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”
“I’m really not hungry. I had something at the mall.”
“Evan, mall food’s not sufficient. I stuffed a chicken. Wash up.”
There’s no arguing when she’s in Betty Crocker mode — or ever, really — and I figured if I played the obedient son card, the encounter thing might go easier. I washed up.
Now we’re at the table. She’s measuring out a dose of ranch as I put the salad tongs to their intended use. Maybe I’m emboldened by so easily ducking interrogation. Perhaps the success of Operation Pettafordi’s got me feeling cocky. Whatever the reason, I go for broke.
“I’m thinking of going on encounter. There’s one scheduled for the third week in March.”
She pauses midchew, waits for me to continue.
“I’ve already finished the paperwork. I just need your signature.”
“You’re not going.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“This is not open for discussion, Junior.”
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”
Her volume ticks up a notch. “Sorry, it’s not open for discussion, EVAN. Better?”
I hate when she’s sarcastic.
“Why can’t I go? It’s a chance to work through things.”
“You can work through things at home. I don’t intend to have you traipsing off on encounter, airing this family’s laundry.”
“Mom, it’s not like that.”
“You think I don’t know what goes on? A weekend of complaining about parents. Just because they include prayer and communion doesn’t justify the self-absorbed nonsense. You don’t need it. And Father Brendan agrees.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Teague called earlier. She said Father’s concerned you might not be ready for encounter. That it might be too much right now.”
I can’t believe this! Father B’s sabotaging me? What if he spoke to Pettafordi? My cheeks reddening, I try to swallow my temper.
“Mom, it might help me to talk about …
Head tilted, eyes narrowed like a stalking cat, she said, “The library? How odd.”
Her whole manner said I was toast. Ordinarily I’d have buckled, spilled my guts, but I thought I might have a chance if I stayed calm. Ignoring the frantic inner voice screaming, “Run away,” I attempted Lex’s supernatural cool.
I oozed innocence. “What? You expect us to make High Honors without studying?”
Mom grabbed hold of my shirt collar with the tongs. Impressive dexterity. “No. What’s odd is that Alexis called for you this afternoon. Twice.”
Gulp.
“So,” a tong twist punctuated her question, “want to take another stab at it?”
“Uh … okay.”
“And Evan, a friendly suggestion: the truth.”
It’s scary how, in such moments, the human mind kicks into hyperdrive, like there’s an extra lobe, independent of the conscious brain. Miss Delateski never mentioned it, but it must be there, and apparently its purpose is rapid deception. Before I could even react, my auxiliary lobe, my “fabrication station,” took over, constructing the ideal response. Brief, touching, believable, it was the perfect lie, because it was built around a grain of truth. I could hardly believe I was saying it.
“I was at the mall. By myself.” Awkward pause/shoe scuff. “This is embarrassing … I couldn’t tell Lex, because … I went to buy her a Valentine’s gift. I like her, Mom … as a girlfriend. But I haven’t told her yet.”
I was immediately awash in emotion — chiefly guilt. Not for the lie, but the truth at its heart. It was like cheating on Lex, using her as escape hatch. But the story, or my flushed face, did the trick. Setting the tongs on the hall table, Mom pulled me into a stiff hug.
“Oh, Ev. That’s sweet. But be careful. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”
“Okay, Mom. Look, it’s no big deal. I didn’t even buy anything. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s better we just stay friends.”
“Friends is good.”
“Yeah. Um, homework.”
“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”
“I’m really not hungry. I had something at the mall.”
“Evan, mall food’s not sufficient. I stuffed a chicken. Wash up.”
There’s no arguing when she’s in Betty Crocker mode — or ever, really — and I figured if I played the obedient son card, the encounter thing might go easier. I washed up.
Now we’re at the table. She’s measuring out a dose of ranch as I put the salad tongs to their intended use. Maybe I’m emboldened by so easily ducking interrogation. Perhaps the success of Operation Pettafordi’s got me feeling cocky. Whatever the reason, I go for broke.
“I’m thinking of going on encounter. There’s one scheduled for the third week in March.”
She pauses midchew, waits for me to continue.
“I’ve already finished the paperwork. I just need your signature.”
“You’re not going.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“This is not open for discussion, Junior.”
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”
Her volume ticks up a notch. “Sorry, it’s not open for discussion, EVAN. Better?”
I hate when she’s sarcastic.
“Why can’t I go? It’s a chance to work through things.”
“You can work through things at home. I don’t intend to have you traipsing off on encounter, airing this family’s laundry.”
“Mom, it’s not like that.”
“You think I don’t know what goes on? A weekend of complaining about parents. Just because they include prayer and communion doesn’t justify the self-absorbed nonsense. You don’t need it. And Father Brendan agrees.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Teague called earlier. She said Father’s concerned you might not be ready for encounter. That it might be too much right now.”
I can’t believe this! Father B’s sabotaging me? What if he spoke to Pettafordi? My cheeks reddening, I try to swallow my temper.
“Mom, it might help me to talk about …
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