loudly, “Who are you texting?”
“You do realize that I’m
texting,
right? Nobody can hear you when you text,” I say.
Mom asks in her regular voice, “Who’re you texting?”
“Kristal,” I answer, and look back down at my phone. Mom returns to the kitchen and bursts into song. Jesus help me. I type Kristal: “You a senior?”
“Yes. Only seven months of chapman hell left. Counting the minutes. Haha,” she writes.
Wow, I can’t believe she hates Chapman, the Yale of Connecticut high schools, maybe all of New England. I write: “You are so lucky you are almost done with high school!!” And then I add, “I hate it”
“Felt the same way too. Don’t worry. It goes by even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
Then she texts this: “Have to go to DC next weekend to look at schools. Waste of time. Want UConn. Are you around this weekend?”
My heart speeds up.
What?
What did she just ask? Am I around this weekend? Should I tell her I’ve been around for the last one hundred and sixteen weekends without one pathetic invite? We bipolarites generally have light social calendars. I’ll keep it short and simple. “Yes”
“Have museum thing for my mother’s work on Sunday. In new haven. Do you want to come with me? New exhibit opening. We can get froyo next to museum.”
Jesus! A positive rush roars through me.
Kristal wants to hang out with me. Outside of St. Anne’s.
I text back: “Sounds like fun”
My phone choos right away with her response: “Awesome Cat! Will give you details tomorrow at St. A.”
I feel something that must honestly fall somewhere high on the happy scale. Definitely eight or nine territory. This definitely matches the kiss. And today’s shit-in-my-pants story time.
Wait a sec. Maybe I misread her text. Maybe she wasn’t really inviting me. Maybe she was just bitching about going. Uncertainty floods me. Quickly, I reread the conversation.
Yes.
There it is: “Do you want to come with me?”
Humming, I click on Michael’s Sunday-night text: “I’m glad we finally met this year!” I had responded with a “ME TOO” and a smiley face. I keep reading the texts over and over. And thinking about that kiss. I’m so ready for another one.
“Cath, honey, dinner!” Mom calls.
She has set the table with two bowls of chili, a small pile of mini corn bread loaves and two salads. She’s laid out at least five different types of Wish-Bone salad dressing. Our glasses of water are filled with ice
and
a lemon slice. She makes a production out of dinner most nights. It’s our only real time together, she’ll say.
And every night as I approach the dinner table and see this, her grand gesture, darts of guilt fly at me. Mom shouldn’t have to make culinary amends because she works her ass off and can’t be with me every second of my nonschool day. She shouldn’t have to pour every ounce of her love into me, her emotional and financial black hole of a daughter.
I force a smile that she instantly returns. “I made plans for Sunday, okay?” I say, sprinkling shredded cheddar on my chili.
“With Kristal?” Mom asks, eyebrows arched.
I nod, my mouth full.
Mom does a good job of repressing any whoops of delight. She just smiles, but it reaches her eyes and takes ten years off her face. Another dart. “What are you doing?” she asks ever so nonchalantly.
“Her mom works at a museum in New Haven and there’s some event there,” I answer.
“Well, I’m off, so no problem driving you in,” Mom says. “What time?”
“Kristal will let me know tomorrow.” I sip some water. “Maybe you can do something on Sunday? Maybe a movie? With Aunt D?”
Please, please do something for yourself. For once.
Mom shakes her head. “Nah. I can do the food shopping and clean the bathrooms. I’ll get a head start.”
“What about Bill? You could give him a call?” I suggest.
Mom flushes and shakes her head quickly, picking up a corn bread and buttering it with the precision
“You do realize that I’m
texting,
right? Nobody can hear you when you text,” I say.
Mom asks in her regular voice, “Who’re you texting?”
“Kristal,” I answer, and look back down at my phone. Mom returns to the kitchen and bursts into song. Jesus help me. I type Kristal: “You a senior?”
“Yes. Only seven months of chapman hell left. Counting the minutes. Haha,” she writes.
Wow, I can’t believe she hates Chapman, the Yale of Connecticut high schools, maybe all of New England. I write: “You are so lucky you are almost done with high school!!” And then I add, “I hate it”
“Felt the same way too. Don’t worry. It goes by even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
Then she texts this: “Have to go to DC next weekend to look at schools. Waste of time. Want UConn. Are you around this weekend?”
My heart speeds up.
What?
What did she just ask? Am I around this weekend? Should I tell her I’ve been around for the last one hundred and sixteen weekends without one pathetic invite? We bipolarites generally have light social calendars. I’ll keep it short and simple. “Yes”
“Have museum thing for my mother’s work on Sunday. In new haven. Do you want to come with me? New exhibit opening. We can get froyo next to museum.”
Jesus! A positive rush roars through me.
Kristal wants to hang out with me. Outside of St. Anne’s.
I text back: “Sounds like fun”
My phone choos right away with her response: “Awesome Cat! Will give you details tomorrow at St. A.”
I feel something that must honestly fall somewhere high on the happy scale. Definitely eight or nine territory. This definitely matches the kiss. And today’s shit-in-my-pants story time.
Wait a sec. Maybe I misread her text. Maybe she wasn’t really inviting me. Maybe she was just bitching about going. Uncertainty floods me. Quickly, I reread the conversation.
Yes.
There it is: “Do you want to come with me?”
Humming, I click on Michael’s Sunday-night text: “I’m glad we finally met this year!” I had responded with a “ME TOO” and a smiley face. I keep reading the texts over and over. And thinking about that kiss. I’m so ready for another one.
“Cath, honey, dinner!” Mom calls.
She has set the table with two bowls of chili, a small pile of mini corn bread loaves and two salads. She’s laid out at least five different types of Wish-Bone salad dressing. Our glasses of water are filled with ice
and
a lemon slice. She makes a production out of dinner most nights. It’s our only real time together, she’ll say.
And every night as I approach the dinner table and see this, her grand gesture, darts of guilt fly at me. Mom shouldn’t have to make culinary amends because she works her ass off and can’t be with me every second of my nonschool day. She shouldn’t have to pour every ounce of her love into me, her emotional and financial black hole of a daughter.
I force a smile that she instantly returns. “I made plans for Sunday, okay?” I say, sprinkling shredded cheddar on my chili.
“With Kristal?” Mom asks, eyebrows arched.
I nod, my mouth full.
Mom does a good job of repressing any whoops of delight. She just smiles, but it reaches her eyes and takes ten years off her face. Another dart. “What are you doing?” she asks ever so nonchalantly.
“Her mom works at a museum in New Haven and there’s some event there,” I answer.
“Well, I’m off, so no problem driving you in,” Mom says. “What time?”
“Kristal will let me know tomorrow.” I sip some water. “Maybe you can do something on Sunday? Maybe a movie? With Aunt D?”
Please, please do something for yourself. For once.
Mom shakes her head. “Nah. I can do the food shopping and clean the bathrooms. I’ll get a head start.”
“What about Bill? You could give him a call?” I suggest.
Mom flushes and shakes her head quickly, picking up a corn bread and buttering it with the precision
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