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Your mother is not sweet, but she loves you. You sit with her as she smokes her luckies, whittling them down one after the other.
Lighten up. Why do you always dress like someone is dead?
You roll your eyes and take the jacket she offers you. She always finds a way to bring it back to your looks. The sun is setting, the air is starting to sting at your nose, but you’re both still sitting on the porch, “Just waiting for yours mom.”
She laughs at that and waves you off.
She doesn’t care, not really. Just worried, you suppose, as all mothers are, even ones like yours.
But this isn’t about your mother. Not completely.
There’s a boy at school.
Of course there is.
He’s charismatic and popular.
Of course he is.
Everyone wants to talk to him, everyone wants to be him.
You ignored him.
That's the hook.
Tom quickly starts looking for you, everywhere. He is there at field hockey practice, after school, in between classes, always trying to talk to you, getting your attention in any way he can. Showing off the way boys do.
You hate to admit it but it feels good. Why shouldn’t it?
A boy like that is like the sun, and for some god knows reason, he wants to shine all his light for you.
But you’re not an idiot. So you keep saying.
“I like your edge.” Tom says, fingers playing with your chunky bracelets, “you’re beautiful.”
“Ok,” you say, softly. But you don’t give in. You just let him walk you home.
Always want what they can’t have. Your mother drills into your head as you two sit on the porch, be careful with those boys. You’re pretty, she muses, even with all that dark makeup, too pretty to get your heart broken.
You play hard to get, for once listening to your mother. Even if your heart flutters and your cheeks turn red when he’s around, you don’t give in. You can’t give in. He’s not serious.
Boys like that are never serious, Amy dear.
Whether you realized it or not, it turned into a game. Cat and mouse. At the time you thought you were the cat, everything was in your control.
But days turn into weeks. And nothing changes. (Except you) He keeps talking to you, wanting your attention, smiling at you, just you.
So you think, why not?
You say yes when you’re walking home together.
He’s walking his bike next to you, balancing your books on the seat. You can’t help letting out a laugh when he trips over the sidewalk in surprise at your confession. It feels nice, making someone like that feel nervous.
He smiles at you, big and wide, as he rights himself, and takes your hand.
So now that he has you, now what?
You say yes and it’s good. It’s real and it’s good and it’s happening to you.
After that it was something like out of a dream.
Nothing changed, except everything. He still met you after field hockey practice,waiting to walk home together. Except now you were allowed to accept them, and accept them you did. You smiled, and you felt bubbly. Bubbly of all things.
Even when you were small you were never bubbly.
And as slowly as it came, quickly it stopped.
Of course, mother knows best. You’ve had that old adage repeated to you since you were small. You never ascribed to your own mother, just one more way she was the exception to the rule.
She just had to right about this.
The paragraphs of sweet texts stop, you’d be lucky to get a half-hearted response. He claims he’s too busy to walk with you after school, no one visits you at practice anymore.
You finally get the hint and stop trying.
Still, you lose sleep. You don’t understand, why, why why?
Part of you wish you didn’t find out. But now, you’re the one trying to find him. And that’s not a good look for you, you don’t chase .
You said you wanted to be the cat instead of the mouse.
You see it soon enough, how can you not? He’s looking at someone else.
You know her.
Pretty blonde hair, sweet smiles and an air of naivete that you lack.
Her name was Becky. She lent you a pencil yesterday in math. She’s been here for a month and destroyed your life in half that time.
She didn’t even know your name.
You can’t decide if that hurts you more.
He broke up with you for a girl he barely knew.
That realization is when you snap.
You are like ice as you move across the cafeteria, to that boy . He’s with his friends, eyes twinkling as he talks animatedly. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He stares up at you, eyes widening. Oh it’s you.
His voice is going a mile a minute, hands gesturing, apologies, excuses, you don’t care. You’re not here to listen.
Your face is blank as you grab his tray and dump it on his head.
You ignore the hoots and “oooh’s” as you storm away. It’s not until you get to the bathroom that you let the tears fall.
A soft knock on the bathroom stall pulls you out of it slightly, “Are you alright?” says a voice.
You yell back “Yes!” Hating how your voice cracks.
Silence, then, “Are you sure?” the girl says gently, “When I’m sad I always want a shoulder to lean on.”
You groan silently. This good samaritan won’t leave. So you open the stall door, get it over with.
Your heart freezes, blood slowing to sludge as you stare.
Becky stares back, concerned brown eyes watching her as she holds out a packet of tissues.
You wait for the shift, but no recognition comes. Becky remains standing there, hand outstretched, a sympathetic frown on her lips.
She’s sweet.
She doesn’t know.
You hope she chokes.
You roughly brush past her, ignoring her shout of surprise as you left the bathroom. You rubbed your eyes, the mascara stinging but you don’t care anymore.
You cut class, a thing you haven’t done since middle school.
When you see your house, your mother is leaning against the rail, watching you. There is no judgment in her eyes, not that she ever really judged you for anything.
You drop your backpack on the ground, the loss of weight giving you a slight spring as you reach your mother.
“How do you get over something like that?”
That’s easy . She says, offering you a lucky. You take it, twirling it in your hand idly. You lean your head against her shoulder. The breath rattles through you as you exhale, you’re sure she feels it. You don’t.
She puts her arm around you, taking the lucky from your limp hand and lights it for herself.
Your mother is not sweet. But she loves you.