It’s weird in the mornings; I am actually being studious, with note cards that I made for my French tutor, Mme. Willow. I have only two physical tutors, with French, Science, Math, the rest I do independently or over the internet with tutors, which sucks more than you could know. I’m listening to the music, bopping my head to the beat as my eyes follow the words and hands flip the cards over. Everyone walks around me, not even noticing. Not even noticing. Not even noticing. Not even noticing. Not even noticing.
I flip one of the cards over and let it fall into the pile, and that was the last one, and there is a different card on the counter. It’s a saint card, one of the many my mother used to collect when she even bothered going to church, but she would always go by herself, and once this guy started hitting on her, she left the church. It was too embarrassing for her, things are always embarrassing to her.
“Honey,” she says, and I take an ear bud out and see that Connor and Jessie are packing up, getting their asses out of here, away from me.
“Yeah, mom,” I say, packing up the cards into my hoodie pocket. “What’s up?” I ask as I turn to look at her.
“How about we see a movie? Maybe get dinner,” she probes, her palms on the counter as she leans forward. Her eyes growing wide.
“Sounds like fun,” Jessie said. “Girls night out,” Jessie said with a smile and just as she said that Connor left the room. Talk about geometry teaching life, I think to myself and smile. I’m getting back to my old… I’m not even sure which the good sides of my old self were, and which were the quiet, push over sides. Things don’t make sense, and the things that do don’t add up.
I wish I was back in algebra.
“Yeah, we can even go and look at some shoes,” my mother adds giddily as her hip touches mine. Jessie squeals, her backpack slung over her shoulder as her smile widens and her eyes grow.
“Jessica!” Dad yells from the front doorway. “Come on or we’ll live without you.”
“Is that so bad?” Jessie asks of herself, because she’s obviously rolling her eyes and smiling to herself because mom isn’t.
“Jessica!” Dad yells again.
“Comin’!” She yells back. “Jesus calls Louise geez,” she mutters to herself that little saying she came up with when she was six. I can see her thong sneaking out of her jeans, just a little bit. Just a little bit that mom doesn’t notice anything at all.
“It’s all right, sweetie,” mom says, drawing my attention back as she brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Dad’s temper doesn’t have anything to do with you,” she tells me with reassuring eyes, what they are reassuring, I don’t know of. She looks down at the ground, almost as if she’s ashamed and walks away.