Intrigued, I sit up a little straighter. I need to hear what she’ll say next.
She turns and writes “Types of memories” on the whiteboard. Just as she’s underlining her header, the bell rings.
“Class dismissed.”
A little over an hour later, Mom is driving in the opposite direction of home, looking determined.
“Where are we going?”
“Out for a snack,” she says.
“I’m not hungry,” I protest.
“I don’t care,” she says. “You don’t have to eat. But I think we need to spend some time together.”
Uh-oh.
Mom pulls into a diner and parks, and we walk inside and seat ourselves as the sign instructs. Once the waitress has taken our drink orders—diet for Mom, regular for me—Mom strikes up a conversation.
“Good day?” she asks.
“No,” I answer.
“Why not?”
The waitress delivers our drinks, and my mom unwraps our straws and puts them in the glasses. She takes a sip as she waits for me to respond.
“I got hit in the face with a ball in gym,” I answer.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good,” she says. Another sip. “Anything else?”
“Carley Lynch.”
“What did she do this time?” Mom asks.
“She just made some comment about my outfit.”
“I love that outfit.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“You know she’s just jealous of you, London.”
“No, I don’t know, Mom. I don’t remember.”
“Was Jamie there?” my mom asks casually.
“No, of course not,” I mutter.
“Still fighting?”
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes.
A family scoots into the next booth over, and I watch them settle themselves as my mom speaks in a quieter tone. For that I’m grateful.