Six Months Earlier
I’d lost the homeschooling argument again. Also the school transfer argument, the study abroad argument, and finally (in a pathetic, last-ditch effort that stank of desperation), the chronic fatigue syndrome argument.
The truth was that I hadn’t really expected to win. I knew what my mother was going to say before she said it. Simplified, her points were: single parent, can’t afford it; can’t afford that; can’t afford that either; you don’t have that illness or any other, April, so stop being ridiculous and get your books ready for school and don’t forget to set your alarm, please, good night.
“But I can’t, I just can’t go without Kristin,” I wailed, unleashing my last and final weapon—honesty. That has to get through to her, I thought. She couldn’t ignore her only daughter baring her soul. My mom was all about “sharing your emotions,” “listening to your primal voice,” and “nursing your inner baby”—or whatever. (She reads a lot of self-help books.) So maybe if I dumped a buttload of truth and suffering on her, she’d celebrate my personal growth, shed a couple of cleansing tears, and let me stay home. “Mom, please, you know how hard it’s been for me to make friends at Fallstaff High,” I pleaded. “I just can’t go back there tomorrow; I need a little bit more time—”
I should have expected the next part, I guess. She’d just gotten through her latest favorite: Face Your Fear by some celebrity healer. What did I think was going to happen? Fast-forward half an hour, and we were still in the same position on the living room rug. I was tired. She was just getting started. Somewhere between “fighting back against the darkness” (you’ve never been to Fallstaff High, have you, Mom?) and “knotting the spiritual umbilical cord” (knotting my spiritual what?), I humbly admitted defeat. Or exhaustion. Same result.
Bottom line: I was going to start tenth grade tomorrow (Mom’s words).
I was going to “connect with others” and “strengthen my inner immunity” (Mom again).
I was going to end up sitting alone at lunch, everyone was going to treat me like I had leprosy, and I was going to be miserable (me—obviously).
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