WHEN I GET HOME, I WANT MY MOTHER TO BE THERE SO I can ask her what happened with Melanie, if she told her or not. Other than grounding me, she hasn’t said a word about that night; she’s using the power of scary silence.
She seems to be waiting for me when I walk in. She’s standing in front of the counter, sorting through the mail. She smiles, then looks down, probably remembering that I’m grounded and shouldn’t be encouraged to smile. It must be a nuisance to have a grounded kid after a while—it’s like being happy to see a friend, then remembering you aren’t speaking to each other.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” I say, which feels funny to articulate because it seems so long ago. “I’ve had all week to think about it . . . so . . .”
She sighs and leans on the counter, then pats her palm down hard, which has the effect of a judge using a gavel.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I haven’t been home. I haven’t been here for you. I’ve been traipsing around town—”
She’s about to cry. I put my backpack down and walk closer to her. She smooths my hair, and I sit down on a bar stool next to her.
“It’s okay—it’s not like I need you to be here all the time or anything. I wasn’t rebelling or—”
“No, I know,” she says, and she’s regained the strength in her voice. “And I’m not excusing your behavior, and me being gone doesn’t give you license to raise hell.”
“I really raised hell,” I say flatly.
“You know what I—”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, I got—”
“Caught up,” she says, and I let it go with that. I don’t feel that’s what it was. I didn’t feel pressure to do the things I did—I wanted to drink. I want to go out, I want to do things with Whitney to pave the way for more adventure. I want to go to the hotel and party. I like it. I like kissing Will.
Still, I’ll pretend to be caught up in someone else’s desires, someone else’s poor judgment, even though I’d think she’d understand me, respect me for my curiosity and yearning. She was young too. She must know. But then again, I’m glad she’s not too lenient.
I remember in San Francisco going to Tanya Rowley’s house. Her parents let us drink, and she had a guest cottage, which basically served as a romper room. She had a party one night, and tons of people came. The music was loud; there was a keg, and her parents were there, standing in the kitchen, hitting the joint that was being passed around. I nursed a beer, feeling prudish, the thought who will take care of us? ringing in my head. Her parents were laughing with the other kids in the room, and Tanya’s mother was sort of the center of attention with a story she was telling. I thought she looked pathetic, that the kids’ laughter was tinged with a kind of pity and politeness. I guess I prefer the mom who says no.
“So now what?” I ask. “Am I still grounded?” I look up at her and grin, showing my teeth.
Her hair falls in front of her face, and she leans over and swoops it up into a ponytail high on top of her head, looking like a cheerleader. I think people assume she’s a mom not quite like Tanya’s, but someone who’d abide more. Because she’s an actress. She’s cool and pretty, and maybe when you’re a pretty mom, people assume you’re lenient.
“I’m not a very good grounder, am I?” she says. “Grounding you during the school week.”
“You’re great,” I say. “I like the way you ground.”
“Well, then, you’re free,” she says, then at the sight of my smile adds, “Free to make good choices.”
“Did you tell Melanie?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m relieved, and yet it puts a twist on things. Whitney has no reason for having excluded me from the hotel. Maybe it’s just because she hasn’t had the opportunity to tell me.
I stand up, bouncing a bit. “Can I go over to Whitney’s?” I almost said Will’s.
“Okay, but I want you to think,” she says. “To respect and take care of yourself.”
“Deal,” I say.
And it is a deal. I’ll take care of myself. I am good, I’ll be good, but I also want to get a new job.