Girls Don't Know Jack

Alfredo and Pain

♫ Getaway Car - Taylor Swift

My mother sets a plate of chicken alfredo in front of me at the table. I should have known this would be on the menu tonight.

Having been the primary breadwinner for our home the past sixteen years, my mother only mastered one dish, and this is it.

Not that I'm really complaining; it's a good one.

"Thanks, Mrs. Clark," Jack says quietly as my mom places a matching dish in front of the boy seated beside me.

"Oh, please, call me Elise," my mother beams before taking a seat next to my father across from us at the small, oak table.

Jack nods, picking up a glimmering fork.

"It's good to see you again, Jack," my dad retorts peeking over the peperomia plant that has grown too large to make a nice centerpiece anymore. "I'd been wanting to speak with you."

Oh god.

Nervously, Jack shoots his eyes up to my father before glancing at me. I only offer a shrug before poking my fork into the creamy pasta on my plate.

A low, hearty chuckle comes from my dad. His round cheeks growing rosy with glee. "Oh no, nothing bad—I was just going to ask who your dealer is. That weed you gave my daughter must've been some good stuff to make her act like that."

The boy next to me freezes, dark eyes wide as he stares back at my eccentric father, who quickly breaks into a fit of laughter, doubling over in the rickety chair beneath him.

Shaking my head, I try to stifle my smile as Jack scrunches his brows seeming lost.

"Oh, Roger," my mother cuts in, swatting him on the arm. "Don't mind him," she says to Jack. "He thinks he's funny."

Biting his lip, Jack stares down at his plate. Once my dad quiets back down, Jack mumbles, "I am sorry, though. About the weed. I shouldn't have offered any to Molly."

Insistent, my mother shakes her head stretching an arm across the table to softly grab onto his forearm. "Don't worry about it," she says with her best therapist voice. "I understand you're going through a lot right now."

Oh no. My mom is therapizing Jack Moody—and not even for any valid reason.

Jack stares at the hand on his arm and then back at me, lowering his brows.

"Oh—no, I didn't tell them about that," I insist. I swore to him I wouldn't say anything about his mother, and now he already thinks I've lied to him.

Quickly, my mom snatches her hand back, trying to play peacemaker she straightens in her seat. Running a hand over her smooth honey-blonde bob, she twists her face into an apologetic frown.

"I'm sorry. I hope I didn't speak out of place," she says with kind blue eyes. "I only meant, I can't imagine the stress you are under. And being in Wilcrest—feeling as though you don't belong there...it must be incredibly frustrating."

Please stop talking.

Again, Jack eyes me strangely and I give him a tight-lipped smile before stuffing a breadstick into my mouth.

"Uh—yeah, I mean Wilcrest is fine," Jack states slowly, still eyeing me suspiciously.

"That's great," my mom nods placing a paper napkin onto her lap. "I had hoped everyone would be accepting, there."

Jack blinks rapidly a few times, and then it seems like something clicks for him as he tilts his head. "I'm sorry—but what exactly are we talking about?"