"The Youth is fighting the Man. How cute." - Egghead
. . .
Hamilton, Massachusetts, 2007
"Hey!" Bo runs up to me, flinging his long arms around me.
"How was your first day?" he asks, smiling expectantly.
I shrug.
"Good. Kids were nice and all."
"Hey, that's good! I got called a faggot like seven times." Bo laughs, and I smile.
Bo grabs my shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asks, the playful smile drooping off his features.
"No," I murmur, knowing there's no point in hiding it anyhow. Bo tilts his head and examines my face.
"Well, don't feel too bad. I'll play a song for you later," Bo offers, and I force a little smile onto my lips.
"Thanks, but it's okay. I don't feel that great," I say. Bo shrugs.
"Oh. Well, feel better?"
"I will," I smile again, wanting nothing more than to scream all my problems at his listening ears, but, instead, we part ways and I head home. I let my feet drag a little on the street, but I end up forcing myself to walk as slowly as I can. It's times like this when I feel the most at peace, a fall breeze drifting through the neighborhood, slightly lifting my hair away from my face. I sigh a little, and walk up the driveway to our chipped-paint front door. I open the door.
"Hi, Justine," Mom looks up, smiling wearily from her seat at the kitchen table. The smell of cigarette smoke hits my nose, and I notice the mess that the living room is in. There's a small yellow pill that's been crushed in half sitting on the table. There are a few couch cushions out of place, and all the pillows are on the floor. The coffee table is crooked. A bra and a pair of pants are crumpled on the rug. It makes me almost way too uncomfortable to talk about, but I think Mom and I both know what caused that mess. How else was she supposed to put food on the table?
"I'll look for a job next week," I say, dropping my backpack on the floor. Mom smiles gratefully, but the smile just breaks my heart. I quickly walk over to the living room and straighten up some of it, grabbing the bra and tossing it on top of the coffee table as I rearrange the pillows.
"What do you want for dinner?" I ask, noticing that there isn't anything sitting in the kitchen to cook.
"Spaghetti would be nice," Mom states, her expression pleasant and vacant. I nod, trying to ignore the obvious fact that she's high out of her mind right now. She means well, though. I always tell myself that because she does. She does everything for me, and if she wants to block out her own pain, she's entitled to.
I open the fridge, but it's almost completely empty. Shit. I forgot to go shopping yesterday. I hunt through the pantry a bit and find an unopened box of spaghetti and a half-eaten can of Ragu. There's some garlic salt in the cupboard.
I guess this will have to do.
I boil the water, oil the pans, and drop the rest of the Ragu in a saucepan with the garlic salt and add some pepper and olive oil. I manage to score one fourth of an onion from the bottom of the fruit basket, and I chop that up and toss it in.
I come up with a pretty respectable plate of spaghetti, which I place in front of Mom. She grabs the fork lazily, and starts spooning bits of it into her mouth. Suddenly, the doorbell rings.
I wipe my hands on my apron and toss it off, quickly running my fingers through my frizzy hair. I open the door, and Bo's standing on the other side. He's wearing a black t-shirt, and his eyes are bright and cheerful. In his hands, he has a takeout container from my favorite Chinese restaurant. It's one of the fake-ass ones with all the Asian-sounding names.
