One Night in January

Chapter 3: Positive

"You should come this Sunday," my mother urged as her voice crackled through the speaker phone.

"I don't know," I said as I checked off the next book on my list. I had been able to passively participate in my mother's weekly phone call with an occasional "mmm" and "really?" as I sorted my books. Each year I went through my bookshelf and compared it with the list of "1000 Most Influential Books of All Time" and strategically planned the books I was going to read in the upcoming year. After putting off the Greek classics for, well, ever, I decided it was time to suck it up and make this year my year.

"What do you mean you don't know? You have a long weekend. What else would you do, read?"

"I have a lot of work to do."

"You always do. Please, sweetie. We miss seeing you. I can cook your favorite Sunday dinner. We haven't even celebrated your LSAT score yet." I didn't respond. I didn't want to celebrate my LSAT score. I was back into fear mode, and thought that if I celebrated before getting into Yale I'd curse myself. "Well, that's it. You're coming home."

"Alright, fine. See you Friday.

I sat in my car when I pulled into our driveway. The gray that seemed to devour every day in February had thickened throughout the sky and the yard, and the fog suffocated the light that attempted to stream from the golden windows of my house. When I arrived home I liked to sit and take it all in. Although Fayetteville, the city where my school was, wasn't super big, it still wasn't a home. My parents had built the house on fifty acres when I was little, when we moved here from New York City so my dad could work at Wal-Mart. My mom wanted a classical, southern farm house. My dad wanted to show the community how far he'd come and refused. They settled: my mom got a wrap around porch on an oversized house that had more than enough room for the four of us.

The front door swung open and the light bled into the fog. Our gold retriever, Max, sprint from the door and ran to my truck. Before I had the door all the way open his wet nose was rubbing against my hands and welcoming me home.

"Well, look who finally decided to come home!" My mom called from the doorway as I ran up to meet her. She wrapped be in a hug and the smell of pecan pie flooded my nostrils. Yes, she did make my favorite dinner.

"Your daddy has been telling everyone about your score," she beamed as she closed the door behind me. No matter how old you got in the south, everyone always referred to your parents as your mama and your daddy. There was no way around it. I was surprised that he had been telling people, I felt proud for a moment. But then I quickly realized he was probably sharing my score as a reflection of him, to bring him pride and recognition. Look at me, he probably said. MY kid got the perfect score. I did such a great job raising a kid who got the perfect score.

"Blake!" I looked up to see my younger brother running down the staircase in our entry way. Ryan was much younger than me, only seven. My mom had had a lot of miscarriages after me, and when he was finally born my entire family felt like they had accomplished some impossible feat. Ryan was the spitting image of me, only smaller. His dirty blonde hair bounced as he ran and wrapped be in the hug. "I'm so happy you're home! I got a new leggo kit and everything!"

"I'm not sure if I'm going to have a lot of time to build this week, buddy, I have a lot of homework to do."

"Homework?" A loud voice bellowed from behind me. "Why do you need homework now?" I turned around to see my dad emerging from his study. He transferred his corn cob pipe to his left hand and extended his right to shake my hand.