𝙾𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜

𝙴𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝟼𝚝𝚑

Lasagna steams before me and beside it, a crisp garden salad laden with balsamic dressing.

How many calories?

I count. Recount. Consider different estimates.

Total your highest estimates.

Shit.

Will you be able to lose weight?

This is the only meal I can't control. Mum always cooks it.

Thinking of Mum, I know she's looking at me. It's the sensation of being watched.

I glance across to Mum and her wide blue eyes mirror mine. Although her mouth is eating and mine is not. I decide I better swiftly mirror that, too.

"How was your day?" I ask, finishing my first mouthful.

"Busy," Mum replies, her eyes back on her plate. It's an answer I receive every evening.

Every evening we talk anyway.

Mum eats dinner in the study most evenings, whilst I sit here at the dining table. Mum doesn't allow me to eat anywhere else. Dinnertime is normally later too. But for a day, despite working this public holiday, Mum has embraced the concept of Labour Day's origins. She left for work not long before 9:00am and arrived home shortly after 5:00pm. It's a miracle: My mother has broken her day into three even parts.

With our forks crunching the lettuce and our knives scraping the cheese, Mum asks, "How was the wind up last weekend?"

"Good," I answer, then add, "I won four trophies."

"What for?" Mum queries.

I repeat their titles before commenting, "It's been an alright season."

Mum cuts into the last of her meal then says, "If you had greater competition, you wouldn't have won."

I feel like Mum's lasagna.

"You're unprepared for states," Mum further comments, with just her eyes moving to confront me.

I shove a balsamic lettuce into my mouth, procrastinating what I need to say. I then swallow and now my fear sits on my voice box. I take a swing of water. "I'm not doing the state comp this year. I'm going to focus on ATAR." On losing weight.

It's not like I want to take athletics beyond high school anyway.

I want to be pretty beyond high school. I want to be pretty now.

My mother glares at me. Her chest inflates. "You have no focus!" Mum erupts, "You change your mind all the time. You flit from one thing to another. Never stick at anything!"

I hold Mum's gaze because I know if I look away, she'll demand this eye contact. Have I no focus? Am I non-committing? I suppose it's true. I've done a couple seasons in one sport and a few years at another. Athletics was the only exception. On my desk, Mum had placed a pamphlet for the UWA Student Athlete Program. I did consider cutting out the photos and glueing them in my journal. But all those months ago, I knew I'd be lying to myself aspiring to a vision that wasn't mine.

Mum glugs her water. I know she just wants to leave the table.

Mention it to her.

Maybe later?

She doesn't like being interrupted at her computer.

She's already angry.

Don't make it double.

Maybe another time.

No time is going to be a good time.

Let Mum finish her water.

Fine.

Okay.

Now.

At Mum's final sip, I slip the announcement, "The Year 12 Ball is at the end of this term."

"Hm," Mum grunts as she closes her eyes for an extended blink.

"Would we be able to go shopping for a ball dress?" I ask.

"More money," Mum says, "You think I'm an ATM."

I look down at my plate, witness to the final calories I still have to consume.

"When I was your age, I never went to any of those school dances," Mum comments in a tone that sounds more like a criticism.

I feel like backing out. I would. But I've already made a promise to Mick.

"We'll go shopping sometime."

And with that, Mum scrapes her chair back from the table and retreats to the study.