Remember This Part

7. The Last Straw Sucks (Pun Intended)

Thea.

Every time my mom and I meet for lunch, I ask her where she wants to go. And every time, she selects one of the campus dining halls. Some people might assume she likes it because it's relatively cheap and convenient. But the truth is, my mom never got to have the whole college experience. I think she likes to pretend—for just one hour—that she's a student here, or maybe that she's an alumna visiting her old school. I'm not about to step all over her fantasies by putting in a request for Chipotle.

One Saturday a month, she drives two hours to come see me. So here we are, sitting next to a windowed wall—our typical spot. I've got my veggie burger and fries, she's got her chicken and rice—our typical meals.

But as my mom stares blankly at the salad bar on the other side of the room, I can't help but feel like something's wrong.

"How's work? Is Ann giving you any more trouble?" I ask, putting on a smile. Ann is the eighty-three-year-old guidance counselor at the elementary school where my mom works as a secretary. And, according to my mother, Ann is also a passive-aggressive old broad who has it out for the whole office staff. Last week, Ann apparently used up all of the cyan ink in the printer "out of spite."

"No," my mother answers absently, her gaze still fixed on the salads.

"Really?" I reply, to which I get no response. I let a quiet moment pass between us, and then I ask, "Mom? Are you okay?"

She turns her head to look at me and offers a weak smile.

"Of course," she says.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look it," I continue. Mom glances down at the napkin in her hands, which she had been fiddling nervously with for the past couple of minutes.

"I'm a little tired," she informs me. "I haven't gotten a lot of sleep this past week."

"Why?" I ask gently. She seems to hesitate for a moment, which starts to worry me. What's going on?

"I've just been getting a lot of migraines," she finally settles on. I know she gets headaches often enough. I also know that there's something she isn't telling me.

And I know that it would be pretty futile to keep asking her about it.

"That sucks," I say.

"It's alright. I'm probably having coffee withdrawals. Ann always manages to take the last K-Cup from the staff room."

- - -

Malcolm: I'll be there at 10 tonight. Be ready to go when I pull up.

Last Saturday, Malcolm wanted me to go to some bar with him. He was pretty convinced that he could get me in, despite my lack-of-being-twenty-one. Of course, by that, he meant I could get myself in with a little flirting. I don't know why he likes the bars and the clubs so much. They're sort of depressing, in my opinion. And I especially don't know why he still urges me to go to them, because he knows I find them sort of depressing.

But somehow, I end up feeling bad after I turn down a night out with him. I don't know why. We're not even officially together again. I don't like going to places where everyone is drunk. I have a busy schedule with homework and stuff. And it's not like he's been a super duper friend lately. 

Yet, I feel guilty. I always feel guilty. And even though I'm very annoyed by that particular personality trait, I still gave in. A couple days ago, I agreed to go to Malcolm's friend's house tonight, where there will most certainly be drinking and smoking and all kinds of major tomfoolery.