Drumbeats into My Heart

63. Seth has a Real Conversation

By the time I pedal back home, my shirt is soaked through, and my face feels red hot. The distance between my house and the DMV is brutal enough without the sun trying to pummel me into goo. For days like today, insisting on getting my driver's license would be worth any kind of grief my mother might dish out.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter the front door and slide the helmet off my damp head. I pass by Mom, who is on the couch sorting through mail. She raises an eyebrow when she sees me. "Did you join a cycling team or something?"

"No." I'm still slightly out of breath, making my reply sound husky. "I went to see Jordi."

Her eyebrow drops and her arms fold.

My first instinct is to cringe and mentally kick myself for blurting the truth. But then I remind myself I'm the new Seth, and the new Seth stands his ground.

I turn to face her.

"I thought we agreed you weren't going to see her anymore?" she says.

We agreed? We agreed?

I clench my jaw at her presumptuousness. I want to yell and tell her how full of shit she is. I know such a reaction would get me grounded for a month and maybe resume the kitchen utensil beatings. I shiver at the latter.

"No," I reply and immediately scurry to my room, valiantly tamping my fear and irritation. If I can keep my cool, she will too, and we can have a civil conversation.

But I have get myself under control first.

As expected, she follows me to my room. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

I pick up a towel and mop my face, buying himself a little more time to compose my response. When I'm ready, I lower the towel. "I believe that was something you suggested, but we didn't exactly agree." Good. Very good. Calm and reasonable. I can do this.

"Suggested," she repeats, her voice hardening. "Meaning not taken seriously?"

Damn it. Not good.

My mind races, scrambling for something else calm and reasonable to say. Don't clam up. Don't explode. Find the in-between.

Her eyes stray to the towel in my wringing hands, becoming unfocused as she chews the inside of her cheek. She seems to be thinking.

Do I speak? Or will I make things worse? Saying the wrong thing is a very real possibility, so I'm not sure what to do.

Her gaze flicks to a noise-reduction panel, to the stack of college prep books, and finally settling on the drum. Her arms unfold, and she crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

I perch on my desk chair, waiting. The usual apprehension roils around my gut, but there's also an unfamiliar spark of hope. This is new behavior for Mom. She's actually stopping herself from launching into a tirade and seems to be considering her next words. Maybe we can have a real discussion for a change.

A beat later, she clears her throat. "I don't think you should date a girl with no future. She'll only be a burden."

Ah yes. Her temper may be in check, but her judgmental nature is alive and well.

"How do you know she'll be a burden?" I ask, keeping my tone free of the frustration I feel.

"If she's not going to college, then she'll only end up with a dead-end job."

My hands curl into fists. I force them to uncurl. "She's not a burden if she makes me happy."

Her eyebrows rise a fraction. "Are you sure you know what happy feels like?"

The corners of my mouth twitch as I think about how Jordi makes me feel. "It's the opposite of feeling burdened."

She nods, seeming to accept this answer, then looks at the drum again. "And you're learning to play this thing—"

"Djembe."

"This djembe, for her?"

"Actually no. For me. I like it."

"I see."

She focuses on some point on the carpet, chewing her cheek again, processing. Like she's actually trying to understand me this time.

"Actually, Mom, you don't have to worry about Jordi. She doesn't want to see me anyway."

Her brow furrows as she refocuses on me. "But you just—"

"I went to give her something. We didn't actually talk."

"Oh." The crease in her brow eases, and something resembling sympathy crosses her features. "Well, I'm sorry."

"You didn't want me to see her anyway."

She does a half eye-roll head-dip. "I know. I mean, I'm sorry you're feeling disappointed."

I nod and stare down at my hands.

"So..." She shifts in her seat. "How did she make you happy? It wasn't..." She clears her throat and presses on. "It wasn't sexual, was it?"

"What? No! I mean, it would be nice if it was, but no. Jeez, Mom."

"I-I'm just trying to figure you out." Now it's her turn to wring her hands.

I watch her flustered movements for a moment. It's never occurred to me that maybe she feels anxious talking to me, too. "She thinks I'm funny. And smart."

"You are smart."

"Like witty-smart, not book-smart. Anyone can be book-smart if they study enough. She likes my music, and no one likes my music. She makes me feel important. I feel lighter around her."

Mom peers at me like I've suddenly grown pointy Spock ears. "Seth, I had no idea."

"Maybe you should have been asking instead of judging."

Her lips press together as she heaves an enormous sigh.

I brace myself for an onslaught of self-righteous fury.

"You're right," she says, her voice resigned.

I blink, dumbfounded. "I... I am?"

A ghost of a smile lifts one corner of her mouth. "This time, yes."

Another breakthrough! Good things happen (like voting!) when we set aside our egos and actually listen.