A Recipe for Disaster

can you keep a secret?

As we drove to the hospital, the car was filled to the rim with awkward silence, even though the song "Yummy" by Justin Bieber was playing for the hundredth time. 

I looked out the window, nodding my head to the beat, thinking about how mean I was. How rude I had been to him for having a sick mother. I felt like the bad guy, like the bully in every Disney movie—except meaner. I had been so rude to him just because he wanted to see his sick mother? I wished he had told me earlier because I would have definitely reacted differently. But at the same time, I was kind of glad he hadn't. Without this moment, I felt like we wouldn't have ever become friends.

As I gave Ryder another sympathetic glance, I saw how distant he looked, a mixture of fear and something far away—if that's even a thing. Right then, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen, guilt eating me alive as I couldn't help but think of questions about Ryder's mom, like:

Is his mother going to live?

How likely is she to leave the hospital?

How long has she been in the hospital?

Why did Mom not tell me this earlier?

What illness does she have?

How long has she had this illness?

Does she even have an illness?

Did she break a leg or something?

Maybe she broke an arm?

"Can you please stop looking at me?" he asked, his voice rude and vexed as he continued to drive. His hands were turning pale from gripping the steering wheel, and his eyes did that weird twitching thing again, but less violently than usual.

"Sorry, I'm not trying to. I'm just really sor—"

"Yeah, I know. For my mom. You don't have to tell me." He interrupted rudely, staring at the road, his face seeming annoyed with me for no reason at all.

"Actually, no," I said, a little pressed by his impoliteness, "I was going to say sorry for not letting you use the car earlier. And I'm also sorry about your mother."

He shrugged slightly as he made a sharp right, causing me to slide against the door. "I should've told you from the beginning," he said nonchalantly.

We sat in awkward silence, more questions swirling in my head as the song "Feather" by Sabrina Carpenter played after the hundredth Justin Bieber song in a row. I wanted to ask Ryder about his mom, but I didn't want to be rude, pushy, or sound like a pushover. Yet the questions were eating me alive. My curiosity grew stronger with each one that popped into my head:

Why was his mom in the hospital?

What disease does his mom have, if she even has one?

What ever happened to his mom?

Did his mom break her leg or something?

Is she going to live?

Is she going to be okay?

Is it a mental hospital?

How old is his mom?

Finally, I couldn't handle it anymore. My stomach felt like it was going to erupt at any second, guilt and sorrow spreading unevenly across the floor. My hands shook, scared that he was going to yell at me again if I asked him any of my questions, terrified that he'd somehow kick me out of the car, even though it was mine. But my mouth just couldn't keep shut. I blurted out, "So, why is your mom in the hospital?"