fractures

did you know?

Layne

I greet my mother with a nod when I enter the house, before scurrying to the staircase in an attempt to escape to my room.

"Layne Casey."

I stop short, fearing the worst. Things usually don't turn out pretty when my mother uses my full name.

"Yes?"

"Come and sit down here, I need to talk to you."

Not daring to make any excuses about homework or projects, I go over and sit on the couch facing my mother without a word. She is silent for a moment or so, looking through some papers in her hands. Papers which look horrifyingly like the test papers I've hidden in my room for so long.

Any previous thoughts I had about Abbey or Marlene or anything at all instantly vanish, to be replaced by one big worry: how my mother will punish me for failing all my tests.

My mother puts the papers on to the table between the couches we sit on. She spreads them out slowly, carefully, as if they might break and the sound of the paper sliding on the wooden surface of the table is the most deafening sound I've ever heard. A glance at the content of the papers confirm my suspicions. My mother has found my results.

The world has officially ended.

"You didn't tell me about your results," my mother says smoothly, calmly.

"I...I was going to, but I didn't have the time," I lie.

My mother smiles a very fake smile. "You have time now, don't you?"

I swallow hard. "I...um...I failed..."

"Which one did you fail?"

"All...all of them..."

My mother's face goes dark. "I thought so. You weren't telling me your results, so I took the liberty of searching your room to find them. You can't imagine how I felt when I saw your test papers. How could the daughter I raised so painstakingly over the years to be my ideal turn out like this? I know you've stopped doing homework or handing in assignments as well, Layne. I saw them sitting in piles all over your room. And all your books lying around not even being read. You really won't be able to imagine how disappointed I am in you."

My mother's words sting, like they always do. But this time it feels worse. Much worse.

I want to scream at her until she understands. It isn't that I've given up on my studies. I'm trying. I'm trying but I can't do it. If only she understood my pain, if only she would just talk to me, if only she would just be there for me.

"You don't understand, Mom," I mumble.

"Speak up, Layne, I can't hear you."

"You don't understand!" I yell, pushing myself to my feet. "You say all these things about me like you're the best mother in the world but you're not. You don't know what I'm going through right now, you don't understand how I feel. You think you're doing the right thing by raiding my room and invading my privacy like that? Well you're not!"

"You can't blame a mother for caring," my mother snaps, standing as well. "Quit acting like a child, Layne."

"You're not caring for me, you're controlling me! The only things you care about are yourself and your career. You've never cared about me, never bothered to know what's on my mind, never tried asking what's wrong! You-"

"Then what's wrong, Layne? What's wrong? As far as I can see, there is nothing wrong. There's nothing between you and studies. All I see is a girl who's letting her life waste away."

"Marlene is dead!" I scream at her, no longer trying to hold back. "Did you know? She was my best friend and she's dead and I've been upset and lost and confused, did you know?"

Suddenly, my mother sighs, a sad look on her face and I break off from my tirade because I think she finally understands. The anger threatening to swallow me whole is held off by a small glimmer of hope, hope that my mother will finally understand what's wrong.

"Layne," my mother starts, as cool and calm as before. "The world doesn't end when your best friend dies. Life moves on and so do you, I thought you knew that. I can't believe you'd use this kind of thing as an excuse."

The anger and pain combined that follows is so searing that I nearly collapse right there and then. Agony claws at my throat, but I don't grant it freedom.

So I just look my mother in the eyes. And I tell her, "You're not my mother."

I run up to my room and hide under my covers. But I don't cry, because whatever Abbey said about it being okay, crying over spilt milk won't change a thing.