The Science Of Keeping Secrets (Old Title: Project Nerd Conversion)

THREE ⭐ Mum's the Word

AS I GET OFF the bus and start walking towards Park View Motel, I feel weighed down, and this time I can't bring myself to fight the pull. All I can think about is, Why the hell did I do that?

I'm still engulfed by regret as I enter the the lobby, but I encounter a welcome distraction in the form of Mr O'Connor, who springs up from behind the counter. The jazz music streaming from his small speaker adds a bride vibe to the otherwise dull and cramped area.

"Savannah!" He smiles and throws his arms open as though to offer a hug. "How was your day?"

Mr O'Connor is a fifty-something black man who lives in the topmost floor of the complex with his family. He always engages the residents in small talk, and we all love him. His youngest daughter and I are the same age, so I think that makes him especially fond of me.

"It was great!" I manage a convincing bright tone, returning his cheery grin. "How was yours?"

He waves an airy hand. "Same as usual. Dull. Boring."

This makes me smile wider, more genuinely. "I seriously doubt that. You never have dull days."

"I hope what you say becomes true." He chuckles. "I'll cross my fingers for that."

"I'll cross my fingers too," I say, to which he chuckles affectionately.

"Oh, before I forget." Mr O'Connor holds up a palm and grabs something from behind the counter. It's a Tupperware filled with food. "My missus made some peach cobbler for lunch. Your mother was in a hurry, so I wasn't able to give this to her."

My chest hardens as I take the Tupperware from him. The desire to count my remaining money goes flying out of my head. "Is she. . . home?"

"Yes. She got here around two."

Oh, no. Now I don't want to go up. "Right. Thanks, Mr O'Connor."

He smiles warmly, his eyes twinkling. "Anytime."

I manage to keep my smile up as I give him a quick see-you-later wave, but my face starts to go stiff as I face the wooden stairs.

The last thing this horrible day needs is Mom and some of . . . well, all of her. Like, the presence of her. Her very essence. She should be at work. Not here, not now. Especially since I can't make an excuse to avoid an awkward interaction.

We live on the third floor, so the absence of an elevator isn't very drastic, but I can feel myself getting drained already. The complex used to be a motel, after all and it's pretty small. For some reason, however, I'm out of breath as I open the door to our unit.

Mom is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear cabinets being opened. There's also the sound of plastic being crumpled and handled around. And it's coming from the bedroom.

God. What is she up to now?

I push open the door, but something prevents it from opening all the way. Through the tiny crack I see the dull shine of a fully-stuffed garbage bag. I shove harder, only to be met with the sight of more bags as well as an assortment of garments scattered across the floor. In the corner of the room is Mom, crouching in front of the old wooden wardrobe, a pile of clothes in her arms. All her drawers are open, and it seems that the contents have exploded inside the small bedroom. A hurricane of colors, patterns, and textures.

She doesn't look up or flinch as I loudly shoulder my way inside. Even as I toss the blockade of garbage bags across the room. She remains passive, throwing small garments over her shoulder, humming to herself.

I sigh. "What are you doing?"

Slowly, Mom detaches herself from her trance and turns to me. A flicker of surprise passes in her features as though she can't believe I'm here. "Oh. Oh. Um, I. . . What were you saying?"