Megan
"Bad news?"
I jump, startled. Then I glance up to see Mark standing in front of me. "What?" I blurt out.
"You look stressed," he observes, nodding at the pink phone in my hand. "Something wrong?"
"No," I fib, putting it down on my desk. "Everything's fine."
He walks over to his chair, which is next to mine, and as he sits down, I watch him as he reaches into his backpack and pulls out his phone and absentmindedly swipes through his gallery. I notice he has barely twenty pictures, and most of them are of him with a young, pretty girl, whose brown hair is long and curly, her big, round eyes the same dark blue as his.
I am aware, that during all of this, that with my last response, I haven't exactly been honest with him. Of course, he never would have known this. Still, for some reason, I feel the need to Rephrase and Redirect.
"It's just this thing with my mom," I say, finally.
Mark turns his head, and I wonder if maybe he thinks I'm crazy, or has no idea what I'm talking about. "Just so you know, that's a serious placeholder."
Of course it is. Still, I clarify. "It's about her event planning."
"Planning?" he looks perplexed, then his forehead clears in understanding. "Oh, right. You said she's been doing it since she was in high school, right?"
"Right." I nod. "Well, my father called me last night." I exhale heavily, locking gazes with him. "Mom passed out in the bathroom." I wince. "She's in the hospital right now. The doctors say it's fatigue because she's been overworking herself lately, but I don't know.. Mom has a history of frequenting hospitals even before I was born."
"You think it's worse than they want you to believe," Mark states in a matter-of-fact tone.
I nod again. "I got a call from Mason this morning. He told me that mom will be confined for at least a week. But stubborn as she is, mom was determined to keep working, even from a hospital room."
"Stubborn, huh? Like mother, like daughter."
Frowning at him, I smack his arm lightly. "I can't stop worrying about her," I confess. "I called her earlier, and she insisted that she's fine. But she always does that; she covers up what she's really feeling so she won't make anyone worry."
Mark has a distant look in his eye as he stares ahead. "A lot of people are like that," he says thoughtfully. "Especially families. You can't blame her for prioritizing others before herself. That's just how moms are. I mean, yeah, it's the same with dads and siblings, but there's something different about a mother's concern."
I'm not sure how to respond to that, but it somehow lessens the weight in my chest. When the noon bell rings, all the students stand up and collect their things in a midst of chatter and questions regarding what to eat for lunch.
On our way to the cafeteria, Mark and I talk about anything and everything under the sun. For instance, I learned that he hates silence. At least in an argument, you know what's happening, or have some idea. But silence could be anything.
Also on his list of dislikes: Peanut butter? Too dry. Liars? Self-explanatory. And perhaps it's because of his stint in Anger Management, but Mark is very open about the things that piss him off.
"Aren't you?" he asks as we join the long line in the cafeteria, when I pointed this out to him.
"No," I answer. "I mean, I guess I am about some things."
