"Don't make promises you can't keep."
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Noah Reed is lost. Fed up with his constant attitude and need for self-destruction, his mother sends him to live out the rest of the year with his father in hop...
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"You can't be serious."
"I am, actually," my mother deadpans. Her blue eyes are steely, expression made of stone. I search for the usual signs of playfulness that appear on her features whenever Mom is messing with me, only to come up empty-handed.
No, I try to convince myself. I refuse to believe this is happening. She's kidding. Please let her be kidding.
"Mom." I can feel panic slowly rising in my chest. If what Mom is saying is true, then my life is about to be ruined. "Please tell me you're messing with me. Please."
"I wish I was, Noah." As Mom exhales a sigh, I can tell that she means the words. For just a moment, her stone-like expression cracks, and I see a glimpse of her emotions. Her dark blue eyes that are the same shade as my own shine brightly with remorse, as if she wants this to be as unreal as I do.
"Mom—" I open my mouth to begin pleading with my mother, ready to make promises that I more than likely won't keep. I'll say whatever it takes to change her mind, do whatever she wants to stop this from happening.
Before I can free my spew of lies from my lips, Mom cuts in.
"Noah. I'm sorry. I really am. But how many times did I warn you this would happen if you didn't get your act together?"
Only about a million, I think to myself. This thought only makes me feel worse. I grasp for anything I can do or say that might delay this from happening.
"I can change," I blurt, speaking out of desperation. "I can clean up my act. I can—"
"Save it," Mom blurts. She raises a hand to the air, as if to stop me from further conversation with the gesture. It works.
Glancing at her from across the kitchen counter, it suddenly hits me how exhausted she looks. I notice gray streaks hidden in her dark hair, small wrinkles that have began to form around her features. It's clear to see the stress she's been under with work lately, and I begin to feel guiltier than I'd like to. I'm her son. I should have been helping her, trying to make things easier on her. Instead, I've only added to her stress.
"I don't want to hear anymore of your 'I can change' lies," Mom snaps. "I've heard it all before. You make a bunch of promises you have no intention of keeping, just to get what you want. That has to end. I can't do this with you anymore, Noah. I'm tired of it. Tired."
"Mom." Embarrassingly enough, my voice cracks. I'm used to being a jerk when we have talks like this. I'm all too used to pretending that my emotions don't exist. But, in this moment, I'm too worried about my future at stake to remember to act as if I don't care.
"I'm serious. I can raise my grades. I can—"
"I'm sure you could," Mom cuts me off again. "The problem is that you haven't. And, knowing you, you won't. Because you don't care."
