around anymore. You have a boyfriend you can’t really see, and I couldn’t help but notice that your sleepover with Serena ended quickly the other day. On top of that, you joined a gym. So, something is obviously up. Do you want to talk about it?”
My mom is great. She’s taken care of my sister and me singlehandedly for a while. But, she has that bad habit of sometimes acting more like a friend than a mom. It’s like she tries so hard to get down to “my level” so to speak that the mom side of her vanishes, and she turns into her version of a teenage BFF. Which means that it can be easy, and at the same time, hard, to open up to her. I was considering telling her everything, something I haven’t done in a while because life has felt so stupidly complicated, when Sloane walked through my bedroom door.
“Hey, honeybun, did you buy any organic cranberry juice concentrate at the store?” If there were a demand for “random hippie off the street” aesthetic in the fashion magazines these days, Sloane would be the highest paid model in the world. He’s not bad looking, really. If you can look past the forest of facial hair, lack of deodorant, and grimy long hair, he could be called “handsome.”
But I’ll never get over the no deodorant thing. It’s the twenty-first century, man. Just accept it and move on.
“I think so, did you check the pantry?”
“I looked everywhere, you must’ve forgotten it.”
Mom stood up and walked out to the kitchen, our heart-to-heart forgotten. “No, I’m sure I bought some. You must not be looking hard enough.”
I don’t know how my mom juggles her kids, boyfriend, extended family, and her flower shop without exploding. It’s just further proof that I will never be an adult. I can’t even multitask my secret, sort-of pop star lifestyle with my schoolwork.
THINGS TO DO:
1. Get better at hiding my problems from my mother so she stops prying.
2. Be a better daughter.
3. Stop thinking bad thoughts about my grandparents.
Later, 12:30pm—Home
In some cruel twist of fate, the universe decided that I actually don’t have enough on my plate and decided I need more obligations. I thought that my senior year was supposed to be easy. I’m supposed to read a few books, write a few papers, and graduate. What is the point of even going to school at this point in my life? Is this some kind of temporary hell that I have to stay in until I hear from colleges? Is this educational limbo?
Jennifer, my tutor, called me on Skype a little while ago. This is pretty normal; we do a lot of our sessions like this. She’ll email me a worksheet, and we will talk about it via Skype. It’s great, and I can wear pajamas.
Today she was supposed to call me just to do a check in about everything we need to have done before I can graduate per California education laws.
“It looks like you have enough credits to graduate, but I noticed you haven’t taken any sex education classes.”
“Um, no,” I replied. “I’m from a small Iowa town. When my mom tried to introduce the idea to the school board, they threw her out. She isn’t allowed in school board meetings anymore because she’s ‘inappropriate.’”
“Well, you really should take this class,” Jennifer replied. She’s used to my off-the-wall stories about Mom and my hometown.
“Am I required to take it in order to graduate?”
“No, not really. But I can’t send you away to college without proper sex education. That will be like sending you into battle without a sword.”
I didn’t like the idea of having to take another class. I was supposed to be done with classes, not adding more of them to my schedule. “Okay, well can I do the class online?”
“I don’t have anything like that available now. I’ll just send you to a local high school. You can join a sex education class there.”
“Wait,” I said, my throat was suddenly dry and full of dust. “I’m