Beast(24)

I bet. Patron Saint of Small Talk right here. “What did you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“What embarrassing story did you tell her?”

“Give me some credit.” She sniffs. “I found out you two met in group. Jamie was here for a doctor’s appointment of her own, and I learned her favorite food is crab cakes. So there.”

Crab cakes. I will remember that.

Mom sidles over. “So that’s the girl from the square.”

“Mystery solved.”

“I wish she hadn’t run away that day; she’s a sweetheart. And poor thing too. She’s got such a hard road ahead.” Her head tilts to the side, heavy with sympathy.

Now I’m confused. It’s not like diabetes is an instant death sentence. The discovery of insulin put an end to that. “She didn’t choose to be that way; it’s how she was born. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her.”

Mom nods. “You know what? Good for you, Dylan. That’s the right attitude. As long as you know.”

Mom the drama queen. I turn my attention to the flowers. “But she brought these?”

“Yeah, about that,” Mom says in a way that makes me go uh-oh. “Jamie told me to tell you in big bold letters that those are daisies, and daisies are for friends.”

“Seriously? She seriously said that? You’re not making that up?”

“She seriously did.”

“Hokey.”

“Hey, you got flowers from a girl, didn’t you?” she retorts. Touché. “I have to say I agree with her. I think you two will make great friends. It’s good to have friends.”

“I agree.”

“So that’s where your relationship stands?”

“Mom, there is no relationship.” Yet. I’m hoping. Although these daisies are sending that hope straight up into the sky like a balloon.

“For the best,” Mom says, and smiles. “Jamie did take some pictures before she left.”

I grab on to the metal triangle dangling above and yank myself upright. “She took pictures of what?”

Mom bites her lip. “You.”

“What!”

“I asked her to.”

“How could you do that to me?”

“Dylan…”

“I was unconscious!”

She sits and pins her hands in her lap.

“I want to go home,” I say.

“No way! You need rest.”

“You know I hate when people take pictures of me.”

“Hear me out,” she interrupts. “Jamie said it was the first time she’s seen you without a big puss on.”

“A big puss on.” I fold my arms. “Again…Seriously?”

Mom’s eyes shoot to the ceiling. “Okay, that was my way of putting it, but fine. Jamie said it was the first time you didn’t look like a sulking axe murderer. Then she asked if she could take some pictures. Said she forgot her camera but her phone would do in a pinch.”

So she Instagrammed me. I’ve been filtered.

“She showed me, and I asked her to send some to me because I am your mother and you are my son and I have no pictures of you. None. You haven’t let me take your picture since you were in the fifth grade.” Mom turns her head away, dabbing the corner of her eye with her knuckle.

“You don’t have the right.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have the right to pretend you don’t exist. Did you ever think of that? Because for your information, you do exist. And you have people who love you.” She stares down at the phone resting in her clasped hands. Sticking it in my face, she clicks open a picture with her thunb. “Look.”

It’s a shot of me. A close-up. Very still, very quiet. My eyes are closed, and the shadows hovering around the rambling bedrock of bones that make up my face are soft.

“Look how handsome you are,” Mom says.

“It looks like I’m waiting for a plaster death mask to be poured.”

Mom pulls her phone away and tucks it inside her palm. “Oh, for crying out loud, it does not.” She runs her finger down the side of her phone. “I think she captured you.”

“Delete it.”

“No.”

“How did you get that picture anyway?”

“Jamie texted it to me.”

I wedge myself up onto my elbow. “You have her number?”

Mom looks up at me with a glint in her eyes. “I have her number.”

“Give me her number.”

She grins. “Well, look how it’s suddenly not so annoying for your dear old mom to be friendly with your friends, huh?”

“Mom…”

“Suddenly that picture I have on my phone is looking pretty good, isn’t it?”

“Don’t make me beg.”

“All right.” She twirls the phone in a loop. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What?”

“If I give you her number, I get to keep this picture.”

“Fine.” Gimme, gimme, gimme. I have daisies to discuss.

“And,” she adds, “any other future pictures she takes of you.”

“There won’t be any.”