I Wish You All the Best
Mason Deaver
“Ben, honey, are you feeling well?”
Mom plucks the plate from in front of me, with most of my dinner still on it, untouched. I’d taken maybe one or two bites before it fell into my stomach like a rock and what little appetite I’d had to begin with was gone.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her. Always easier to just tell her that. It’s better than having her pull out the thermometer and every bottle of medication we have in the cabinet. “Just a lot on my mind.”
There. Not a total lie.
“School?” Dad asks.
I nod.
“You aren’t falling behind, are you?”
“No, just a lot going on.” Again, not a total lie. Is it really even a lie if I’m just withholding certain information?
“Well,” Mom starts. “As long as you’re keeping your grades up. When does your report card come in?”
“Next week.” It’ll be all As, except in English, which will probably earn me a “We’re not angry, just disappointed.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You know these temperature changes have always gotten to you.” Mom walks back over to me and brushes the hair away from my forehead. “You do feel a little warm.”
“I’m fine.” I shake her hand away. “I promise, just tired.”
And I think that’s enough for her because she gives me this little smile.
“All right.” She’s still staring at me as she walks away. “We should schedule you a haircut, it’s getting too long in the back.”
“Okay.” I sip some water to give myself something to do. “Did I tell y’all that Gabby Daniels had to drop out as Art Club president?”
“No, did something happen?” Mom asks.
“I think it was just too much for her, she’s in like every other club at school. But that means that I get to take over for her!”
“Oh, honey, that’s great!” Mom says from the sink, washing off the plates before she slides them into the dishwasher. “Are you going to have to do anything extra for the club?”
“It’s mostly organizing events and trips. I was already covering for Gabby most meetings, so it won’t be much different.”
“You sure that won’t interfere with studying?” Dad chimes in, a grimace on his face. “Remember our agreement: If your grades slip, you have to quit.”
“Yes, sir.” I can feel that light pressure in my brain, like something’s getting tighter against my skull. I look at Mom, hoping she might say something, but she doesn’t. She just stares at the floor like she normally does when Dad gets like this. “I know.”
Dad sighs and walks into the den, while I grab the last of the dishes on the table and take them over to the counter, before pulling out the Tupperware to pack the leftovers.
“Thanks, honey.” Mom doesn’t look up from the dishes.
“No problem,” I tell her. “How was work?”
“Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “Dr. Jameson keeps handing off his paperwork to me instead of doing it himself.”
“Doing his own paperwork?” I tease. “What a concept.”
“Right?” Mom chuckles and gives me this wide-eyed look. “One day I swear I’m going to tell him off.”
“Don’t you tell me to never burn bridges?”
“Yes, that’s true. But I’m the adult here, and I can do what I want.” Mom giggles to herself and sets the dishes aside. “So, what did you do today?”
“Nothing really. Drew a little bit, worked on a few projects that are due after break, nothing too exciting.” Again, just withholding information.
Mostly my day comprised absolutely freaking the fuck out about what I was about to do, rewatching videos on YouTube about how people did this, rereading old messages from Mariam, and almost throwing up the peanut butter sandwich I’d made for lunch.
You know, typical, everyday stuff.
Mom sets the last of the dishes on the drying rack just as I’m stacking the Tupperware in the fridge. “Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t eat anything weird, did you?” Mom reaches up to touch my forehead again, but I manage to avoid her.
“I promise, I’m totally fine.”
Liar.
“If you say so.” Mom carefully folds the dish towels by the sink. “You still up for the movie?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Maybe he won’t make us watch Home Alone for the twentieth time,” Mom mutters, mostly to herself I think.
“It’s a classic,” I tease, and she smiles at me, grabbing the little baggie of peppermint bark she made a few days ago, before she disappears into the living room.
When she’s gone, I drape over the sink, bracing myself in case my dinner comes up. I can do this, it’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay and this is most definitely the right thing to do. I know my parents, they know me, they deserve to know this thing about me as well.
And I want to tell them, I really, really do.
So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“Ben, bring me the popcorn,” Dad calls from the den, and I feel my insides clamp up again. I grab the huge tub from the counter, the kind with the four different flavors that Dad always buys at Christmas, and migrate my way into the den, except it’s like my feet are covered with cement blocks.