Expelled(21)

On Fridays, my mom works only one job instead of two, which means she’ll actually be home for dinner. Since this qualifies as a special occasion, I decide to break the frozen burrito cycle and surprise her with food made from an actual recipe. It seems crazy now, but we used to do it all the time, back when there were three of us.

I’m salting the pasta water when I hear her come in. “Oh, my God, what is that fantastic smell?” she calls.

I can hear her taking her shoes off and throwing them into the bin we keep by the door. When she comes into the kitchen, she looks pale and tired, and her bank uniform—blue logo shirt, black pants—is rumpled.

“If that tastes anywhere near as good as it smells, I might cry from gratitude,” she says. She sinks down at the table and lays her head on the worn wood. “Do you need any help? I sort of hope not, because I’m not sure I can stand up again.”

“I’ve got it covered,” I say. I made a salad—well, I made a bowl of lettuce with ranch dressing on it—and I even set the table.

“What are you cooking?” she asks.

“Spaghetti carbonara,” I say proudly.

“What’s that?”

“Dad used to make it, remember? Bacon, egg, and vast quantities of cheese and butter over tagliatelle. He called it the Egg McMuffin of pasta.”

My mom sighs. “Oh, God, right. I can’t believe I forgot.”

I’m not surprised, though. She’s forgotten a lot of things since he died, maybe even on purpose—as if amnesia might somehow be protection against grief. And I get it. A lot of days, I try not to think about him at all. Sometimes it even works.

When the pasta’s ready, I put our plates down and sit across from her, and for a little while neither of us says anything because we’re demolishing our food. It really is good.

But eventually my mom looks up at me and shakes her head. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in days.”

Maybe because you haven’t, I think.

“Seriously, you might even be taller. How’s it going? How’s life?”

I’m not sure how much she really wants to know. “Do you want the long answer or the short?” I ask.

“Up to you,” she says, trying to sound cheerful.

I decide to be quick but honest. “I could be better,” I say. “I mean, I could still be in school. And I could not be labeled a criminal and a pervert.”

And I could still have a dad.

My mom puts down her fork and sighs. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you at your hearing. I really can’t believe I—”

“I don’t know what you could’ve done,” I say quickly. I don’t need her to feel worse than she already does. “We thought everything would turn out all right.”

“Yes, we did, didn’t we?”

“I don’t know why, though, considering what our luck has been lately.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “We should have had a clue, you know? Things haven’t really been working out for us.”

My mom sits back. She takes a deep breath and wipes a lone tear from her cheek. “I know. Honestly, I feel like I’m drowning, Theo,” she says mournfully. “Every day when I open my eyes, all I want to do is close them again. I don’t know what to do. I’m furious at your father, and I miss him with all my heart.” She shakes her head. “This isn’t what my life was supposed to be like. And more importantly, it’s not what your life was supposed to be like.”

“No, not ideally,” I agree.

“But we still have each other, right?” she asks.

Sort of, I think. “Yeah,” I say.

“I just want you to be happy,” she says.

“That’s maybe easier said than done right now,” I say. “But I want you to know that I’m going to make things better.”

“Are you going to win the lottery?” she asks, trying to smile. “Because it would be really helpful if you could do that.”

“I read somewhere that statistically I’m more likely to become a saint,” I say. “Also, I’m not old enough to buy a lottery ticket. But I am going to prove that I had nothing to do with that picture. And when I do, I won’t fail junior year. I’ll get a scholarship to college. And—”

“And then you’ll become a saint, plus a doctor or a lawyer who can support me in my old age,” she says, smiling.

“Right,” I say. “Innocence, then canonization, then law school.”

“You’re amazing, Theo,” my mom says.

I know she means it. But her voice just sounds so tired, so unconvinced.





20


An hour later, my mom’s already fallen asleep in front of Cosmos; Neil deGrasse Tyson intoning about how we’re all made of star stuff can’t compete with a seventy-hour workweek. I write a note telling her that I’m borrowing the minivan, and then I head over to Jude’s house.

“We’re going on a field trip,” I tell him.

“Should I bring the camera?” he asks, already putting on his shoes.

I shake my head. “This is on the DL.”

“On the DL on the reals?” Jude says, making fun of my old-school slang. “Hey, don’t punch me again!”