Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 8: Please Mr. Postman

"How was your night?" Mom asked as I walked into the kitchen, the tile floor felt cool beneath my feet.

"Good. Good."

I sat down at the kitchen counter and checked my phone again for stupid Mary's response. It didn't make sense. The ache had actually slipped away for two seconds when I forgot about it. Stupidity backslapped me.

"Did you take Rob's car out?" Mom asked.

I rebutted the outrageous claim as I picked up the plate of quesadillas to bring them outside.

"Oh, yeah right, Danny," Mom said as I walked down the hall. "I was seventeen when I stole your grandma's Stingray to see U2. The Broken Lyre was good? You know, I sort of miss when you used to always invite me to go to their shows."

My mother, a lot like me, is a goddamn fabulous storyteller. I never used to always invite Mom. She's only been with me, like, one or two times. When she's being a brat, I would never admit it, but I was somewhat grateful that out of all the potential mothers one could be brought into this world through, that I had been brought in by my mom. Considering everything the old gal has gone through, Mom still looked relatively good, a tolerable kind of pretty for a mom.

Mom went on to tell me that she had called LACM's (Los Angeles College of Music) submissions office after they had reopened from being closed on the Fourth of July, and that she wanted me to call myself and speak with the friendly counselor she had spoken to on the phone.

As soon as I could, I dismissed the conversation as I was not in the mood to talk about California––or anything really––and that conversation would only make me all the more upset.

For God's sake, she KISSED me.

And with the quesadilla plate in hand, I began walking back to my child labor when, through a clear trash bag on the ground, I saw something that would make Mary's non-reply feel outlandishly insignificant.

"Mom!" I yelled from the hallway. "What's my Tiny Tigers Tee Ball Mitt doing in a garbage bag?"

I marched back into the kitchen. The china glasses stacked in their designated cabinet shook in tiny clinking tremors with my steps. Behind the white marble counter, Mom was on her phone sending a text, rigorously ignoring me.

"Mom?"

"Sorry, sorry, Danny. Just figuring out a work license thing." Her fingers clicked away.

Goddamn, it would be nice if Mary could text me that fast.

"But, yeah, Danny, when was the last time you looked at that thing? And besides, that glove wouldn't even fit you anymore."

"Yeah, but, Mom, I wanted to keep it."

"Okay. Then you can keep it!" Mom got off her phone.

I went back to the hallway, dropped the quesadilla plate on the stairs, shoved the boxes out of the way and rummaged through the plastic bag stuffed with board games, sing-along cassettes, and everything else that was shoved in the back laundry-room closet––and pulled out the mitt. The leather smelled stale, and the thumb cracked when I drew it back. I tossed the mitt inside the bag, grabbed my plate, and marched up the stairs with the entire bag in hand.

On my way up I yelled, "Mom! Can you please check with me before you throw anything else away?"

"Okay! I promise I will!"

By the tone and inflection of her voice, I could tell Mom was back on her phone.

The bag found space between my dresser and acoustic guitar-stand, right over the untamed etches of magic marker on the hardwood floor. Mickey Mouse's smiling face on an old board game met my frowning one when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move on the driveway. I jumped up to the window and saw Mary power-walking up to my house. I darted down the stairs and pushed through the front door.