The Art of Moving On | ✔

CHAPTER TWO; part one

     Tuesday is an early practice day, and it's an absolute effort to drag myself out of bed. I practically crawl into the bathroom to get ready, dozing off a few times as I do my morning routine. When I get downstairs, mom's getting ready in the bathroom.

     "You got in late last night," she says, poking her head out to look at me. I'm standing in the kitchen in the dark, filling a bowl of cereal.

     "Yeah, I was going to tell you, but you were asleep when I got in. I got a job."

     She steps out of the bathroom, holding her curling iron. I don't know why she curls her hair since she ends up pulling it back into a bun, anyway. It's the same thing with how she dresses for work. She always wears slacks and a blouse, even though she changes into scrubs.

     "Really? That's fantastic. Where at?"

     I lean against the counter and continue shoveling cereal into my mouth. Between spoonfuls I say, "You know the building that used to be that yoga place? Yeah, this guy Dres is opening his own coffee pastry shop. His mom told me last night that he makes gourmet cupcakes."

     "Dres?" she asks curiously.

     "Well, Dresden," I answer with a shrug.

     She doesn't look that pleased. "And what will you be doing?" Her words are all insinuation, gesticulating at my lack of artistry in both baking and coffee making. Ruin one batch of coffee and suddenly you can't make coffee. I mean, I can't but it's not for want of trying.

     "I'm helping him and his mom get the place together to open. And then I'll be like a cashier/barista/server, I guess." I finish my cereal, and start to set it in the sink but can already hear my mom snapping at me for it, so I quickly rinse it before sticking it in the dishwasher.

     "What are your hours? Are you not going to be around for dinner anymore?"

     I hesitate, knowing this is going to bother her. Dinners the one meal we can count on to have together. She makes a point of being home in time for it. "Yeahhhhh...I won't be around for dinner during the week. I work after swim every day until ten-ish." I add hopefully, "But I'm off Saturday nights and Sundays all day."

     I lift my duffle bag onto the kitchen table, opening it to double-check that I have everything for practice to distract myself from my mom's disappointed gaze.

     She says, "I'll talk to Brenda, and see if I can work later during the week and have Saturdays and Sundays off."

     I want to tell her she doesn't have to do that but I know she's already decided she will. I like spending time with my mom more than I'm sure a lot of kids my age care to admit. For the longest it's just been us, and I appreciate that more than I probably tell her.

     "Okay, sounds good. I gotta' get going or I'm going to be late." I zip my bag, throwing it over my shoulder before I start towards the door.

     Moms still in the hallway outside the bathroom; she sets her curling iron down on one of the decorative tables in the hall where we mostly keep a slew of papers and old, unopened mail. I roll my eyes as she pulls me into a hug and kisses my head.

     "I'm proud of you, getting a job." She lets me go. "Drive smart and safe."

     I breathe a laugh. "Yes mom. Have a nice day at work."

     "I love you," she calls back just as I leave.

     Swim practice lets out a little before seven, giving me roughly two hours before my classes. On a normal day, I'd drag myself to one of the school lounges, find a couch or chair to slump over in and sleep until I had to go to class. Instead, I rush through my shower and change back into my jeans and the grey crew-neck sweater I'd worn into practice so I can haul ass to work. I get the feeling my new boss isn't someone who takes being late lightly.