Disaster Class

03. what being a delinquent feels like

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑
" 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 "
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          "Suspended?" Dr. Mom raises her brow.

It really didn't take long for the news to reach her. In fact, I think she already knew before the principal even called in. She's intuitive like that. Sometimes, I suspect she has planted a spy chip in my arm. Other times, I just chalk it up to the fact that nothing gets past her.

"It's just for two days, Ma," I try downplaying the whole thing.

"You're missing exams because of it," she points out, and I physically wince.

I should be in school right now, acing yet another test. Instead, I'm at a fancy new restaurant, watching Dr. Mom terrorize the waiters for taking too long to serve our food.

"I'll ask for makeup exams," I say as our trembling waiter places our cutlery on the table. Poor soul. I wish I could trade places with him. At least I won't get to sit through this uncomfortable meal.

"No need," Dr. Mom says. "I have spoken with Dr. Goldman and the principal and the schoolboard. It took one too many calls, but I managed to pull a few strings."

This is embarrassing. I never wanted to be one of those students. The ones who rely on their parents' influence to achieve things. One wrong move, and here I am.

"You will be given special exams this Saturday, before winter break begins," she continues. "And you'll get some kind of punishment, of course. Dr. Goldman is still deciding on it."

I roll my eyes. "He's probably going to give me detention for the entire midterm."

"Whatever the punishment may be, take it with grace," Dr. Mom stresses. "You've been caught cheating. Any more outbursts will only reflect badly on you. On us. So, chin up and take the blow with dignity."

Dignity's a big family value. To maintain composure under scrutiny. To be grace under fire. Sometimes, it just feels like not doing anything at all. Like letting people walk all over you while staying still. I hate it.

Dr. Mom lays her clasped hands on the table. She straightens her back. It's her way of signaling that conversation is over. So formal. So dismissive. She's only sitting across the table, but she feels so distant now.

"Aren't you mad at me?" I ask, bowing my head down.

Dr. Mom sighs, and I suddenly notice the bags under eyes. She hasn't come home at all this week, but she looks so much older now.

"I work a 30-hour straight shift, Nico. My patients aren't stabilizing, so I haven't left the ICU in days. This is the first time this week that I've worn a nice dress instead of a white coat," she says. "I don't have the time and energy to be mad at you right now."

I should be relieved that she isn't mad. But instead, I feel worse. For some reason, I wish she'd get angry sometimes. At least then I'd know that she cares.

She takes a sip of her water. "But don't think you're getting away that easy," she says. "You're grounded for the entire Christmas break."

A punishment. I crack a smile. She cracks one, too – a tiny one which she attempts to cover by taking another sip. But I saw it. She does care, and this is how she shows it. It's funny how her love language works.

"I don't even go out of the house, Ma," I remind her.

"Oh, I know," she replies, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "That's why I've invited your Uncle Victor to stay with us for the holidays."