I SHOULDN'T BE reading.
In fact, I should be doing the complete opposite―I should be writing―but it's hard when your dad comes into the office room every five seconds.
Literally.
I mean, the guy has nothing better to do than come into the office room every five seconds. I swear he's just doing it to make sure I'm staying on "task," which is why I've decided to "pretend" to read Julius Ceasar for my stupid English class.
Don't get me wrong, I love English―hell, I love writing!―but when you constantly involve critical reading or any form besides writing (realistic fiction, I forgot to add that―that's the most crucial part. Honestly, fuck those essays they force us to write) in class, then I'll start to despise attending English class.
So, I guess I do hate English. Except for those days when we get to chill, which is rare, so, yeah―I'm still sticking to my guns―I do hate English. And it doesn't make it any better that it's required for all four years of High School.
Like, give us a break, already!
At least I have Creative Writing to look forward to next year. I wanted to take it this year, but since Junior year is really important and all that shit, I decided not to. I wonder how Creative Writing would be like. Of course, it would be different virtually: writing at home where all the bad energy always radiates, so maybe it's a good thing that I'm saving it for my Senior year.
But I wonder how the class would be set up.
Like, do we have to choose a theme and write from that? Or are we able to come up with our own story idea... and share it? As much as I want to share my story with the world, I don't know if my audience pertains to the people at Lincoln High School.
I feel like the people at Lincoln High School are pretentious and sharing my story with them, especially when I already know most of them (unfortunately) would be awkward and humiliating. I want to share my story with an audience I barely know―strangers, but have the same feelings that I express in my story.
"Isha," my dad says, interrupting my thoughts, at about his 30th stroll in the office room.
I look up since I know if I don't, he'll get irritated―he has anger issues and high blood cholesterol. "What?" I ask in my usual grunting tone. It's something I've developed over the years that now even if I want to change it, I can't (or I can, but that takes time, which I don't have).
"We're leaving," he says as he heads over to the cabinet in the office room to get his wallet―the only thing he should be here for, not "checking" up on me (to be honest, I don't know if he was checking up on me, but that's the only logical reason I can think of... and because I like to think of the worst of him). "Study for two hours and then watch TV," he says and I pretend to invest myself in Julius Caesar, "okay?"
I nod my head. "Okay." There's something about talking with my dad (I hate calling him my dad―it makes it seem like I own him or something, or that he belongs to me, which is disgusting) that I hate. Like, I can't stand looking at his face for even five minutes (though I have to otherwise I'll end up in bigger trouble). It's not because I'm intimidated by him―although I have thought of that, it doesn't seem pragmatic though―maybe it's because I despise him.
Yeah, that seems pragmatic. Considering all the stuff this man has done to me, it makes sense―I despise him.
"Isha, you really need this 1400," my dad says suddenly, and, for some reason, I immediately know to look up at him. Something about his tone makes me, I guess. Or maybe it's because he struck an internal cord because, according to my parents (mostly my mom though), "good colleges" (why is there even such a thing like this) won't accept me with my 2.8 GPA (at least I'm improving with my Junior year grades).
So my best bet is my SAT score, which is 1100 right now.
Yeah. That's after taking two SAT prep courses, and my SAT score still remained the same. Although my math score increased, but my mom didn't care about that when I pointed it out―she likes to look at the big picture, which is what colleges look at... unfortunately (this shouldn't even bother me).
"Yeah, I know," I say and just when I think I can get back to "reading" Julius Caesar, my mom appears at the end of the staircase in an Indian dress. I don't even know why she even bothers to dress up herself because my mom likes to self-deprecate herself a lot and then afterward, show up in a dress, looking all pretty with a smile.
She's like a teenage girl, but with an actual fat body, not those girls who say they are fat, but are actually ten pounds underweight.
I have to admit, though, I get pretty mad at her for it. I don't understand how she can feel bad about her body and then―literally―a second later, looked all glammed up. Maybe it's because I'm jealous―something that I'm afraid to admit, I guess, since this is the first time I'm admitting it―because no matter how hard I try to focus on my "good" parts, a flawed part of my body always catches my attention and plummets my mood.
Yup. I'm jealous of my mom: the lady who made (oh, I meant, makes) me feel ten times worse about what Mason said to me. Not like she was supposed to make it better. I mean, what was I expecting? A heart-to-heart conversation?
Ye―no. No, I was not (I should take this as another lesson to not open up).
"Arjun, how do I look?" she asks Dad (I'm gonna stick to "Dad" now) with a smile.
"Good," he says, as he puts his wallet in his front pocket. I find it hard to believe that word coming from Dad's mouth because he's usually fat-shaming Mom (I'm sticking to "Mom" too) whenever she eats something or doesn't work out, which, I mean, she barely works out, so that's pretty often.
I guess Mom's too oblivious to notice Dad's fake-ness because she says, "Can you take a picture?" She pulls out her phone and throws her hair back behind her ears before handing her phone to Dad.
"We have to go, Bhavya," he says, "everyone else has left already." By everyone else, he means Aditi and her family, who are always the first and last to leave family friend parties. It's been a long since Aditi and I have talked, I realize. Not like I care or maybe I do.
I've always confided in her, but now that Mason and I are hanging out (or were), it's like he's slowly replacing her because Aditi's my only friend.
Well, second friend if I take Mason into account. But, for today and future purposes, I don't think I will.
I'm back at square one, baby.
Not that I care and not that Aditi cares either because the girl has a large friend group—she has nothing to lose if we drift apart. I do, though, but whatever: friends are shit.
"Isha," Mom says, coming up to me and I roll my eyes, evidently knowing what's coming next.
"I know," I say before she can continue.
"If you know, then why aren't you doing something about it?" she asks and I look at her in confusion for both not knowing how to respond to that question and taken aback by her sudden response.
"What?"
She sighs. "Use your time wisely, Isha."
"Yeah," I grunt, "I will." I'm still mad at her for what she told me earlier when I confided in her (I'm still regretting that) and I think she knows it too because she forms a face of distraught as she opens her mouth.
"Isha," she says in a demeaning tone, "what happened, happened, let's focus on the SAT right now." I think she's jealous that I actually have a friend or am close with Mason, or was―I don't know where we stand if we're being honest or if he actually meant what he said, or if I should continue this "friendship."
I should learn from my past "friendships" though and be the bigger person and end this friendship. I don't need other people's comments affecting me when I already have my own demeaning thoughts.
"We'll be gone for a few hours, call me if you need anything," Mom says when she notices that I won't be replying to her anytime soon. She leans in for a kiss on the cheek, but I swerve just in time and act like I was getting up.
"Okay," I say when I notice her mouth open. She nods her head and starts walking to the kitchen. I follow in pursuit since I gotta look like I'm not going to be doing anything discrete after they leave and also because my dad will get mad if I don't.
I guess I don't need to come though because Dad and Ayush are already in the car. Mom turns around one last time and says, "Use this time to study for the SAT and then after, have some dinner―there are chapatis in the bin and chickpea curry in the fridge."
I nod my head. "Okay." Although I won't be having any of that shit. I'm planning on going to CVS, which is, like, three minutes from my house, and getting some junk food. At least that'll put me in a good mood. "Go! You don't want to be late."
"I know you want me to go so that you can have fun," Mom says, smiling and suddenly her face turns solemn. "But study, okay?"
Damn. This woman has so much faith in me. It almost makes me want to lose it and cry ballistically because I don't deserve it and even worse: I can't do it―I can't get that 1400 no matter how hard I try.
I nod my head. "Yeah." She smiles and I return my most genuine smile as she walks to the car. I watch her get in the Mercedes-Benz and stand there, next to the garage door, until the Benz is out of the garage and onto the road.
I step back into the house, feeling nothing. There's nothing special about being home alone, I realize. But it does remind me about all those times I wished I was home alone when my parents why were constantly nagging me. So then why amen't I happy? Or relieved?
Maybe it's 'cause you called a girl suicidal, a voice inside of me decides to speak and suddenly I feel like screaming. That day was the worst for me, even the days after, but somehow my brain wants to remind me about it. I'm not a bad person, I think to myself. I just misinterpreted her black makeup for her being depressed and suicidal, so―excuses, excuses. I'm not a bad person, though. It wasn't intentional, I didn't mean it. I tried to apologize. Yeah, you tried. It's not my fault she didn't want to hear it!
Maybe you are a bad person, a part of my brain thinks and that's enough for me to take my coat and wallet and head outside in the freezing weather.
I need junk food right now―that's the only that will cure this mood of mine. Usually, I wait for five or three minutes in case my parents miss something or Ayush does. Hey! You never know, there could be a time when the Universe wants to make my life more miserable and I can't take any chances. For all I know, my parents think I stopped going to CVS when they found receipts from CVS last January (ironic, considering it's January right now) and confronted me about it.
Yeah, in the moment, I was definitely scared when they found out, but now I can give zero fucks. I need junk food right now―it's like a drug to me, like a molly. I've actually considered doing drugs, I realize as I put my shoes on, but I never knew―I still don't know―where to find them or who to buy them from.
Well, I did, but by the time I did, the kid's drugs were found in his locker, so I didn't buy anything. That was in Sophomore year too: a time when I was just trying to have fun and live my life, so things like meth or molly were nowhere near my mind. But I guess suicide was though because that was also the year I called Emma, yeah (why do I treat it like a bad word? It's a just word―suicidal).
In fact, I, myself, was suicidal. Or am, since I am getting junk food and eating too much junk food can cause you to die, so... (I think some life-changing reflection is supposed to happen right now).
When nothing happens, I put on my last shoe and open the garage door―it's closed, great. I'm pretty sure my dad can know whether or not the garage door is closed―there's an app or something. Honestly, fuck those apps. Stupid technology messing with my discrete CVS trip.
Whatever. I don't have time for this.
I take the "risk" (if it even is a risk) and open the garage door before I look for my bicycle in the garage. I figure since it's cold outside and I want to be quick as possible, a bike should do the trick.
That is if I can get it.
My mom's bike, which I guess is mine now since she rarely uses it, is perched on the highest shelf on the garage wall. Great. This is going to take some time. And to make matters worse the sun is almost about to set: another thing I hate about living in New Jersey (or does it happen in other states too?). It's only five and yet the sky is starting to become dark. I mean, why can't it be light? I think back to my mood and sigh.
Damn. I guess the sky and I have more in common than I thought we did.
How funny, I remark to myself in a dry tone.
Luckily, the other part of my brain doesn't have enough time to react to my comment and insult me because I'm busy loosening the last thread mounting the bike to the wall. The weight of the bike transfers to me and I'm taken aback by how heavy it is.
Damn. If that's how heavy a bike is, then I can only imagine how heavy I am. I think back to the times in Gym class when our partners had to carry us or some messed up shit like that and I shake my head.
Fucking Gym: the one place where all my nightmares come alive.
A sudden tire screech shakes me out of my thoughts and I look up in panic, wondering if it's my parents. It's been ten minutes since they left, so it can't be plausible... unless Mom left her phone or Dad left his phone, which, now that I think of it, doesn't seem plausible either because I just can't see them forgetting their phone.
They're too Indian for that.
I sneak a peek of who it could be through the garage door. The lights have turned off too, so I don't need to be discrete about looking at the car that just arrived and then I start wondering if I'm just overthinking it all and the person in the car is actually going to my neighbor's house―they're dog breeders and people are always going to their house to buy a dog (no surprise there, of course, they're selling dogs for money).
That's plausible too, I think to myself as I get on the bike seat, still looking at the car. To be honest, I don't know what I'm expecting―maybe something unusual, like a Nancy Drew crime story, which I know isn't real, but it doesn't hurt to pretend it is. And then I start wondering if I should wait for five minutes because something about the person in the car not coming out is scaring me.
Maybe this is actually a future crime scene and I'm too naive to notice it.
I grip the bike's handles before getting off of it and setting it aside, still looking at the car. I start wondering when I can actually go to CVS or if I even can because, by the looks of it, this person is taking their time.
I really want to go. I need this food.
And then, for some absurd reason, my heart starts pumping and I start wondering if I should call 911 or my parents or fucking anyone because I'm getting really scared. I debate on running back inside. I mean, will the guy―that is if he/she even is a guy―even notice? And just when I think of running back inside, the car door opens and I catch a glimpse of shaggy brown hair.
Oh, fuck. Fuck. No. Shut up.
My stomach suddenly flutters with butterflies.
No, shut up. Don't feel happy, feel sad! He made you feel bad about yourself.
I must've been so focused on Mason's sudden presence and my thoughts that I don't notice the bell ring until a second later.
My feet scramble for the garage door in hopes of opening it before Mason leaves and just when I'm about to open the door, someone says, "Isha?" I look at the garage door frozen―fuck, what do I do?―and turn around with an evidently forced smile.
"Yeah."
"Wow. I did not expect you to be here." He looks around the garage, which has now lit up (ironic much?).
"Why?" I question, taking a step down the stairs.
He looks at me, peculiarly, probably trying to figure out what tone I was using―most likely rudeness. "It's fifteen degrees outside, Isha. Who in the right mind would want to be outside at that temperature?"
"Me," I simply note. He seems as if he wants to argue, but he decides not to as he purses his lips.
"Yeah. I think you were going somewhere before I came, right?" he signifies to the bike leaning against the pillar. I look at the bike in panic. How did he know? And then I look around and realize all the other bikes are mounted on the wall. Fuck. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you from going."
"No, I wasn't going anywhere. That's my brother's bike, he forgot to put it back on the wall. I just finished taking my dog for a walk―he's inside," I quickly make up. Damn, I'm good at this. I should honestly consider taking acting up as a job.
"And you're still here?" He raises an eyebrow and suddenly I feel intimidated.
"Well, I'm sorry if a suspicious-looking car parks right in front of my house and doesn't move or anything," I say and Mason's eyebrows crease.
"Okay, so?" he asks, chuckling, and then his eyes widen, "I scared you?" I shake my head as quickly as possible.
"No, I—it doesn't matter, what are you doing here?" I question.
"I was passing by your house and, uh," he scratches his neck, "I just wanted to apologize." My eyes widen a little in disbelief. I mean, I sort of anticipated him to come here to apologize (like, why else did he come here?), but when he says it, it seems more believeable.
"You don't have to," I say almost too fast and Mason looks at me, confused. "I understand. It was a mistake." Something about him apologizing to me makes me feel uneasy. Like, I don't deserve it.
"Really?" he says in disbelief and I nod my head.
"Yeah," I say, "you thought that dumplin' was..." I try to find a "logical" reason on why Mason would use the word dumplin' on me, but I can't.
"Cute," Mason offers and I nod my head.
"Yeah," I say, avoiding eye contact with him.
"You don't understand, do you?" he asks. To be honest, I don't—I mean, how is the word Dumplin' cute?—but I'm not going to admit it. Something in me won't let me confess the truth. I don't deserve his pity. "I thought that the word dumplin' was cute. Y'know? A dumpling is cute, you're cute." My cheeks blush.
"I'm cute?" I think out loud and Mason grins.
"Yeah. Why? You don't think you are?"
"No, I-I do," I stutter. His eyes search mine for a sign to humor me, but when I don't look up, he continues.
"Yeah, well, I forgot about that Dumplin' movie and how that girl reacted when her mom said it to her―all sad and stuff, y'know," he says. "And, uh, I'm sorry." There's a moment of silence.
"So you didn't mean it?" I ask with a hint of hope because maybe all that "advice" Mom gave me is actually BS.
"No, I meant it," he says, and almost immediately, I look up at him, "but in a compliment sort of way, not like an insult or something that could hurt you." I digest that in.
"Really?" I ask. For some reason, I refuse to believe him.
"Yeah. Why? You think I'm lying?" he asks and I shake my head.
"No, I just find it hard to believe, I guess..." my voice trails off and Mason nods his head. I probably shouldn't have said that I realize as I watch him ponder.
"Yeah, I feel like our friendship is based on lies," he says and I look at him in panic. Does he know about the incident (I don't know why I refer to calling Emma suicidal as "the incident")? I really want to tell him, but I don't know how I can do it and, even if I do, I don't know if he'll continue being friends with me. And that's a risk I can't take. "We should start being more honest with each other," he says and then sticks his hand out, "consider this a do-over." I look at his hand and snicker a bit. "What?" he questions and I shake my head.
"Nothing. I just―do we forget about everything that just happened or not?"
"No, we don't forget, we just... improve," Mason says and nods his head as if he's agreeing with himself, which I guess he is. "So?" he asks, signifying to his hand with a raised eyebrow and I nod my head.
"Yeah, we can be more honest," I say, avoiding eye contact with his hand.
"You're supposed to shake my hand," he says.
"Yeah, I know," I say, "but I prefer just agreeing."
"Why?" Mason asks. To be honest, I don't know why my body won't let me shake his hand. It's almost like he has a disease I'm afraid to catch. "Isha, it's just," and then he stops, "I hurt you that much?" His voice comes out in disbelief like he doesn't believe what he's saying. Something is hurting me, I realize, but it's not what Mason said, it's something else and I'm afraid if I pinpoint it, I might just have a mental breakdown.
"No, you didn't. It's... something else," I say.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he suddenly asks and I look at him almost in a sense of hope. Like maybe he can help me with what I'm dealing with. Maybe if I just tell him about Emma, he won't leave me; he'll understand and― "If we're going to be honest right now, I need to confess something," Mason says and I look at him. "I mean, since we are, right?" I nod my head and he searches my eyes for a sign to either continue or to let him feel comfortable―I don't know. "Nah, you're gonna judge." He shakes his head and I immediately shake mine.
"No, I won't," I find myself saying, "you can tell me."
"You're that interested in what I have to say?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. Have I been caught? I mean, do I really care more about what he has to say than his emotions behind it? It makes sense, I think to myself, maybe I am a bad person because I really don't care about people's emotions, I only care about what they have to say.
"No, I just―"
"No, that's good," Mason says before I can continue any further and I wrinkle my eyebrows.
"It is?"
He looks at me, surprised like he wasn't expecting that question. "Yeah, you care about what I have to say. Plus, I was being funny, you didn't need to answer my question."
"So it was a rhetorical question," I note and he wrinkles his eyebrows before nodding his head. I don't blame him, it took me a year to understand what a rhetorical question is and then to actually pronounce it "correctly."
"Yeah." He looks at the ground and, suddenly, I feel bad. He came all the way here to apologize out in the cold, the least you could do is invite him in, Isha! "So I was―" Mason starts.
"Do you wanna come in?" I ask. "Oh, sorry, I didn't know that you were about to―"
"No, it's okay," Mason says, and then almost with a smile, he adds, "yeah, it's freezing out here." I nod my head―at least that's one thing we can agree on. He walks up the stairs behind me and I close the door and garage once he's entered the house. This is the first time we've been alone together (well, aside from the time we walked Cooper, which, now that I'm thinking about it, doesn't even apply to this situation because that was outside and this is inside... fuck, what have I done), I realize as Mason looks at me with a quizzical smile. "Are your parents not home?" he asks and I nod my head. "And you opened the door to a stranger? Isha! You're much better than that," he scolds in a humorous way and I roll my eyes.
"Actually," I say, "you're not a stranger, so jokes on you."
"Then what am I?" Mason asks, curiously.
Although this time I can't tell if he's being humorous or genuine, so I say the only logical answer: "A friend." There's a moment of silence. "Right?"
Mason shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know. That's up to you." I wrinkle my eyebrows. What? "Where are your parents?"
"Why? Do you wanna go meet them?" I ask sarcastically.
"What? Why would I wanna meet them when I'm here with you?" he asks. I scrunch my eyebrows. "Y'know, since you're home alone, you need protection." He adds in almost as quickly as possible.
"Mason, I'm seventeen. I can take care of myself," I say and Mason scrunches his eyebrows.
"You're seventeen?" he asks and I nod my head, suddenly regretting saying that because now I have a hunch that I'm older than Mason, which don't get me wrong is fine, but for some reason, I sort of feel let down. Maybe it's because of that stereotype where older men date younger women (forget that. I just realized it doesn't pertain to our relationship since we have a friendship) or that older people are wiser and are responsible for younger people. Does this mean that I'm responsible for Mason?
"Yeah," I remark. "You're sixteen."
"Are you asking or telling?" he asks with a grin and I shrug my shoulders.
"Telling?" This is something that still tricks me up―God.
"Yeah, but I turn seventeen next Monday," he says.
"You're birthday is on January seventeenth?" I think out loud and he nods his head. "Mason, why didn't you tell me? We should do something for it!"
He shakes his head. "Nah."
"Why? I mean, don't you want to celebrate it?" To be honest, I don't know why I'm this hyped up about his birthday because birthdays suck―seriously, it's redundant celebrating them. And suddenly, my smile fades. "Oh, are you celebrating it with Kyle and James?"
"What? No! Why would you―I mean, I am, but I don't know. 'Cause of COVID and everything, I don't think we'll be able to meet up on my birthday," Mason says and I raise my eyebrow.
"You're here even though there's COVID," I say and Mason looks at me.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot my mask in the car. I'll go bring it," he says sarcastically and I shake my head.
"I was just joking," I say and Mason nods his head.
"I know. Learn to loosen up a little bit, Isha. You don't have to take everything to the heart," he says and I take time to digest that because maybe he is right―maybe I don't need to overthink too much or even at all. But the real question is how? "Can I suggest something?" he asks suddenly and I nod my head. "I feel like you shouldn't take every word said to you personally." I quickly look up, probably with demeaning eyes or something because Mason quickly adds, "It's not just you, it's everyone. Like, I feel like the best way to not let anyone's words affect you is to not give it value."
"How do you do that?" I find myself asking.
"You just, you like―like, for example, when I called you dumplin', you could've just thought more positively about that or like question yourself, y'know? Like, does this word or whatever this person is saying to me really hold the value it deserves or am I just letting it?" He looks at me. "You have to question it."
"Okay," I think of another example, "what about if someone says, 'I love you,'?" For some reason, I find it fun to taunt him with this example. I know what he's saying and it makes sense, but it's hard to practice that method of not giving words value when it's basically a habit now.
Mason looks amused as he says, "Again, you have to question yourself: does this sentence really matter to me or am I just letting it?" I let his advice sit in my mind. "Why'd you use that sentence? Did you want to tease me or something with it?" His eyes sparkle with curiosity as I look at him and I feel my heart skip a beat as I shrug my shoulders.
"I don't know, it just came to my mind, I guess."
"You guess?" He raises an eyebrow. "You should really stop using 'I guess,' it makes you seem like you don't know what you mean."
"So I know what I mean?" I ask intently. This is fun, I realize as I analyze my conversation with Mason, In fact, I don't think I've had this much fun before.
"Hey! That's up for you to decide," he says and then he gazes around the kitchen. "Where's your dog?" Cooper's absence hasn't occurred to me until Mason brings it up.
"I don't know," I say, "he's probably sleeping upstairs." I call his name out and in a couple of seconds, the sound of nails hitting the hardware ground plays and Cooper appears in the kitchen. "You like dogs a lot." I don't know if that's a question or a comment.
"Yeah, I mean, when Penny was this age she was so cute―she's still cute―but they're so energetic at this age."
"If 'they're' means all dogs except for Cooper, then yeah," I say and Mason looks at me in concern.
"Why?"
"Oh, uh, it's nothing bad," I assure him, "it's just he's not always energetic. We sort of don't play with him that often, so he's always dull."
"We?" Mason asks.
"My family... and I," I say and look around the kitchen awkwardly, wondering what to do.
"Well, I have time right now. And you don't seem to be busy, right?" He asks, looking at me, and I look at him, knowing evidently well where he's going with this.
"No," I say, although I wish I included sarcasm because it seems like Mason has the upper hand.
"Okay, well, sit." Mason pats the seat next to him and I hesitantly sit down. "Does he have any toys?" He looks around the kitchen as if a box of Cooper's toys will magically appear and I nod my head.
"Yeah, it's in the laundry room." I get up from the cold floor—well, it's not that cold considering I'm wearing sweatpants—and head for the laundry room. I don't even know how I get here, I think to myself. I mean, it all started with me asking Mason if I can come in and―God! I slap my forehead mentally. Why did I do that? Because now I don't know how to entertain Mason and I had plans: I wanted to go to CVS and binge watch The Middle or something like that as I ate junk food.
But now, thanks to my subconscious mind, I can't.
"Fucking hell," I mutter to myself because, truthfully, I don't know the next time my parents will leave me home alone―they're always at home working because of COVID. Definitely not anytime soon when they come to know that I let a person inside the house when I'm home alone. My eyes widen. Fuck! I think to myself, although I don't think I did because Mason shows up in front of the laundry room.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, looking at me in panic and I look at him in confusion before nodding my head. I mean, damn! His reaction was quick.
"Yeah," I say, "I-I just realized something."
"What?" Mason asks in a soft voice, which I try to ignore.
"Nothing." And then I add on, "It's personal."
Mason nods his head. "Yeah," he says, "but the only way to go through personal stuff is to talk about it." He pauses, probably thinking I got his cue to talk, which, yeah, I did. But I remain silent. "So I was going to tell you this, but then you asked me if I wanted to come in, so I guess I'll tell you now." I open my mouth about to deny his response when he says, "I didn't really say dumplin' to you because I thought dumplings are cute. I mean, they are, but, like, that wasn't the main reason. I-I sort of wanted a friendship like the girl and Jennifer Aniston."
"Willowdean," I tell him in regards to "the girl" and Mason nods his head. "So you want us to have a mother-daughter relationship?" I raise an eyebrow.
"No," he says, suddenly laughing, "no, I just found it cute when the mom said dumplin' to Willowdean." I scrunch my eyebrows. "Like a nickname. I know she took it personally and it hurt her in the movie and everything, but, I feel like if she didn't take it personally, then it would be a good nickname."
"Right," I say as I busy myself with getting Cooper's toy basket down from the shelf.
"I can't tell if you can't actually mean that or you just want to get over with talking to me," he says with a grin when I look at him.
"I don't know, I'm just trying to understand your perspective."
"Okay, well, can I help you understand my perspective?" he asks and I nod my head, a little curious about what he has to say. "Think of it like when you call me a dimwit." Suddenly, my cheeks turn red.
"Okay," I start and he shakes his head.
"No, it's not bad," he says, "I'm just comparing it to something―just like you call me dimwit, I call you dumplin'. It's like a cool nickname."
"Okay, first of all, dimwit is not a nickname, it's just something that slipped out of my tongue."
"Well, I mean, if it was in your mind when you were talking to me, then it definitely means something," Mason says.
"No," I object, "it just means that sometimes when you're with someone, you start judging them hardcore and I just let it slip."
"You judge me?" Mason asks in what is seems like a mix of humor and genuine.
"Yeah, I mean, not in a bad way. I just―I mean, who doesn't?" I say and he nods his head.
"Yeah, that's true. But, I mean, since we know each other more now, we're not gonna like judge either hardcore or something. Right?" Mason asks, doubtfully, and I nod my head almost immediately.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That was in the past," I say and Mason nods his head shortly. I look around the room, wondering what to say. "Would you wanna do something? Y'know, like watch TV?" I get up from the ground as Mason nods his head.
"Yeah."
"Dumplin'?" I offer with wiggled eyebrows in order to ease the awkward tension in the room and Mason smiles.
"Nah, how about The Middle?" He suggests and my eyes widen. Fuck! I forgot about that show and how Mason still hasn't finished it.
"Yeah. Oh my God, yeah!" I say. "You have to finish it, Mason!" I head for the family room and pick up the TV.
"No shit," Mason says and I look at him. "That's why I said it." I look at him, blankly.
"It is good to," I say and he scrunches his eyebrows before laughing.
"That's a good one!"
I smile in what seems like a genuine real smile. "Thanks."
"You should be a comedian or something. Or a comedian and writer. Maybe you should incorporate humor in your stories." Suddenly, Mason stops. "Unless you already do that." He looks at me solemnly and I try to crack a smile.
"Yeah, no, I do," I say, almost a little too quickly and Mason raises an eyebrow.
"Like what?" he asks and I find myself in a predicament.
"I-I include sarcasm."
"That's not humor, though," he points out and I shift my weight onto my other leg.
"Yeah, it is." Mason scrunched his eyebrows and suddenly, I have the confidence in my voice to continue. "I mean, if you look at it from my perspective, then it's funny."
"Yeah, from your perspective. Not everyone has the same perspective like you do."
"Yeah, well, not everyone has the same perspective that you do. Some people find sarcasm funny and other people don't," I state and Mason opens his mouth about to object before nodding his head.
"Yeah," he finally says. "Yeah, you're right."
I look at him confused before nodding my head. "Yeah, I know."
"Be more assertive when you say that," he says and I look at him confused before linking the two together. "Y'know? Be like, 'Yeah, I know'," he says in a uptight kind of way and I can't help but laugh. "What? Confidence is funny now?"
"No," I say, "I don't know, maybe. I mean, who says 'Yeah, I know'?" I imitate his girly-like tone and he scrunches his eyebrows.
"First of all, I didn't say it like that and, even if I did, what's wrong with that? It shows that I know what I'm doing and that I'm in charge of myself."
I look at him, stunned because, truthfully, I was not expecting that full-on comeback, but then again what can I expect? "Yeah."
"I didn't mean to overwhelm you with that response, I just get kind of irritated when people make fun of being confident. It's not just you, it's—" I nod my head and Mason continues. "It has so much power, but people don't even realize it and end up making fun of it. Does that even make sense?" He looks at me with a smile and I nod my head.
"Yeah, actually. I mean, I've tried being confident. I read a book about it—"
"Books are shit. They don't do anything," Mason says, cutting in, and I nod my head.
"Yeah, I learned that the hard way. I tried implementing the tricks done in the book and, uh, I mean, I'm still the same insecure person I am, so no change here."
"You're insecure about yourself?" Mason says, almost making it sound like me being insecure is impossible and I shrug my shoulders.
"Yeah, I mean, aren't we all?"
"Yeah, but, I don't know, I mean, you really fooled me," he says.
I look at him, confused, trying to decipher his intentions. "You don't have to be nice, Mason," I say after a moment and he shakes his head.
"No, I'm not. I seriously thought you were in love with yourself or something."
I raise an eyebrow. "How?"
I'm almost on the verge of laughing when he says, "I don't know, I mean, you're very assertive when you want to be and you're always using sarcasm, but you do it in a way like you know what you mean. Like, when we first met through that icebreaker in therapy class and you said something about there being another Isha when I brought up that we're both in the same History class and—"
"Yeah, I know," I say, cutting him short before he can go any further, and then I ponder over what he said. "So I'm confident for saying that?"
"I mean, honestly, I was sort of intimidated when you said that."
I look at him in disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Is it hard to believe that I would be intimidated by you?"
"I mean, yeah," I finally let out and Mason laughs, shaking his head.
"Well, I guess, you should start believing in the impossible."
"Yeah," I say, almost breathlessly.
"Damn. You have a really hard time believing stuff."
"No shit," I say, recalling my past.
Mason nods his head and then, almost like a lion ready to pounce, he says, "Can I ask you something?"
His words come out almost immediately that I find myself second-guessing saying yes. "Yeah," I draw out.
"Don't worry. It's nothing serious. Well, I mean, maybe, I don't know, it's up to you." Mason's words make me overthink of the various questions he could ask me and soon I'm thinking of Emma and calling her suicidal. Fucking Emma. "Relax, I was joking," Mason suddenly says and I look up frantically. Suddenly, his face turns solemn. "Are you alright?"
I nod my head. "Yeah, I'm fine." I assure myself it isn't about Emma and look him straight in the eye. "What's your question?"
He looks like he's about to probe more about my well-being, but instead, he says, "Why didn't you confront me about what I said right then and there?" His words come out as a surprise, which, I mean, they're supposed to be and I look at him with a loss of words.
"Uh," I start, "what do you mean?" His eyebrows scrunch as if he's trying to figure out if I'm actually stupid and don't know what he means or if I'm just making up an excuse to not answer his question.
But knowing him, I know that he's not that gullible, which is why I'm surprised when he plays along and says, "Y'know, like, when I called you dumplin'. You could've just stopped me then and confronted me about it."
"How? You already left," I point out.
"Isha, there's a stop sign right in front of your house," he says with a slight (almost forced) chuckle and then his face turns solemn as if he realizes that he's got me cornered. "Why didn't you confront me then?"
"I don't know," I say, looking at my feet. I shouldn't have worn socks because now there's a higher chance of me falling when I walk, "I deserve it?"
"You deserve to be insulted?" Mason asks in disbelief.
I sigh. "You get used to it, now can we just—"
"Isha, who's been insulting you?" He says in a demanding tone, almost like he'll beat up whoever's been insulting me.
"Myself," I murmur. God, I still can't get calling Emma suicidal out of my mind and it's driving me crazy. I keep on feeling like shit for calling that girl suicidal. I mean, maybe it really was a bad thing doing that—maybe I am a bad person.
"Isha," Mason starts softly, "is it you that's insulting yourself?"
He heard. Huh. I'm not surprised. The guy has dog-like ears. "If you already know, then why are you asking?" I grunt dismissively.
"Because I want to understand what's happening. What do you tell yourself? That you're not worthy of doing things? Or that you're—"
"No," I say, "I'm fine, Mason."
Mason looks like he's about to object, but then a smile plays on his lips. "That's what you tell yourself? C'mon, Isha, I'm not that gullible."
I roll my eyes. "Very funny."
"No, c'mon. Actually, though," he says in a more serious tone, "what do you tell yourself?"
That I'm a bad person for calling a girl suicidal.
"Noth—you're gonna judge," I say and Mason shakes his head almost immediately.
"No, I won't," he says and I shake my head.
"I'm not gullible either," I say and Mason looks at me.
"I know that," he says, "why would you even think to say that?" So he's playing dumb. Huh. I can't work with that.
"Mason, I don't know. I'm scared," I say.
"That's why I'm fearless," he says, "c'mon."
He urges for me to confide in him and before I know it, I am. "During Gym class in Sophomore year, I saw this girl wearing black makeup and, y'know, black makeup is, like, emo, so I thought she was depressed, but I didn't have the right word in mind when I was telling these two friends, sort of, at the time, so I said suicidal and―"
"Why were you telling your friends?" he asks and I shrug my shoulders.
"I don't know, I just felt the need to tell someone," I say. I hesitate on going on any further, but another part of my brain urges me to continue because I just need to let this shit out. "Yeah, well, her friend overheard and he told her, and then she confronted me about it and I don't know I was too stunned to say anything, but those two friends said that I did and―"
"Friends are shit," Mason says and I find myself thinking if that also applies to our friendship.
"Yeah," I agree. "Her friend who was also sort of my friend texted me about what I did the next day and ended our friendship."
He looks at me, surprised as if he didn't expect that comment and then says, "Okay." He touches his chin. "So that's what goes on in your head?"
I can't tell if there is a right answer to this question. "Yeah?" I say in a cautious tone.
"Okay," he says.
"That's it?" I ask in astonishment. I expected something big or... actually I didn't know what I expected.
"Yeah," Mason says and then he looks at me, "why? Should I say something else?"
"No, I'm just surprised," I say, "i-in a good way."
"I'm surprised too," Mason says and I scrunch my eyebrows. "I mean, you take so much consideration on one small thing—you're a very big overthinker."
"Yeah, why shouldn't I? I mean, what I did was bad, right?" I question like I'm in a debate team.
"No," Mason starts, and then he looks at me, "you think what you did was bad?" Suddenly, I feel like going back in time and preventing myself from even opening up because I'm not sure of how to "answer" this question. "Isha, you were just concerned for the girl. I mean, yeah, you misinterpreted it, but―"
"How did I misinterpret it?"
He looks at me with a smile. "Just because you wear black makeup doesn't necessarily mean you're emo."
"I wish I knew that earlier," I comment.
"Don't wish on something you can't change," Mason says and I look at him, curiously. "The past is in the past. I mean, seriously. This happened a year ago and you're still hung up on it?" He looks at me in disbelief and suddenly, I find myself getting defensive.
"I don't know. I can't help it. It just comes up sometimes."
"Yeah," he says, lowering his voice, "I get it. Sometimes you're just having such a fun time and then some shitty thing you did in the past pops up in your brain and you start feeling guilty."
I start thinking about all the times I let the past invade my brain and nod my head. "Yeah."
"You've gotta let that shit go. Sometimes people just come in your life to teach you a lesson," Mason adds and I nod my head.
"How was I concerned for that girl?" I think out loud.
"You really don't know?" Mason looks at me curiously and I nod my head. "I mean, it's very obvious."
"Yeah, well, her friend said that I was spreading rumors about her being suicidal."
"And you believed her?" Mason asks and I find myself getting anxious.
"No?"
"Isha, spreading a rumor is, like, having so many people know about, well, in this case, a girl being suicidal," He scrunches his eyebrows with a smile at what he said and laughs. "Was she even suicidal?"
I look at him, both confused and surprised at his question, with the answer in the back of my head from that text with Emma's friends: "No, why does that―"
"Then why do you feel so much guilt?" he pounces and I find myself a little intimidated.
"I-I don't know," I squeak.
"I mean, even if she was suicidal, she would've done something about it―went to a therapist or talked it out with someone. She has a ton of friends from what I've heard. Or, I mean, she wouldn't even have acted like this―she would probably remain closed up or―" Mason stops, looking at me. "What are we even doing talking about someone else when we could be talking about us?" He starts chuckling and I smile.
He's right, I realize. Then why am I still so caught up in Emma's feelings?
"What matters is that you did it out of generosity, not to spread rumors or be fake." Mason looks down at me. "You have to understand that."
"Yeah."
"I mean, you just told your two friends―did they even care?"
"Not friends, but no."
"Exactly," Mason says, "but for some reason, you did care."
"I wish I didn't."
"Don't. It helps you grow and, if you look on the plus side, you know your real friends."
"Fuck real friends," I say.
"So fuck me?" he says and I laugh as I interpret his question.
"No, why would I fuck you?"
"Why would you fuck―oh, I didn't mean it like that!" Mason says and he starts laughing. "God, I meant―"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I, just, it came out wrong, I meant," I say, looking at Mason for help.
"Yeah, I know," he says, and then: "You have such a dirty mind, Isha." I roll my eyes.
"Like you don't," I say and he nods his head.
"That is true." His smile suddenly fades. "Do you understand why you were concerned for that girl?"
Shit. Was I supposed to? Was the answer hidden in our conversation? Fuck! I didn't think it was otherwise I would have been paying more attention. "No."
"It's because most people would have shrugged it off or wouldn't have cared, like me, but you noticed and you felt the need to tell someone. Not that many people are willing to take those steps, Isha. Sure, you might've expressed your concern incorrectly or whatever, but you expressed it and that's all that matters. Okay?" He looks into my eyes for a sign of approval or nod and I nod my head.
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?" he asks. "Because that doesn't sound like an affirmative to me."
"Yeah, no, I understand," I say and I look at him, mustering a smile. "Thank you. For helping me look at the situation from a different perspective." And, truthfully, I am because I didn't know whether or not I was going to confess that "big" moment to him, but now that I have I'm relieved because I can finally ease my mind. And, you know what? Maybe Mason is right―I mean, it makes sense too. Maybe I did do it out of concern, not because I was spreading rumors like that girl's friend said I did.
Mason smiles. "Just doing the right thing," he says and he turns to the TV. "Are we still gonna watch The Middle or..."
I shake out of my trance and nod my head. "Oh, no, yeah. We are. Sorry, I just―" I contemplate on confiding in him even more. I mean, I already feel comfortable with him and I just shared with him something that's constantly been in my head, but I go against when I mistake Mason's eagerness for watching The Middle as a plea to change the subject.
"Just what?" he asks and I shake my head.
"Nothing."
"Just say it. You never know when you'll be this open." I nod my head―he's right.
"I don't know, I mean, I sort of denied it at first," I stop, waiting for something to happen, I guess.
"Yeah, no shit," Mason says, "I mean, her friend literally said you were spreading rumors about her being suicidal―no one wants to be painted as the bad guy." He looks at me. "Everyone made it sound like you did something bad―of course, you would deny it. Damn. Is that why you still feel guilt? 'Cause you think you did something wrong? Isha," Mason starts and I nod my head.
"Yeah, I know, I-I get it now."
"You do?" he asks. "'Cause I don't think you would still be stuck on this a year later."
"Yeah, no, I just―" Tears start dripping down my face because I never realized how hard I'd been on myself for just one small thing... and it all started with a mishap. "I think you're right."
"You think?" Mason raises his eyebrow and he pats my back, awkwardly. "Don't cry over such a stupid thing. Save them for something big."
I look at him, confused. "What? Like, a funeral?"
"No," he says, "God, you really are pessimistic. Like, winning an Oscar or something grand, y'know? Crying isn't just over sad stuff." I contemplate over that.
"Yeah, I guess, you're right." Suddenly, I wrinkle my eyebrows with a smile. "I'm a pessimist for that, though?"
"Hey, yeah, I mean, you're just thinking that crying is for sappy stuff like funerals or"―Mason's voice suddenly gets solemn―"death."
"They're both the same thing," I point out.
"Yeah, no, I just realized," he says and looks around the room. "You're okay, though, right?"
I nod my head. "Yeah, no, I'm good now. Thanks for that, and, yeah, I shouldn't have cried―you're right.
Mason nods his head. "Yeah, no, I meant aside from that. Like, life in general? How are you... in that category?" His voice goes from solemn to cheery in almost an instant. It should pique my interest, but it doesn't. I'm guessing it's because I'm happy―I just figured out why I've been so hard on myself on such a small for more than a year now―and I have every right to be.
"I'm good," I say, looking at the couch with a genuine smile on my face. "Yeah."
"Yeah?" Mason asks, almost he's trying to confirm something and I nod my head, smiling.
"Yeah, why? Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, no, I just, um, wanted to ask."
"Are you okay?" I decide to ask since, I guess, that's proper etiquette and also because I don't know what else to say.
"Yeah," Mason seems taken aback at first, but then, "yeah, I'm good too."
I nod my head, casually―"Cool."―and then turn to the TV, "So, Middle?" It takes him a moment to register what I mean and then he nods his head, almost too energetically.
"Oh, yeah. I need to finish the show, right?" He looks at me with a grin and I find myself smiling. This is how I want my life to be―stress-free, past-free, just happy and full of life―I realize as I grab the remote. Unfortunately, I don't think that can happen. I can try, sure, but my life can't be like this 24/7. And then I start thinking if it can. I mean, nothing's impossible―the word itself says I'm possible, actually forget I said that, that was just for humor purposes, which I now realize are no longer useful―, right?
I look at the screen: an optimistic Sue running to tell her mom that she has a track meet. Maybe that thought can wait, I'll answer that question next time. For now, I'd just like to think my life is devoted to watching The Middle.