I wake at the usual time but can't being myself to start the day. Not yet. Not with the previous day replaying over and over in my mind like a bad rerun. In each play-through, I think of other things that I could have said or done differently. I could have insisted to my mother that, no, I did not want a birthday party. I could have changed the subject during her interrogation. I could have avoided telling her about Jordi in the first place. This is all my mother's fault.
But I know this isn't true.
I flip over in bed and face my room. What happened was all on me. I was the one who said okay to a party I didn't want. I blurted those stupid things about dyslexia. I humiliated Jordi in front of everyone. I did all that.
The memory of her anguished how-could-you face looms in my mind, and I groan aloud. I'd been a colossal jerk. I don't deserve her.
I cower in my room for another hour, moping and drowning my remorse in music. It's not until the savory scent of bacon wafts under my door that my stomach grumbles. I make myself get out of bed. I still don't want to face the day yet, but I'll do it for bacon.
When I get to the living room, I see the credenza full of gifts. My eyes fall upon Jordi's large, quilted bag, and I have to look away. I hadn't bothered opening any of the gifts. Who'd want to celebrate when the one person that makes you feel good now hates you?
"I was wondering when you'd get up." Mom empties a skillet of bacon onto a serving dish on the dining table.
My first reaction is to stiffen. Then I notice the time. "You didn't drag me out of bed," I observe. She normally doesn't let me sleep in past nine-thirty.
"I thought you might like a little time to yourself." She stands there, skillet in one hand and blue plastic spatula in the other. Not her favorite wooden one.
I try to read her expression, but her face is impassive, like she's wearing a mask. So I slide into a chair and reach for a piece of bacon instead.
She returns to the kitchen to exchange the skillet for a plate, and the spatula for a bottle of syrup. When she sets the plate in front of me, a slow smile spreads across my unwilling lips. On it is a giant chocolate chip pancake, with more chocolate chips forming a happy face on its surface, and whipped cream for hair.
I gawk up at her and find her smiling too, obviously pleased by my reaction.
"You've never done anything like this before." I swipe a chip and pop it into my mouth, enjoying its sweetness spreading across my tongue.
"I know." She sinks into a chair next to me. "I remembered that day when you came home from your first sleepover at Tai's house. You kept babbling about the smiley face pancakes his mother made. I got so jealous that I told you to go clean your room."
I remember that day. I remember her being irrationally upset at me. "You were jealous?"
She ducks her head and fiddles with the hem of her apron. "I'm not proud of it, but yes. You never raved about anything I did."
I stare at her, not sure if this is the same stern mother who values discipline over adoration. Have aliens replaced her with a nicer clone?
"Seth, I always thought I was doing the right thing. All I wanted was to raise a successful child. One who isn't spoiled or expecting everything to be done for them. I saw so many whining, entitled little brats, screaming for things they wanted at the store. It made me mad, and I swore I would not end up with monstrous little snots like those."
I break off a tiny piece of bacon and crunch on it. "I guess you succeeded."
She sighs. It's a weary sound. "I think I overdid it."
I swallow the bacon and peer at her again with wide eyes, not quite believing that she's admitting this. I dare not interrupt this moment.
"Seth, I—" She looks away and straightens the placemat in front of her, then mumbles something I can't quite make out.
It almost sounds like an apology, but that can't be right.
"What?" I ask, intensely curious. "I couldn't hear what you said."
She clears her throat and smooths her apron, still not meeting my eyes. "I said I'm sorry." Her voice drops to a whisper. "For all of it. I'm so sorry."
With another clearing of her throat, she stands, eyes focused on something behind me. "You should open your gifts." And with that, she practically flees back to the kitchen.
I watch her retreating back in wonder. She's never apologized before. For anything. Not to me, or to anyone. Not that I've seen, anyway. Did Dad talk to her? Actually get through to her this time?
I pick up my fork and push a chocolate chip around, thinking. Maybe my parents really do connect the way Dad said last night. Maybe now she's finally trying to do the same with me?
Dare I hope for such a thing?
I take a bite of pancake. It's moist and delicious. Much better than Tai's mom's pancakes.
I should tell Mom this.
I think she'd like that.
A vote-worthy turning point!