But it was nothing like that. Nothing. I can’t explain what it was about my mom’s gentle expression and my dad’s fingers combing through my curls and the taste of those first few tears on my lips, but I’d relive that moment over and over just to hear again, “Okay, so what’s the big deal?” from my mom in a choked, crying-laugh.
“And how long did this outfit take to put together?” Mom asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. I don’t tell her I planned it out Wednesday of last week. Some secrets should be kept. “Guess.”
“Too long,” Mom says, half amused.
“Yep!”
Today, I’m sporting a loose, black-and-white-striped T-shirt under a thin, purple hoodie with faded olive skinnies and a pair of bright-white Vans. Later, I’ll tug a beanie over my messy, short curls. For a first day back to school, I’m killing it.
Mondays can bite me.
“If you’re trying to look casually-sharp, mission accomplished.”
Her compliment leaves me kind of dizzy. I cuff my hands over Willow’s ears. “You’re a badass, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey,” replies Mom. “But I’d appreciate it if, next time, you covered your dad’s ears instead. He’s at that impressionable age.”
“Hey!” Dad yells.
“The truth hurts, babe.”
“So does a life without my killer French toast.”
I chuckle as I lower my hands from Willow’s ears, careful not to disrupt the messy buns on either side of her head. She’s got this whole Princess Leia obsession lately. I approve.
“Don’t listen to her, kiddo,” Dad says. He dishes out plates of French toast accompanied by burnt bacon and runny eggs. Emperor of breakfasts might’ve been a stretch. Dad flops into the chair next to Mom. “She’s still not over Zack Morris. Hashtag Man Crush Mondays.”
“Dad, no.”
“What?”
“You’re not allowed to hashtag anything. Ever.”
Dad’s laugh is a cross between a bear and a Disney character. It’s loud, but silly and contagious.
I scrunch my nose. “And Zack who?”
“Kiddo!” Dad’s indignant expression isn’t very believable. He and Rio should start an acting troupe. “Have we not taught you enough about the glory of Saved by the Bell?”
“Is it on Netflix?”
Mom smacks Dad’s bicep when he squawks. Her cheeks are lit like a stop light. “Jesus, Max, please. Hush.”
“But he—”
“I know, I know.” Mom squeezes his forearm to stop the flailing. They trade a sweet, crinkled-eye look that makes me want to vomit. Seriously. My parents and their heart-eyes.
Across from them, Willow pretends to gag. I grin. Hands down, Willow is my favorite tiny human. I’m not worried about having to be that menacing older brother who threatens bodily harm on some random boy or girl for crushing Willow’s heart. Romance isn’t Willow’s jam either.
We eat quickly around small conversations. My parents talk about TV shows and pop culture. I swear, they’re determined to be those “cool parents” who can quote movie scenes and recite the lyrics to every bass-heavy, radio-friendly song. It’s funny, but also annoying.
“So,” I say, chewing casually until my parents look at me. “I’m thinking of getting my lip pierced for my next birthday.”
I’m not serious. Needles and I are not compatible. When I was ten, I begged my dad for two weeks to get my ears pierced, mainly because two boys in my class had their ears pierced and, hello, everyone thought they were so effing cool. Then, in the chair with that vicious, skin-puncturing, metal piercing gun six inches from my left ear, I started wailing like a kicked cat and sobbed my way through two scoops of strawberry cheesecake ice cream on the way home with my ears fully intact.
Mom levels me with one of those “not this morning” looks. “And on October second of next year, I’m thinking of taking away your car, grounding you until after college, and making you wear overalls everywhere.”
My birthday is October first. Rio always makes a big deal about that. “First of the month, first born, first place loser since the first day you met me.”
“Mom! Where’s the democracy?”
“Oh, honey, there’s no such thing. Ask all the rich, corrupt politicians.”
I pucker my lips, but I don’t have a solid response. I might have to revoke her badass status, though.
After breakfast, Mom pours her second cup of coffee into a stainless-steel travel mug. “Willow, let’s suit up. I have to get you to school and meet up with the future Mr. and Mrs. Gleeson about a venue.”
“Almost done, Mommy!”
There’s an unwritten rule about Willow. She’s incapable of doing anything productive in the morning until she finishes pretending to read the comics. Even Mr. Whitaker, her first-grade teacher, knows it.
I sneak Clover a slice of burnt bacon, but her crunching almost gives us away.
Thank god, Dad clears his throat. “Are they still looking for one of those historically romantic themes?”
“An evening under a blanket of stars and the words of Emily Bronte.” Mom’s fake, dreamy sigh signifies her disinterest. This is the same woman who dances to lame ’80s music with her husband.
“My kind of party.”
“Does that mean you’ll be attending, Max?”
“Not on your life, Abby.”
My parents laugh together. It’s synchronized and corny and so them. I scoop up my plate, deposit it in the sink, then dodge my jumpy little sister to get to my backpack and beanie. I pocket my phone and keys.
“Hey,” calls Mom before I get too far, “don’t forget you’re picking Willow up from school today. No chillaxing with Lucy and Rio.”
The squeak of my shoes echoes on the hardwood floor as I spin around. “Mom,” I say, sighing, “I take back that badass title. You’ve been demoted.”
“To what?”
“A basic, wannabe hipster.”
“Score!” Dad curls an arm around her noticeably tight shoulders. “At the bottom of the uncool chain with me, where you belong.”
Mom’s lips are pursed. I don’t have time to humor her. I’m already late. I drop a quick kiss on the top of Willow’s head before jogging for the door. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to school before the first bell.