“Deadly.” He laughs again, pulling me to him and kissing my forehead.
“Okay then, you’re on.” I smile and then wonder how the hell I’m gonna pitch this to my mom.
“Absolutely not,” Mom clips out.
“But Moooommm!” I whine. “I’m eighteen, why can’t I go camping with my boyfriend?”
“Is that a serious question, Blair? Do you want a list?”
“Um, yeah I kinda do.”
“Fine. A. You’re too young to go wandering around in the desert by yourselves. B. You’ll probably end up murdered, and three, if you're not murdered you’ll more than likely come back pregnant.” She announces all of this to me like I’m an idiot for asking.
“You mean C.”
“What?”
“You mean C. You said A, B, Three. It should have been C.”
“Don’t be a smart ass, Blair, you're not going.” she tells me as she folds the laundry.
“Mom, I’m eighteen, it's a weekend camping. I’m not joining some commune and participating in group sex!” I’m frustrated as hell with her. I get that she worries, I’m her only daughter and she’s my mother. But I’m not some silly little girl. Half the time I’m more responsible than she is.
“I know you’re not stupid, Blair, but what if something were to happen to you, huh?”
“Like what? It's a few hours’ drive, it's not like I’m going overseas.” I’m beginning to sound like a petulant child and I need to rein it in.
“Honey, nine hours is not a few. I said no, now let’s leave it, please.”
“This is bullshit!” I say tossing the shirt I was folding back into the basket and giving her a pointed look. “You go away for work all the time and leave me here alone for as long as a week! I don’t see the difference. Anything that I could get up to camping, I could just as easily do right here.” I frown, picking the shirt back up and re-folding it. “What’s really bothering you, Mom?”
“I just,” she pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales. “You’re just growing up too fast, is all. You’ll be off at college soon and it’s just so overwhelming having your baby come and ask if she can go camping alone with a boy in the middle of the desert.” She pulls a fabric softener sheet from a pair of pants and folds them without looking up. “It’s scary doing all this on your own, not having anyone to back up your decisions.”
I sigh and walk around the laundry basket to give her a hug, “I miss Dad, too,” I tell her, breathing her in.
“I know you do, honey. I’m sorry, I think I’m just having a bad day.” Let’s shelve this conversation and we’ll talk about it after dinner. Deal?”
“Deal,” I tell her, bumping the dryer door shut with my hip; I pick up the basket and carry it up the stairs.
“To be continued then!” I shout out and listen to her laugh in reply.
“NOW, THAT’S WHAT I’m talking about—that was excellent, Ethan,” Steve says slapping my back and causing beads of sweat to slide down my forehead and into my eyes. “You’ll nail the entrance exam if you play like that.” He smiles.
“That’s the plan,” I answer as I grab the hem of my shirt and wipe at my face. I’ve been at the piano three hours solid, my arms and shoulders are aching and I need to go change my shirt.
“Good practice. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time!” Steve shouts as I make my way to the guys’ locker room down the hall.
“Dude, what’s up? You busy now?” Jackson asks barreling through the doors as I’m changing. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it on the bench. I have a beater on under my shirt since I’m still bruised and didn’t want anyone to notice. Trouble is, it’s fucking boiling. I felt like I was about to pass out in the music room.
“Ain’t got any plans, you?”
“Heading back to mine, wanna come play video games?”
“Dude you're so rock and roll.”
“Fuck you, asshole!” he says. “You want in or not?”
“Sure,” I tell him and pull my phone from my locker. I send a text to Blair telling her I’m going to Jackson’s and I’ll call her later and toss my cell back into my open locker.
Jackson’s watching me with a smug look on his face and his eyebrows raised.
“What?”
“Texting the ball and chain to make sure it’s cool to come out and play.” He laughs. “Never thought I’d see the day Ethan Jamison was * whipped.” He’s holding his arm out in front of him, doing a stupid whipping motion. I toss my deodorant can at him.
“I’m not whipped, asshole.”
“No…so that wasn’t Blair you just texted?” He laughs rubbing at the spot on his arm where the canister struck.
“No dickhead,” I lie.
“You’re a shit liar, E.” He smirks and walks out the locker room, still making the whipping noises and I laugh to myself. Truth is, I’m completely whipped and I couldn’t give a shit. Hell, I think I even kinda like it.