I clap a hand over my mouth. Mom pulls me into a hug, and an ugly sob escapes me.
“All right.” She pats my back. “I’m glad you’re happy. Now you better get ready, or you’ll be late.”
School. Oh my God. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Mom laughs. “Why don’t you start with a shower?”
An hour later I’m showered, medicated, and dressed in my favorite army green utility jacket, black leggings, and brown suede boots I can only hope are still in style. I’m so excited I barely feel my exhaustion from last night’s adventure. The fear of knowing someone was in my room feels very far away.
Mom insists on driving, even though I could easily take the bus. Buses are a breeding ground for infection, she says. Normally I find it annoying, especially since Jenny gets to take the bus to her middle school, but after six weeks at home I’m not about to complain.
I can hardly breathe as we cross the parking lot to the Rio. I’m waiting for her to notice something is off, that I parked in the wrong spot or didn’t put the seat back to its former position or some other critical error. But when we reach the car, all she says is “You look tired.”
My chest tightens, but not for the usual reasons. If she changes her mind about school now, I think I’ll have a breakdown.
“Really? I feel fine! I had a great sleep last night.” I smile wide for good measure, and Mom’s gaze eventually swings away from me. She fishes her keys from her purse and unlocks the door, but I don’t feel relieved yet.
I watch her out of the side of my eye as she drops into the driver’s seat, flips down the rearview mirror, and fixes a smudge in her eyeliner. Then she starts the engine and reverses out of the lot.
I exhale slowly, feeling the tension fizzle from my body.
“Nervous?” Mom asks.
“Um, I guess,” I say. “It’s been a while.”
“You’ll do great,” Mom says, and I have to wonder who she’s trying to convince here. She nervously taps her hand on the steering wheel to the beat of the song on the radio. I take out my phone and text Ethan:
I don’t need you to pick up my homework Sunday
Why not?
I’m going to hand it in today
I can’t rein in my smile.
Does this mean…????
I text back an emoji of fireworks exploding.
The car rumbles up to the school. I’ve never been so happy to be pulling up to the brick monstrosity. The morning is cool, and everyone is finally making the shift toward autumn wardrobe items: flannel and Henleys and corduroy.
I spot Hartley next to the curb, straddling her motorcycle and twirling her helmet around her fist. Last night flashes back at me in vivid color, and my stomach pitches. She nods at me, and I duck my head, hoping Mom didn’t see and that Hartley doesn’t get any ideas about coming over.
It’s weird seeing her here after last night, like I took a trip to the moon and found a McDonald’s there.
“That Ethan over there?” Mom asks, squinting toward the quad. I follow her line of sight to a group of kids standing under a huge live oak.
Mom waves out of the window.
“Mom, stop it!” I hiss.
Ethan perks up and starts to jog over.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Mom. “Call you after.” I get out of the car and shrug on my backpack as Ethan approaches.
A door slams. I twist around and frown at Mom, standing outside next to the Rio. That’s when I realize it’s a weekday and she’s not wearing her CVS uniform.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I ask.
Mom puts her car keys into her purse. “I’m coming in.”
Last night’s leap of faith was nothing compared to the horror I feel in this moment. My mother is going to escort me into school. In front of everyone.
“I know you think you can handle it,” she says, “but it’s your first day back. I need to talk to the school nurse and make sure everything is set.”
This isn’t happening.
“Mom. You—you just can’t!”
“It’s not a big deal, sweetie. It’ll only be for a few minutes.”
Right, a few minutes. No big deal. And then she’ll say goodbye like she’s getting onto the last lifeboat and I’m stuck on the sinking Titanic.
“I can talk to the nurse myself,” I argue.
“I’d rather do it. I need to know that your treatments are being done properly.”
“She’s done them before!”
“But it’s been a while.”
“It’s not that complicated. Mom, I’ll be fine on my own. The nurse is a professional. Besides, I used Edna this morning!” I say, referring to the vibrating chest physio vest I sometimes wear to loosen up the shit in my lungs.
“That’s great for an addition to your regular treatment plan, not in place of it. And I’m only coming in for a few minutes. You act like I’m going to sit in the back of your class.”
A zing goes through me.
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
She would. She could.