Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“Damian told me the cross-country tryouts were today,” Mom
says from the doorway. “How’d they go?”
I shrug. “I made the team.”
“That’s wonderful. I never doubted you would.” She falls silent.
“Look, Mom.” I carry my Algebra II textbook to my desk and drop
it on the smooth wood surface. “I have a ton of homework to do,
so . . .”
“Oh.” She looks around and sees all my books on the bed. “Of
course, I’ll just leave you alone to get to work. I’ll let you know when
dinner’s ready.”
“Fine,” I say. And then, because I feel a little guilty for being so
mean, I add, “Thanks.”
One hour and thirty quadratic equations later, my eyes are blurry
from staring at so many numbers. I think I can solve for x in my
sleep now. The house is oddly silent—the Stella monster must be
out somewhere and I haven’t heard Damian come home. I haven’t
even heard Mom moving around.
Emerging from my room for a glass of water, I see Mom still
hunched over the magazines on the dining table.
“Hi, Phoebola.” She smiles as I approach.
“Hi.” I smile back.
Somehow, this feels more like the old us. Maybe because no one
else is home, but I feel like we’re back in L.A. and giggling over
fashion magazines again.
Spurred by sentimentality, I slide into the chair next to her.
“Whatcha looking at?”
She groans. “Bridesmaid dresses. There are so many styles and
colors to choose from I don’t even know where to start.”
91