by Cole Parker
Circumstances 6
I realized half way to the car that my mother had been told to bring me some clothes, and that she hadn’t. That really pissed me off. I was in a funny mood: too much emotion had occurred already today, and that made me much more erratic than I usually was. I was almost ready to do battle with her. I wasn’t feeling like taking any more ridicule, humiliation or even badgering. I was tired of no one listening to me, tired of everyone yelling at me, tired of feeling like I’d been elected the school’s punching bag for the day.
She’d parked out in front of the school, so I was able to scoop up my clothes the football players had draped there. I didn’t bother trying to put them on, which would have been about impossible without flashing anyone looking out the school windows. It was bad enough just walking like I was, a shirt being pressed against both my front and back and the rest of me bare all over. At least I couldn’t hear and so was unaware of any hilarity or chaos in the classrooms because of the spectacle I was making.
By the time we got to the car, my mother had lost whatever compassion Gary had stirred in her. She was starting to rant again.
“I’ve never been so humiliated!” she began. “You’re going to tell me exactly what you were doing. I can hardly believe you did what Mr. Johnson told me. You’re going to tell me why you did those things, and then we’re going to figure out how many years you’ll be grounded for it, and what privileges you’re going to lose, and how many extra chores you’ll be taking on, and—”
I was ready to yell at her, to tell her to shut up. That would have got a reaction, probably me being slapped, the mood she was in. I have to say, hitting me wasn’t in her repertoire, but today? The way things had been going so far, who knew?
Before I said it though, I stopped to think. Something I should do more often.
She was upset. I was upset. I was upset the way my day had gone, which was mostly a matter of circumstances. I hadn’t done much of anything wrong, at least nothing I had any control over. She was upset because she had a lot of misinformation she was dealing with. She was dealing with it badly, but I could understand why, if I looked at it from her perspective, a perspective that rarely took my feelings into account. So rather than making her even angrier, I thought maybe I should try sitting down with her and explaining. Maybe, if I used the right tone, the right body language, she’d see it all from a different perspective. Maybe.
If she didn’t, I could always tell her then to shut up.
She got in the car. I opened the other door, then just stood there. She put the key in the ignition, yanked on her seatbelt, then reached to turn the key before she realized I was still outside.
“What are you doing? Get in the car! Get in!”
I leaned down so I could see her eyes. “I will, but there’s a condition. You can yell at me all you want when we get home, but not before. If you’re going to yell at me all the way home, I’m not getting in. We’ll talk about this at home. We’ll be quiet in the car.”
I guess she wasn’t ready for any ultimatums, not from me, not right then.
Her face turned red, she started to scream at me, but instead, she started the car and drove off. I didn’t bother shutting my door, so it was still hanging open, somewhat reducing the dramatic effect of her driving away in a huff.
She stopped about 100 feet away, jamming on the brakes. That caused the door to fly all the way open, bounce, then slam back, closing and latching when it did. I could see her, looking back at me. I looked at her. Neither of us moved. Then I turned around and started walking in the other direction. My dramatic gesture was probably as absurd as hers had been since I was mostly naked. I had nowhere to go, but wasn’t expecting to go far. I thought the odds were she’d come after me. She’d be too mad just to drive away.
I’d judged her right. She did. She put the car in reverse and shot back in my direction. Knowing my mom’s driving skills, I moved away from the curb.
She stopped next to me. I stopped too, and turned to look at her. She opened her door, started to climb out, and was jerked back by her seatbelt.
“Fuck!” she shouted, the first time I’d ever heard her use that word, sank back into her seat, jabbed at the belt release, got out, and pounded on the top of the car. I watched her silently.
It took a while, but when she’d calmed enough to speak, she started, stopped, then managed to say, her voice low and ominous, “Get. In. The. Car.”
I managed to say, “If. You. Don’t. Yell. At. Me.”
We stared at each other. I was shocked at myself. I never confronted her. It wasn’t who I was. I was very meek and unassertive for a 14-year-old. Most of us that age are testing our new bodies and energies and spirits. Not me. But as I said, I was feeling a mixture of emotions, and simply didn’t feel like taking any more shit today. Come what may. And it probably would. But I was past caring.
Finally, after thinking about driving off again—I could see it in her eyes—she said, “OK, I won’t say a word till we’re home.” It was difficult for her to say it, I could hear that, but she said it.
I didn’t reply, just walked over to the car and got in.
It seemed the first battle I’d won all day. And all I’d
done was stand up for myself.