~*~

“Hey boo, wake up. It’s almost one.” My mom’s smile was brighter than the sun that greased my eyes with fire. She twisted the window wand sending a flood of light into my room. I groaned thickly, blinking.

 “What year is it?”

 She rolled her eyes. “Now, come on. Up and at ‘em.” I sat up in my bed and studied her. How’d she always manage to do that? Her face looked cheerful, pleasant, and rosey. No dark circles or bags under her eyes. Only a slight puffiness. I thought back to the last time I’d cried, when I was fourteen and broke my arm. I’d held it together only long enough to get out of sight of my friends. Then I bawled like a baby and the next morning my eyes were sealed shut and my whole face was swollen. So how did my mom always manage to hide her tears so well? She was laying a stack of my underwear on the chair when she caught me studying her.

 “What?” Her eyebrow crept higher on her forehead in that mother’s-looking-at-your-thoughts kind of way that’s terrified kids of all shapes, sizes and nationalities for thousands of years. I quickly looked away and shrugged. “You were looking at me funny.” That eyebrow was still floating. I shook my head, innocently.

 “I’m just trying to wake up. Wait, did you say it was almost one?” My clock was buried beneath a pile of old Algebra 2 assignments. Mom nodded. “Crap, I’m s’posed to be at Hester’s in five!” I tumbled out of bed and yanked a “cleanish” t-shirt out of my drawer, tearing out the door and down the hall.