Page 122 of Outspoken

Yet, when I asked him what they’re planning, he said no plans that he knows of.

It feels like she’s hiding something, and I never imagined she’d do that. I understand if she wants to hide things from doofus, but not me. BFFs are supposed to tell each other everything, but neither of us has been doing that.

I close our chat thread, an uncomfortable knot sitting in my stomach.

Instead of messaging anyone, I put my phone away. Though I won a battle today, it feels insignificant when compared to the war that is my life.

If I don’t have Miguel or Paige or my old junkie friends—and since I don’t want to get trapped in addiction again or talk to my brother because he’s lame—what the fuck do I have?

Instead of walking to the parking lot so I can go home to eat cookies and watch dumb movies, I turn toward the library, where I can use the computers. On my way, I fish a bright pink flyer from my backpack, the one about mentoring kids struggling with addiction. I sent Miguel info about the organization a while ago so he could look into it for Angel, but I kept the flyer just in case.

I think I’ll put in my application. Eric told me to experiment, so…here I go experimenting.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Miguel

I GRAB THE CAST IRON pan from my mom, careful not to trip over Preciosa, the cat, while I navigate the kitchen. Mom couldn’t pick a name for the cat, so we went with what Mom calls her all the time: precious.

Preciosa hasn’t left Mom’s side for two days, even following her into the bathroom. It’s strange.

Mom grabs the heavy pan from me and barely moves it to the stove before it slips from her frail hands and crashes onto the stovetop.

I wince, glad I haven’t yet replaced our struggling coil -top stove with a glass-top one.

“Quieres huevos fritos o una tortilla con queso?” she asks.

“I don’t want you to make any breakfast,” I respond.

“If I make it, you’ll eat.”

“Yeah, of course, but I’d rather you not do that. Go to the living room and chill. I have time to cook before I leave for work.”

I close my eyes a moment, a wave of exhaustion hitting. Mom slept through the night, which is unusual, so I didn’t need to sit up with her. My body is completely rested. But I’m struck with a deep fatigue that goes down to the soul level. That’s what happens when you part ways with the love of your life.

Mom faces me, hands on her hips. The large purple house dress she’s wearing can’t hide how bony and thin her body is. Though she’s as fiery and angelic as ever, I hate seeing her so wasted away.

“I’m cooking,” she says, brushing wild strands of hair off her forehead. “Pick your meal.”

I clasp my hands together. “Mamá, por favor detente. You have chemo in two days. You need to conserve your energy.”

She waves a bony hand. “Hush. I woke up feeling great this morning. I slept better than in months. All I want is to make my sweet son breakfast. Will you deny an old woman her wish?”

I laugh, which I haven’t done much of lately. Though Mom always has a way of getting me smiling. “Mamá, come on. I’ll cook.”

The look she gives me says I better not try to stop her again.

I admit defeat with a heavy sigh. “You’re stubborn, Mamá. Know that?”

“Sí.”

I grab a lighter pan from a bottom cabinet and set it on the stove, flipping on the burner. “Can you at least use a pan you can lift? Compromise with me here.”

“Mmm, fine. Only because I like this pan better. Now, what am I making?”

I pick up Preciosa so she doesn’t trip Mom while she’s shuffling around the kitchen, then I lean against the archway that leads to the living room. Preciosa tries to wiggle free at first, then relaxes and purrs as I pet her, propping her little white paws on my shoulder.

“Fried eggs, since you won’t say no,” I tell Mom.

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