Word Count: 2,055 (two solos, if only because by the time I got to 1,724 words I saw no reason not to drag it out and just make it two-in-one).

They were at a restaurant again, sitting at a nice table for two out on a quaint veranda, with an umbrella rising to shield them from the bright springtime sun. The locale was somewhat predictable—well-to-do people in their Sunday best, exchanging flowers and cards and hugs and kisses as they dined on their dishes of lamb and steak and lobster, talking and laughing and enjoying themselves on a picturesque day that seemed as if it had been specially made to promote familial spirit.

No two people looked as awkward and tense as Paris and his mother.

Paris hid behind his menu, not so much out of fear or discomfort as a means of avoiding the inevitable conversation. He’d been expecting to see her today, as he always did on Mother’s Day—as if her trying to prove her maternal worth on the second Sunday of every May somehow made things better. He had not, however, been expecting to see her so frequently as of late—his broken wrist, his birthday—and the extra time in her company did nothing more than add to his bitterness and frustration.

“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” she asked. Her eyes scanned her own menu, though she held it low enough to be able to see him should she choose to.

Paris kept his mouth shut and raised his an inch or so higher.

“You haven’t said a word to me all morning. When I picked you up at the house, at church…”

“I wasn’t under the impression that holding a conversation during mass was appropriate,” he responded, hoping his voice sounded disinterested enough. “Besides, you know I don’t like going.”

“It’s Mother’s Day, Paris. Can’t you at least behave yourself on Mother’s Day?”

“I didn’t realize I was misbehaving.”

“You’ve been ignoring me, avoiding me, you didn’t participate in mass at all, you didn’t even get up for communion…”

“I told you, I don’t like going,” Paris repeated, lowering his menu enough to glare over the top of it. “And besides, I’m not Catholic. Can’t you just be satisfied that I went? That I dressed nice and kept my mouth shut and didn’t embarrass you?”

“You’ve never embarrassed me,” she insisted, looking at him as well. “Baby, I’m not embarrassed by you-”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“-I’m worried about you. You never answer my calls or emails, your father tells me you haven’t been showing up to school-”

“I’m shocked you and Dad still talk.”

“-you look tired, you’re losing weight…”

“I’ve been busy,” he told her, glancing back down at his menu.

“I don’t see how. You haven’t been going to school.”

“But I have been going to dance.”

“So… what? You’re going to drop out and focus on your dancing?”

“I didn’t say that,” Paris said, glancing over his lowered menu again. “Why does everyone keep assuming they know what I’m going to do with my life?”

“What are you going to do with your life?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to college?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to do any auditions?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, are you-”

“Mom,” Paris interrupted her, slamming his menu down onto the table. “I told you already. I don’t know. Will you please stop asking?”

His mother stared at him from across the table, her mouth mostly set into a straight line, though the corners tilted down somewhat. Her eyes weren’t angry, though Paris could clearly see the worry within them. Slowly she set her menu down as well, gentler than he had, and folded her hands together on top of it.

“Paris, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said and leaned back into his chair, lifting his arms to cross them over his chest. “What, just because I’m annoyed means something’s wrong?”

“You’re being difficult, moody…”

“And I’ve never been moody before?”

“Not like this.”

Paris stared back at her as if wondering how she hadn’t noticed any of his bad moods the previous times they’d seen one another. He remembered enough of her pleas of “Baby, don’t be like that” to satisfy himself in thinking he wasn’t treating her any differently than normal. He had yet to forgive her—probably never would—and he had no qualms making sure that she always knew that, but for whatever reason she seemed to think there was something more to his behavior than usual, and he had no idea what he was doing to make her think that.

To be fair, she was right. There was something wrong, but he didn’t feel any more inclined to talk to her about it than he had when it first began. It was his business, and until he figured out what he wanted to do about it, he wasn’t going to share it with anyone—not her, not his father, not his best friend, not anyone. Part of his resistance was because he had no idea how he was supposed to tell anyone, or even if he should, and the other part was because he thought that maybe if no one ever found out about it, he could continue to pretend as if none of it had ever happened.

But avoiding the issue wasn’t easy. The circumstance was difficult to swallow to begin with. The more he was around people, the more it bothered him, especially those who asked questions, especially those who looked concerned. And so he stayed at home where he knew he wouldn’t be bothered by his father about why he was frowning, or why he looked tired, or he went to dance where he could put all of that annoyance, frustration, and fear to good use.

“Baby, you have to understand why I’m worried,” his mother tried again. She’d yet to raise her voice, and Paris doubted she would if she hadn’t already. “You’re moody, you’re skipping school, you were already expelled from your old school, your father says you stay out late at night, you look like you’ve lost weight since the last time I saw you…”

“Dancers are thin, Mom.”

“Are you eating like you’re supposed to?”

“Are you seriously going to start that crap with me?” Paris asked, his temper flaring again. “Yes, I’m eating, Mom, and no, I’m not going to go to the bathroom later to puke it all up.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No, but you implied it.”

“Dancers and athletes are prone to those sorts of things.”

“I’m not stupid enough to do something like that, Mom.”

“It’s not caused by stupidity, Paris.”

“And you’re the expert on these things now, are you?”

“Baby, why are you being like this? Can’t I express concern about you without you jumping down my throat about it?”

“One, stop calling me ‘Baby.’ It was cute when I was five, but I’m seventeen now. Two, there isn’t anything wrong with me. I’m just tired of you constantly asking me questions. Stop trying so hard to be my mother.”

“I am your mother!” she shot back, the loudest she’d been so far, and Paris, though he tried to ignore it, thought he saw pain in her eyes. “Whether you like it or not, I’m your mother and I care about you. I worry about you! I don’t understand why you’re being like this,” she said, waving a hand at him as if motioning to his general behavior. “You don’t go to school, you go out at night, you have a tongue ring and a tattoo.”

“And those things automatically make me a bad person?” Paris asked, wondering how she could even have the nerve to imply something like that after the way she’d left him.

“No, but you’re only seventeen and I know for a fact that your father didn’t give his consent. Not only that, but you go to parties and clubs, and you drink…”

“Mom, seriously, half the kids on our street do the same thing.”

“Are you doing drugs?”

“What?” he asked. He might have laughed at the question if he weren’t so annoyed. “No! Why do you always have to think the worst?”

“There has to be something to explain why you’re acting like this. Are you in a gang?”

“Do I look like I’m in a gang?” Paris countered, motioning to the white blouse, light blue skirt, and yellow flats he was wearing. His mother wasn’t impressed and gave him a level stare until he finally answered, “No, Mom, no gang.”

It was the least confident of all of his answers, if only because being a “terrorist” might as well be like being in a gang.

“Are you having trouble with your friend?”

“Ladon? No, we’re fine. I’ve just been busy with dance,” he said.

It was only partially true. He had been spending more time at the studio lately, sometimes because he had to and sometimes because the extra practice meant he didn’t have to think about other things. It also took away from the time he previously would have spent with his friend. He told himself he wasn’t avoiding him—just saving himself from the difficulty of having to talk about his problems, or having to hide them—though if he were to be completely honest with himself he would admit that that was, in a way, what he was doing, not because he didn’t want to see him but because he had no idea what to say and how not to say what he really didn’t want to talk about.

And so he avoided the entire issue. He was becoming quite good at it.

His mother watched him carefully, no doubt attempting to decide whether to believe him or not. Paris did his best to appear convincing, and when he could no longer take her staring, he uncrossed his arms and grabbed his menu again, raising it up to pretend to look it over.

Finally, his mother released a sigh and said, “Baby, I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

Paris didn’t know what to tell her that wasn’t a lie. He had no idea if he was going to be okay or not, but seeing as he hadn’t been close to her since he’d been little, and seeing as he no longer trusted her the way he used to, he never felt like sharing the difficult parts of his life with her.

He never felt like sharing it with anybody.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” he said, even if he didn’t believe it himself. He was still afraid, still confused, and he had no idea who to talk to or how to go about accepting what had become of him, or even if he wanted to—okay, he didn’t want to, but part of him felt as if he had to, not because anyone was making him but because he’d be disappointed in himself if he continued to run away.

His mother looked ready to argue again, but she eventually nodded and released a resigned sigh. “Okay,” she said, though her worry never faded. “Okay. Just… call me… if something happens.”

Paris struggled not to make a face at the idea. He knew if he refused they’d just be drawn into it all over again. “If something happens,” he agreed. He doubted anything would, at least not anything he would actually feel like telling her.

“And try to go back to school,” she added. “I know you don’t like it there, but I really want you to be able to go to college, Baby.”

“Okay,” he said again instead of informing her of what he’d told his dance instructor—that he didn’t think he was the type for college.

“And… you can come to New York whenever you want. I can buy your plane ticket and I’ll pick you up at the airport. Or… if you’d even rather go to school there…”

He stopped himself before he could tell her that she was trying too hard, remind her that she’d left him and he still hadn’t forgiven her for it, and that accompanying her to New York—living with her there—would be out of the question until he did.

But he didn’t say that. He resigned himself to the distance between them the same as she had.

“Okay…”

In the end, he knew it was better this way.