When I got home that morning around 7 a.m., mother was up waiting for me. She said she was worried but I know in reality she was just jealous. I could tell from the stains on the recent issue of the L.A. Times she had been crying, and her tears have never been meant for me. She only cries for herself and her lost youth, and in secret she wishes we could switch lives tomorrow. I think that's why she's been away from home so much lately, so she doesn't have to compete with me over who gets to attend the coolest parties and hang out with the beautiful people.
For me it's never been a competition. I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not even comfortable in that kind of setting, that being around the pretty and the popular only reminds me of the fact that I've always felt like a misfit.
Maybe I should.