You need to screw up to learn. You need to experience to create greatness. It’s not just about bowls, you
know.
I wonder if I’m going crazy. I think I read somewhere - or was it something I learned in psychology class? - that people often make up their own reality as a means of coping with what their brains can’t possible handle. The idea comforts me, because while no one else out there seems to be trying to protect or save me, at least maybe my brain in.
Laurie Faria StolarzStichwörter: laurie-faria-stolarz deadly-little-lessons
But I’m not letting you off so easily. Did you hear something that I should know about?”
“No,” I say, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than I ever thought possible.
“So, then, is this just an excuse you’ve devised to call me? Because, trust me when I say that you need no excuses. I love hearing from you.
Did you and dad eat the raw-violi I left in the fridge?”
“Sort of. I mean, we considered eating it. It made its way onto the table. But we ended up having the rest of the rawkin’ raw-sagna instead. (Rawkin’ raw-sagna: a sorry excuse for a real lasagna made with uncooked squash slices, tomatoes, and cashew paste, and served on—what else?—Elvis dinner plates). I don’t have the heart to tell her that dad chucked both dinners and ordered us a pizza.
I’m just really glad to hear that things are going well.”
“Wait, you’re not getting ready to hang up on me, are you?” he asks. “We’ve only been talking for a couple minutes.”
“Well, I don’t really have much else to say.”
“Are you kidding? The possibilities are endless. For starters, you could tell me that you’ll call me again. Or, better yet, you could ask me out for coffee or a slice of pizza. Of course, letting me know that I can call you whenever I want is always a good possibility. Or, if you’re feeling really generous, you could tell me that you miss me, too. I mean, I wouldn’t even care if it was a lie.
My mother grimaces, clearly on to my BS. She’s what you’d call a health fanatic times one hundred, from the raw-ful cuisine she makes us eat to her handmade sanitary napkins (no joke: the woman actually uses kitchen sponges), and so, pepperoni-and-cheese-laden pizza ranks right up there with what fur coats are to PETA.
Laurie Faria StolarzHey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?”
“Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks.
“How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile.
She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “Anyone meaning Ben?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.”
“Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty, pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.
Oh, and because I don’t have a dating history as big as your mouth, it doesn’t quite measure up?” he asks.
“I hate to break this to you, but that isn’t the only thing of yours that doesn’t measure up.” She waggles her pinkie at him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He grins.
“I think I’m all set,” I interrupt, zipping up my bag.
“Don’t forget this.” Still cuddling my sweater, Wes purrs a couple of times before tossing it my way.
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why your dad thinks of you as feminine,” Kimmie mocks.
Wait,” Wes says. “Are you to imply that our dear Chameleon is once again having premonitions by way of pottery?”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me reptilian names,” I say.
“Would you prefer it if I called you a freak?
What about Melissa?” I ask. “She’s angry at you for ending things with her. Maybe this is her way of teaching you a lesson.”
“A total possibility. I’m definitely sweet and studly enough to drive a girl literally insane, wouldn’t you say?” He flexes his biceps to be funny.
“Can we please try to be serious here?
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