I shrug. “It just happened. I’m fine.”
“Burning yourself is not fine, Oz.” She pulls the book out of her apron and counts out the cash, stacking it into ones, fives, tens, and twenties.
I watch her count slowly. “Mom, god. I’m fine. For real. It’s just a little burn. I’m not…I’m not actively burning again. I swear.”
She looks up at me, examines me, the cash now stacked in her hand. “Oz, why do you do it? I don’t get it.”
I shrug again. “Fuck, Mom. I don’t know. You ask me this, and I can’t tell you. I would if I knew. I just don’t. It just…helps.”
Mom tilts her head back and sighs. She pulls a pack of Pall Malls from her apron and hunts for a lighter. Comes up empty. I dig my tin out of my backpack, find the lighter, light her cigarette for her. I take one for myself from her pack, light it, return the lighter to the tin. We smoke in silence, Mom thinking, me trying not to.
Eventually, she breaks it. “Oz, do you hate me?”
I’m shocked. Stunned. “Hate you? What the actual f**k, Mom? Why would you ask me that? Of course not. I love you. You’re my mom.”
She glances around the bedroom for somewhere to ash. I grab the black plastic ashtray from the foot of my bed and hand it to her. She taps the end of her cigarette against it, staring at the orange cherry. “But I’m not a good mom.”
“You’ve done the best you could.” It’s a meaningless response, and we both know it.
She frowns up at me. “Which means no.”
I shake my head. “Jesus, Mom. How am I supposed to answer that f**king question? Huh? ‘No, Mom, you’ve been a shitty parent.’ Is that what I’m supposed to say? Or how about ‘Well, gee, Mom, it’s been great. You’re a goddamn miracle worker, raising an ungrateful little shit like me.’”
Her head jerks up, and her eyes are hurt, angry. “Fucking hell, Oz. Really?”
I let out a breath. “Sorry. I just—what am I supposed to say? I don’t know. You’re the only mom I’ve ever had, the only parent I’ve ever had. We don’t have a typical life. We’re not a typical family. But it’s what we are, and…that’s it, I guess.”
She nods, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. “I guess. I’m just sorry I haven’t done better for you.”
“What’s this all about?”
She lifts a shoulder, stabbing the cigarette out. “You, burning again. You shouldn’t…that shouldn’t happen. But it does. And it’s my fault.”
I’m not sure what to say her. I wish I could say I didn’t blame her, but I do. Shitty, but true. I resist, at great effort, the urge to stab my cigarette out on the back of my hand. Mom watches me, as if knowing what I’m thinking.
Tell me about my father. My lips tingle with the question, but I hold it back. I’ve asked it a million times, and she refuses to answer. Once she was a little drunk and I asked her about him, thinking the booze would loosen her tongue. Instead, it loosened her hand. She slapped me, hard. She immediately felt horrible and started crying and begging me to forgive her, but she never told me a damn thing. She never hit me before that, or after, but she never told me about my father. The burning is a daddy issue, I think. A shrink would have a field day with me, if I gave enough of a shit to go.
Mom leaves me then, and I let her go. I doubt it’s not lost on her that I gave her no reassurances about being a good mom. She’s not. It’s the truth. She’s my mom, though, and she’s all I’ve got.
* * *
There’s a rhythm to the next couple of months. I find a decent job at a Jiffy Lube, changing oil. It’s nothing special, but it’s a job. Puts cash in my pocket and helps Mom with the bills.
Kylie and I take to hanging out at the little coffee shop on campus. It’s just an easy friendship. I mean, yeah, I’m attracted to her, but I’m not gonna push it. I kind of feel guilty for hanging around Kylie. She’s good, innocent. Clean. Pure. I’m pretty sure she’s a virgin. I know she’s younger than me by a few years, but I haven’t asked how old exactly. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, rarely even curses. She’s…just good. And if she keeps hanging out with me, she’ll get tainted. She’ll see the scars on my forearms, she’ll see the smooth patches of burned skin on my hands. Evidence of my f**ked-up mess of a life. I get around my hang-ups by telling myself she can make her own choices as to what she wants, who she wants around her. I make no bones about the fact that I’m a “wrong side of the tracks” kind of guy. It makes me feel a little guilty sometimes, if I think about it too hard, knowing that I like her and I think about kissing her and getting her in bed, and taking her cherry. She’s good, and I’m not, and seriously, Ben is the right guy for her. Rich, athletic, from a good family. Nice. He’s an actual f**king nice guy.
Then, near the middle of November, there’s a flyer on the corkboard near the beverage pick-up counter, advertising an open mic night on February tenth. Kylie sees the flyer, stops dead, grabs my arm, shakes it. “An open mic night!” She spins me around to face her, shakes me again. “I’ve got to do it! It’s my chance!”
I’m perplexed. “Chance at what?”
“Perform! I’ve been writing music, and practicing in my room, but I’ve been too chicken to do any open mic nights downtown by myself. This is my chance to try performing on a small scale.”
I’m even more perplexed. “Kylie. You’re the daughter of one of the most popular duos in the world.”
She nods. “Well, yeah, duh. I know that. But that’s them, Oz. I want to do this on my own, without them.”
I shrug. “Okay, so do it.”
She hesitates. “I’m decent at the piano, but if I’m going to really perform the songs I want to, I’d need a guitarist.”
“This is Nashville, Kylie. If I threw a stick, right now, I’d hit at least a dozen guys who can play.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, duh to that, too. There’re guys who can play the guitar, and then there’s musicians. I want someone serious. If this goes well, I want to try to eventually get a spot in a bar on Broadway. But for that, I need someone good.” We’ve started walking again, and she stops me, a hopeful expression on her face. “You don’t play, do you? Tell me you play.”