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Today wasn’t great. Yesterday either. Lucy had SAT stuff and boyfriend stuff. Rio and I are still on radio silence. Ian’s quiet too, extra quiet. So, it’s just me, Clover, a POP ETC playlist, and a view of the clouds, stars, and sea.

My laptop is opened. A finished draft of the Essay of Doom awaits editing. I refuse to read it over. Every word seems as if it’s not good enough. It’s trash. It’s a Welcome to the Failure Parade anthem, sung by Mrs. Scott.

I should finish it. I should eat dinner. But I stay here, drowning and floating simultaneously.

“Hey.” I turn my head. Mom’s leaning in the doorway. A half smile twists her mouth.

I try to smile back and fail. There’s a theme here.

Mom sighs. It’s either disappointment or concern. Maybe it’s exhaustion. She’s still in a black and white striped, tie neck blouse and slightly wrinkled rose slacks from work. Her hair’s gradually come undone from a bun. Something passes over her eyes. “Is this about a boy?”

“What?”

“Your mood lately, Remy. Is it a boy? Is it your friends?”

I don’t answer, peering at a blue patch on my ceiling.

“Is it school?”

“Mom, I just—” I pause, words unable to pass through the dryness in my throat. Frustration has built a lake of fire in my chest. And all the days without Ian and Lucy, the resentment I still have toward Rio, are like kerosene. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Remy.” Her shoulders fall. “That’s not healthy. I wouldn’t—”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I finally snap. “You wouldn’t get any of this, either. You wouldn’t get why I’m feeling like this.” I glare at her. She’s stiff, arms folded. “Maybe I’m not like you. Or like Dad.” My voice trembles like my hands at my side. “Maybe I’ll never be like either of you.”

For a moment, Mom’s stunned. She closes her eyes, whisper-counts to ten. And then the firestorm inside of me subsides. Regret douses the flames.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Mom.”

“No,” she says, hoarsely. “Don’t apologize. Don’t…” Her eyes are wet. “This is part of growing up.”

There’s those two words again.

We’re so quiet. Clover’s breaths are as loud as my heartbeat. Then Mom says, “‘You Make Loving Fun’ by Fleetwood Mac” with this fondness in her voice.

“What?”

“I don’t know what you’re going through or when you’ll want to talk about it,” she says, “but that song helped me through tough times when I was younger.”

I squint at her. My mom, younger? What a wild concept!

“We’ve all been there.” She clears her throat. I hope she doesn’t cry. I hope I don’t either. “Maybe not the exact same situation or the same results, but… just listen to that song, and I’ll be downstairs with hot chocolate and a shoulder when you’re ready.”

“And your world-famous peanut butter brownies?”

“World-famous?”

“Moderately well-known peanut butter brownies,” I compromise with a shy lift to my lips.

“If this is you baiting me, you’re terrible at it.” Then, as she’s closing the door, she adds, “But, yes, that can be arranged.”

After she leaves, I reach for my laptop. My music app is already up. In less than ten seconds, my bedroom is filled with rhythm guitar and something dreamlike. I can’t help it. I dance. Clover barks at my feet, but I ignore her. The music and the voice singing about miracles and magic seeps into my blood. Breathless, I dance off the regret and confusion. I shake away the image of what my words did to Mom. On one foot, hands in the air, head tossed back—from my hairline to my toes, I feel light.

Like the clouds.

Like the song of the ocean.

Like the stars at night.