the bait. She clearly had no intention of going into it with me, and really, why would she? It wasn’t like I was dating Noah. She had no real obligation to tell me anything.
But still. We told each other everything, or at least almost everything. I knew as much about her life as she knew about mine. Mom wasn’t the type to shy away from a subject, sometimes to the point of embarrassment, like the time she tried to talk to me about her sex life with Dad. I swear, she wanted to go into the nitty-gritty, and I eventually had to storm out of the house to get her to stop. She was pretty oblivious, but she meant well.
I knew that I had to push her. She might get angry, or maybe just weird, but if I wanted to know what her deal was, I had to be strong. She wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, as I found out one year when I was a kid and she referred to the mall Santa as “Mister Wells, the man who cuts your hair.” Or, like the time she said to my father, “Make sure you show up at eight, since the guests for your party are coming at seven,” completely ruining his surprise and months of her own hard work. Needless to say, my mom could be a little daffy sometimes.
I launched into details about my class, including how interesting Professor Johnson was, as our tea and sushi was brought out. My mom gleefully told me crazy stories about Professor Johnson, including how he once got into a loud verbal argument with another professor at a film history convention. Apparently, they disagreed over thematic elements in Citizen Kane , which was about the most boring thing I could imagine. Professor Johnson apparently got so angry that he cursed the other guy out, and called him “possibly the worst thing to have ever happened to the great world of filmmaking, ever,” which was definitely an exaggeration. Michael Bay comes to mind, before anything else.
I laughed loudly at her jokes, and purposefully lulled her into a false sense of security. I felt bad that I was going to assault her, but she had left me no other choice. Once the sushi was consumed, and there was no danger of thrown raw fish, I commenced my attack.
“So Mom, I’ll be working pretty close with Noah Carterson,” I said slyly during a small lull between stories.
She looked surprised then her face quickly turned blank. “That’s nice, honey.”
“What do you think about his dad? The guy produced a lot of movies.”
She looked over at the waitress, visibly uncomfortable. “Yes, he did.”
“Any in particular you like?”
“Ah, honey, I need to use the bathroom.” She stood up and made a beeline for the bathroom door.
Damn. Foiled by the toilet.
I waited patiently for her return, well aware that I had to step my game up. There was only one thing left to do: a full on, direct frontal assault. I had to outright question what her deal was. I looked around the restaurant, picturing her reaction. I guessed it would be anger, initially, or maybe just awkwardness. I wasn’t sure why I was so intent on finding out; it wasn’t like Noah showed any interest in me. If anything, I had scared him away by basically calling him a manwhore. At that point though, it was more about why my mom was hiding something from me than it was about trying to learn more about Noah.
Finally, she returned from the bathroom, a smile plastered on her face.
“So, honey, make sure you call your father. He’s going to tell you all about Norwegian reindeer, but it won’t be too bad. They’re actually pretty—”
“Mom,” I said quickly, interrupting her.
She looked surprised. “What’s up?”
“Why are you avoiding talking about Mr. Carterson?”
She stared at me for a second, and then sighed. “I’m not being very subtle, I guess.”
I laughed. “Are you joking? That was subtle?”
She grinned, looking a little embarrassed. “I was trying to hide it from you.”
“No kidding, Mom! That was about as obvious as it gets.”
She shook her head, grinning. “I
But still. We told each other everything, or at least almost everything. I knew as much about her life as she knew about mine. Mom wasn’t the type to shy away from a subject, sometimes to the point of embarrassment, like the time she tried to talk to me about her sex life with Dad. I swear, she wanted to go into the nitty-gritty, and I eventually had to storm out of the house to get her to stop. She was pretty oblivious, but she meant well.
I knew that I had to push her. She might get angry, or maybe just weird, but if I wanted to know what her deal was, I had to be strong. She wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, as I found out one year when I was a kid and she referred to the mall Santa as “Mister Wells, the man who cuts your hair.” Or, like the time she said to my father, “Make sure you show up at eight, since the guests for your party are coming at seven,” completely ruining his surprise and months of her own hard work. Needless to say, my mom could be a little daffy sometimes.
I launched into details about my class, including how interesting Professor Johnson was, as our tea and sushi was brought out. My mom gleefully told me crazy stories about Professor Johnson, including how he once got into a loud verbal argument with another professor at a film history convention. Apparently, they disagreed over thematic elements in Citizen Kane , which was about the most boring thing I could imagine. Professor Johnson apparently got so angry that he cursed the other guy out, and called him “possibly the worst thing to have ever happened to the great world of filmmaking, ever,” which was definitely an exaggeration. Michael Bay comes to mind, before anything else.
I laughed loudly at her jokes, and purposefully lulled her into a false sense of security. I felt bad that I was going to assault her, but she had left me no other choice. Once the sushi was consumed, and there was no danger of thrown raw fish, I commenced my attack.
“So Mom, I’ll be working pretty close with Noah Carterson,” I said slyly during a small lull between stories.
She looked surprised then her face quickly turned blank. “That’s nice, honey.”
“What do you think about his dad? The guy produced a lot of movies.”
She looked over at the waitress, visibly uncomfortable. “Yes, he did.”
“Any in particular you like?”
“Ah, honey, I need to use the bathroom.” She stood up and made a beeline for the bathroom door.
Damn. Foiled by the toilet.
I waited patiently for her return, well aware that I had to step my game up. There was only one thing left to do: a full on, direct frontal assault. I had to outright question what her deal was. I looked around the restaurant, picturing her reaction. I guessed it would be anger, initially, or maybe just awkwardness. I wasn’t sure why I was so intent on finding out; it wasn’t like Noah showed any interest in me. If anything, I had scared him away by basically calling him a manwhore. At that point though, it was more about why my mom was hiding something from me than it was about trying to learn more about Noah.
Finally, she returned from the bathroom, a smile plastered on her face.
“So, honey, make sure you call your father. He’s going to tell you all about Norwegian reindeer, but it won’t be too bad. They’re actually pretty—”
“Mom,” I said quickly, interrupting her.
She looked surprised. “What’s up?”
“Why are you avoiding talking about Mr. Carterson?”
She stared at me for a second, and then sighed. “I’m not being very subtle, I guess.”
I laughed. “Are you joking? That was subtle?”
She grinned, looking a little embarrassed. “I was trying to hide it from you.”
“No kidding, Mom! That was about as obvious as it gets.”
She shook her head, grinning. “I
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