“No! Absolutely not! It’s final. I can’t believe you even have the nerve to ask!” Mom yells.
Storming off she abandons me, frustrated, alone, holding a crumbled paper as she slams her door in my face and on my dreams. Of all times, all times, this is the one favor I’d trade all others to embrace. Tell me no for the rest of my life to hear ‘yes’ just this once. The disappointment. The embarrassment my friends will refuse to let go! Funny thing is, though annoyed and irritated to no end, a small part of me, deep inside is mush. I lean into the thin door, hearing her muffled cries penetrate the pillow burying her face.
Tortured, conscience torn in two, I head to my room. Plopping on my squeaky mattress I stare at the empty consent form. Her absent signature means a world of living a dream, or a suffocated fantasy.
However, a thought crosses my mind. Yeah, that thought. I shouldn’t. She’d kill me. But I can’t resist thinking it. Every kid does this at some point in his life. Why not? I’d cowardly practiced it before but never had the balls to do it. Teacher’s notes, homework assignments, all with a big fat “F” slapped on the top page. “Make sure your mother signs this,” teachers frequently nag.
But this is different. My heart pounds as I sit up in bed. My rebellious side nudges me to act. I slide the black pen and a blank paper from my top drawer, warming my fingers as I scribble that god awful ‘S’ mom jots with such ease.
Five times. Ten times. I think I’m ready. Here goes nothing.
