I normally only tutor grades PreK-5, but I have one 7th grader who I’ve been with for years, and who is far too wise for her age.
Kid (watching me eat my standard pregnancy-nausea Saltines from a plastic baggie): “You’ve been snacking a lot during our sessions lately.”
Me: “Oh. Yes. I know. I’m sorry, I hope it’s not distracting. I just…I’m taking a vitamin and it makes me a little sick if I don’t eat.”
Kid (looking me up and down skeptically): “Mmmm hmmm.”
Me (closing my sweater self-consciously): “It’s true.”
Kid: “You look more tired, too. And last week you brought the wrong folder.”
Me: “It’s the vitamins. They make me tired. And forgetful. They have lots of side effects.”
Kid (rolling eyes): “Ok. Just remember– I’m 13. I know things. I watch a lot of TV.”
Me: “Ok, well, I’d appreciate if–”
Kid: “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Kid: “….that you’re smoking pot.”
When I was in high school, I drove a Toyota 4-Runner. It was fucking enormous, and I was very bad at controlling it. My parents bought it for me with the mentality “Better she hit things than things hit her,” a sentiment I took far too literally and thus proceeded to hit all the things.
The parking situation at my high school was a certifiable shitshow. If you couldn’t wake up in time (so for me– every day, my whole life, always) to get one of the ten parking spots alloted to students, you had to parallel park on the street. You could only do so if you had a street permit claiming you lived in that neighborhood, which I obviously did not. Luckily, my oddly resourceful boyfriend (the kind of guy you could be like “I need a talking komodo dragon that knows karate and is wearing a tutu, stat,” and he’d be like “I know a guy”) was able to procure a fake permit for me, so I was one of the 1500 lucky students who got to illegally vie for a parallel parking spot within a .5 mile radius of the school every morning. It was a battleground.
One day after school I walked up to my car and found a note stuck to my windshield.
“Learn how to park, you fucking bitch. Your car is taking up three spots.” Then, scribbled in pencil at the bottom someone chimed in, “She has a $35,000 car and she doesn’t even think that’s expensive. She’s a spoiled cunt.”
Which is just completely unfair.
I had no idea how much that car cost.
I just got back to my parents’ house in Maryland, where I am staying the night before I fly out to Florida tomorrow. When I got here, my mom was super excited to show me the crib she got for my baby nephew. I was psyched to see it until she told me where it resides– in Zack’s bedroom.
Zack is my youngest sibling. He is 26 years old. His bedroom, however, never escaped the dark days of puberty.
I immediately panicked. A montage to explain why:
Sweet dreams, baby boy.