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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑
" 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 "
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          "Suspended?" Dr. Mom raises her brow.

It really didn't take long for the news to reach her. In fact, I think she already knew before the principal even called in. She's intuitive like that. Sometimes, I suspect she has planted a spy chip in my arm. Other times, I just chalk it up to the fact that nothing gets past her.

"It's just for two days, Ma," I try downplaying the whole thing.

"You're missing exams because of it," she points out, and I physically wince.

I should be in school right now, acing yet another test. Instead, I'm at a fancy new restaurant, watching Dr. Mom terrorize the waiters for taking too long to serve our food.

"I'll ask for makeup exams," I say as our trembling waiter places our cutlery on the table. Poor soul. I wish I could trade places with him. At least I won't get to sit through this uncomfortable meal.

"No need," Dr. Mom says. "I have spoken with Dr. Goldman and the principal and the schoolboard. It took one too many calls, but I managed to pull a few strings."

This is embarrassing. I never wanted to be one of those students. The ones who rely on their parents' influence to achieve things. One wrong move, and here I am.

"You will be given special exams this Saturday, before winter break begins," she continues. "And you'll get some kind of punishment, of course. Dr. Goldman is still deciding on it."

I roll my eyes. "He's probably going to give me detention for the entire midterm."

"Whatever the punishment may be, take it with grace," Dr. Mom stresses. "You've been caught cheating. Any more outbursts will only reflect badly on you. On us. So, chin up and take the blow with dignity."

Dignity's a big family value. To maintain composure under scrutiny. To be grace under fire. Sometimes, it just feels like not doing anything at all. Like letting people walk all over you while staying still. I hate it.

Dr. Mom lays her clasped hands on the table. She straightens her back. It's her way of signaling that conversation is over. So formal. So dismissive. She's only sitting across the table, but she feels so distant now.

"Aren't you mad at me?" I ask, bowing my head down.

Dr. Mom sighs, and I suddenly notice the bags under eyes. She hasn't come home at all this week, but she looks so much older now.

"I work a 30-hour straight shift, Nico. My patients aren't stabilizing, so I haven't left the ICU in days. This is the first time this week that I've worn a nice dress instead of a white coat," she says. "I don't have the time and energy to be mad at you right now."

I should be relieved that she isn't mad. But instead, I feel worse. For some reason, I wish she'd get angry sometimes. At least then I'd know that she cares.

She takes a sip of her water. "But don't think you're getting away that easy," she says. "You're grounded for the entire Christmas break."

A punishment. I crack a smile. She cracks one, too – a tiny one which she attempts to cover by taking another sip. But I saw it. She does care, and this is how she shows it. It's funny how her love language works.

"I don't even go out of the house, Ma," I remind her.

"Oh, I know," she replies, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "That's why I've invited your Uncle Victor to stay with us for the holidays."

Oh, she is cruel.

Uncle Vic is the worst. Hyper-macho, politically out of touch, sexist, homophobic. Basically all of the worst Filipino traits dumped in one tiny man. Being grounded with him around will be hell. Worse than hell. Dr. Mom has devised the perfect punishment.

"Mamaaa," I protest, but she shuts me up with a raise of her hand.

"It's final," she says. Her hands clasp together again.

So that puts an end to that conversation. And yet, our food still hasn't arrived at the table. Dr. Mom looks around in annoyance, probably looking for our poor waiter. Her forehead is begins to crease. Uh-oh. I know where this is going...

"Don't," I say.

It's no use. She's already up on her feet, storming off to the kitchen like she owns the place. The click of her heels sends servers and patrons alike stumbling out of her way. Her entire demeanor just shouts "I demand to speak to your manager" and it is embarrassing to say the least.

I want to hide under the table.

Dr. Mom disappears into the kitchen. The moment the doors swing close, I swear, a metal pot clangs against the floor. Those poor employees...

I rush in after her. She won't scream at the staff. That's not Dr. Mom's style; she's too dignified for that.

When I push through the swinging doors, she is merely giving a stern lecture to our server who looks like he's about to cry.

"Do you think your incompetence will look good on this establishment? We asked for pasta. That's not exactly brain surgery now, is it?" she prattles on, and God, her choice of words could not be more hurtful.

I grab her arm, trying to pull her away. "They're doing their best, Ma," I say through a fake smile meant to console the server.

"I'm just saying, Nico." She turns to look at me. "Their performance affects the face of the restaurant. I should know. I've worked as a wait staff before, and I would have been fired right away for this sort of work."

I've heard this lecture a million times before, so I don't bother arguing anymore. I just drag her away from the kitchen, shooting apologetic looks to all the staff, especially our waiter.

Dr. Mom should not be allowed in restaurants.

×××××

          After lunch, I head for the academy, thankful that our waiter came through during service, pleasing Dr. Mom with his "much improved staffer skills" as she put it.

At 12:45, I arrive just in time for students to rush out after another day of exams. I wait out by the waiting shed, since I'm technically not allowed inside the campus until my suspension lifts. So this is what being a delinquent feels like...

Other students eye me as they pass. Or at least, I think they do. For some reason I get the feeling that they know what I've done. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I look down at my shoes nonetheless, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Mack steps out of the gates. He's wearing his Burberry coat and ridiculous scarf that one of his moms knitted — which he still manages to pull off, by the way. All the stares that I suspected were on me suddenly drift towards him. He's eye candy, a total gaze-magnet. 

"There he is," he greets, walking towards me. "How was lunch with Dr. Mom?" The nickname is his creation. And Mama actually likes it; she thinks it's endearing even though we use it to poke fun at her.

I make a face, and he laughs. Doesn't even wait for a reply. He knows how these things go.

"How many waiters cried this time?" he teases.

"Surprisingly, none," I say.

Mack looks impressed. "Must have been a tough crew."

"She raided the kitchen, Mack," I exasperate. "I swear my mother is the Karen of all Karens. And she's Asian, which just makes it worse."

He laughs a little at my plight, but then says, "You know you're gonna have to tell her off someday."

"I know," I reply, sticking my hands in my pockets as we start walking home. We live in the same neighborhood, our houses are just three blocks apart. Even if they were farther away, I'd still walk home with him every day. Couldn't ask for better company.

"So, how was exams?" I say. 

He groans. "Hard as hell," he says. "I think you'd be pleased to know that the whole class is in disarray now that you're not there to pass the answers."

He's right. I am pleased. That's what they get for not backing me up. We'll see how they'll maintain their high streak without me. I can't help but smirk, feeling all high and mighty, and Mack rolls his eyes at my ego.

"Dr. Goldman's calling a meeting with the class officers tomorrow," he informs. "After the exams. Anya won't tell me what it's about."

"Probably to decide on my punishment," I deduce. Let them confer. There's nothing I can do about it now. Just like Dr. Mom said, I need to face this with dignity.

Mack lets me know the content of the exams as we walk on. It won't help anyway. Dr. Goldman is probably drafting a special set just for me. Boy, don't I feel special.

We take a little pit stop, and grab hot cocoa from the Topnotch Café, our regular. The baristas know our orders already. Dairy-free for me, extra marshmallows for the golden boy.

When we exit the café, all warmed up and sugar high, Mack gushes on about the upcoming meteor shower. Ursids. Or Perseids. Or some other -sids. 

Mack has probably memorized the entire astronomical calendar for this year. He's a giant space nerd. You should see how his eyes light up when he talks about space; stars would fade in comparison to how they shine.

"It's not as big as the Geminids last week, but at least it peaks early. We don't have to stay out too late like last time. Well, unless you want to," he rambles.

"Could you at least bring food this time? The shower's great and all, but unfortunately I can't eat stardust."

He snorts. "I'll bring a whole array of junk food."

We are about two blocks away from the Mack's house when a bell rings from behind us. A bicycle swoops into view. It takes me half a second the recognize the rider. Hot Mess. He's got a blue helmet on, along with that signature smile that left me speechless in the boys' room.

I stop dead in my tracks when I realize he's smiling directly at me.

He turns a corner, and just before he disappears, he sends a wink that essentially melts me like snow into the pavement.

I keep staring at the corner long after he's gone. Suddenly, I feel Mack shaking me by the shoulders, saying, "Earth to Nico. Are you there?"

Regaining composure, I can only gulp and nod.

Mack moves right in front of me. He's scrutinizing my face. He looks back to the corner where Hot Mess cycled off to, and then looks back at me.

He arches a perfectly slit brow. "Do you know that guy?" he asks.

I laugh a little to myself. "I don't," I say, then chuckle because it's true. I still don't know his name.

Mack purses his lips to the side. "Well, it looks like he knows you." There's some sort of teasing in his tone which makes me roll my eyes. Do not even go there.

"Come on," I say, "you know I don't swing that way."

He straight up laughs in my face. "You don't swing at all. Not unless it's for extra credit."

"Shut up." I shove him aside, and he laughs because he knows that he's right.

I've never really thought of anything else except for school. My mind's always been focused on getting a scholarship, not a relationship. But I know I've always been attracted to girls. Just not strong enough to actually start something up with one.

As for guys? Well, I find some guys attractive, like Mack and Hot Mess for example, but that doesn't mean I'm attracted to them. I just appreciate art, that's all.

Mack sighs heartily to stop himself from laughing. He slings his arm over my shoulder. His laugh has always been infectious. We continue walking home, chuckling to ourselves. And for a little while, with Mack beside me, I forget that my life is in ruins.

When I get home, I head straight to my room. My spoiled cats, the three Meowskeeters, flock towards me as soon as I enter. It takes skills and years of practice not to stumble to death when they're weaving around my legs like needy little furballs with a mission to trip me up.

"Did you miss me, or are you just hungry?" I coo, dropping my book bag on the bed.

They meow in response, and I take it that they missed me. But then I open up the drawer to their cat food, and they meow even louder. Okay, so maybe they missed the food.

I fill up their food bowls, and they eat, suddenly ignoring my existence. "Spoiled creatures," I mutter.

As the fur-babies feast, I head on to my work desk. Notes out, highlighters ready. I set my timer to 25 minutes; the Pomodoro technique works charms when cramming. I crack my knuckles, then my neck, and start the clock.

I have a set of exams to ace, and a reputation to salvage. Let's go.

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a/n: Slit eyebrow. Cuffed sleeves. Can I make it any more obvious? 😏