“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done. I can’t believe you, Abigail.” Why was it that when angry, parents found it necessary to use their children’s full names? “How can I ever trust you again?”
“Well if you didn’t let me go in the first place, it’s pretty obvious that you didn’t trust me to begin with,” I uttered back.
My mom’s cold hazel eyes glared back at me through the rearview mirror. “Don’t get smart with me. You’re already in enough trouble as it is.” I clenched my teeth together behind my pressed lips. “I still don’t understand how seeing some boy is more important than being honest with your parents. Especially a boy like that,” She said “a boy like that” like he was a piece of gum she’d found stuck to the bottom of her shoe or something.
A boy like what, I wanted to ask her. I glanced at my dad, silent in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t want to get involved in the argument. He never did.
“All he is is some disgusting, ghetto lowlife, and I don’t approve of you dating him,” she ranted, like she knew so much about him. We pulled up to a red light and she turned her head to look at me. “Have you kissed him?”
“Yes,” I replied softly. The corners of her mouth turned down and her nose wrinkled like she’d just smelt something rotting. She turned back around in her seat just as the light switched to green.
“That’s disgusting,” she retorted. I cringed at the sharpness of her voice. My dad’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his face remaining emotionless.
What was really disgusting was how much hatred was in my mom’s voice when she spoke. She had developed so much hate and disgust for a boy she had just met only five minutes ago. She hadn’t even formally met him either. When he introduced himself and put out his hand for her to shake, she’d just scowled down at it. As if coming in physical contact with him would give her some heinous disease.
“Why do you even like him?” she asked.
Well, everyday he reminded me how pretty I was. Not hot, not fine, not sexy. Pretty. I felt comfortable around him, like I could be my weird, random, spastic self and he wouldn’t judge me for it. He was just as comfortable around me too. He’d even told me how when he was younger, he thought there were dolphins in his closet. No monsters, just dolphins. He didn’t tell that to anyone, but he told me. And when I told him my middle name was Nicole, he’d given me the nickname Nickel because Nicole sounded like the word nickel to him. So I was Nickel and he was Stofer (his middle name was Christopher). He never made me feel not good enough, or like I had to be anything more than who I already was. He never tried to pressure me into doing anything I didn’t want to do. When that creepy kid, Noah Burke, was trying to flirt with me, he made sure Noah knew not to come near me. He made sure Noah knew that I was his. He let everyone know how proud he was to be with me. He made me feel wanted and appreciated and happy. Oh yeah, and when he looked at me, I was the most beautiful girl in the world.
“He’s funny and nice to me,” I told her.
“Well of course he’s going to be nice to you,” she scoffed. “All he wants to do is use you. Trust me, I know exactly what kind of guy he is.” It was funny how my mom, who had never said a word to him, thought she knew him better than me, who had had hundreds of conversations with him. “He’ll act like a nice, funny guy now, but only until he gets what he wants. He’ll do and say anything to get what he wants out of you. He doesn’t really like you. Trust me, there’s no way he’s dating you just because he likes you.”
She said it as if the thought of him actually liking me was ridiculous. Like it was insane for me to believe that I was able to be liked for me, rather than for other purposes. Wow, what a great way to boost my confidence.
“It’s so typical,” she continued. “Those ghetto black boys always go for the pretty, blonde white girls. They’re pigs.”
Of course that was what this was about. Sure, it was fine for me to have black friends. But the moment I became attracted to one or developed feelings for one, it was crossing the line. My mom was probably too worried about what the family would think if I brought my black boyfriend to one of our family parties. Judgmental people like her were always so afraid of what everyone else might think about them. She probably figured that everyone was judging her just as much as she judged them.
The worst part of all this was that she actually thought she was protecting me. She actually thought that I needed her to protect me. Even if he really was just trying to use me, she didn’t have faith that I would say no to anything I wasn’t comfortable with. She felt that she had to take care of it for me, before it even became a problem.
Why was it that she always felt like I couldn’t handle any situation on my own? Part of growing up was making mistakes, and experiencing bad things, and dating people that maybe weren’t who they seemed to be. If I didn’t learn from my mistakes now, what was going to happen to me once I was out of high school? It wasn’t like my mom would be there to take care of the problem for me later in life.
If I didn’t date someone who ended up using me now, how would I be able to tell sincere guys from the liars and manipulators later in life? At least if it happened now, I would have my mom to help me get through it. Or at least I hoped so. I really wasn’t so sure anymore though. I’d seen a whole new side of my mom today, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
I knew that maybe deep down, this was her way of making sure I didn’t get hurt. What she didn’t seem to realize though was that I already was hurt. She was preventing me from being with a guy who made me happy, just because she believed all those ignorant stereotypes. Well, I would’ve rather dated him and ended up being used then have not even given him a chance to prove he wasn’t like that. I would’ve rather known for sure who he truly was then be stuck wondering what could’ve been.
“He’s not like that,” I told her, my voice hoarse with unshed tears. Why did I have to start crying right now? I absolutely hated crying in front of my mom.
“Would you stop crying?” she demanded. “You can never just have a mature conversation. I swear, you cry about everything. Grow up.” Because letting my emotions out was immature. Because if I didn’t act like I was fine and pretend that none of this affected me, I was just being overdramatic and childish. Maybe if adults realized that it was ok to cry when they got upset, they wouldn’t be so uptight all the time.
“I can’t help it,” I told her. She just rolled her eyes in return.
“Well I don’t really care what you say about him. You’re not seeing that boy again.”
“I’ll still see him at school,” I remarked.
“Well that’s the only place you’ll get to see him. You can’t date someone you can never see outside of school. Stop acting like you’re going to make this work with him, and just give up.”
My fists clenched in my lap at these words. Just give up? What kind of advice was that to give to your daughter? No, I would not just give up. I would do whatever I could to make it work with him. He actually meant a lot to me. There was no way I would’ve snuck over to his house, risking being grounded, if he didn’t mean something to me. Could my mom not see that? Or maybe she could, but she just didn’t care. Maybe she was just putting her racial discomfort before my happiness.
“I still can’t believe you did this,” she continued. “I am so disappointed in you. We raised you better than this.” That was funny. I didn’t remember in my fifteen—nearly sixteen—years of being raised, her ever mentioning that I was forbidden to date a black guy. I didn’t recall ever being told that even if I was happy with someone and he treated me right, I was supposed to just not give him a chance because his skin was darker than mine.
“Sorry,” I murmured. And I was. I was terribly sorry that my mom couldn’t see past her prejudices and stereotypes. Maybe if she could, she would’ve realized that her daughter had found her first real boyfriend. Maybe she would’ve been excited for me and teased me about my relationship that way parents did. Then I could have acted annoyed that way kids did, but I would have actually been beyond happy that I had found someone who made me this happy.
I would have been part of a real relationship, just like the ones I’d seen in movies. And maybe he wasn’t my mom’s idea of the ideal Prince Charming, but he was mine and that should have been all that mattered. But it wasn’t.
I just wished my mom would accept the fact that she wasn’t going to necessarily like every guy that I dated. But as long as I liked him, she should have at least given him a chance. All I knew at that moment was that my mom, with all of her unfair judgment and cruel assumptions, had hurt me more than any guy ever could. Up until this day, I had trusted my mom to be happy for me when a guy I liked came into my life. This car ride home had opened my eyes up to a whole other side of my mom though.
“Well I don’t care how sorry you are,” my mom told me. “You’re still grounded.”
This wasn’t unexpected. I’d lied and snuck over to a boy’s house. Being grounded was very understandable. It was worth it too. Because those three hours I had spent with him at his house were something I would keep in my memory forever. Being with him—just him, not all the other people from school—had been perfect. I knew that there were tons of other guys in the world, and that he was only my first boyfriend of what would probably be many. I knew I’d eventually find another boy to date. But no other boy could replace the way I felt with him.
No other guy would have thought that there were dolphins in his closet as a child. No other guy would call me Nickel. No other guy would smile at me the way that he did. No other guy would tell me I had toddler hands. No other guy would let me know how beautiful he thought I was on a daily basis.
No other guy could ever take his place. He would always have a special spot reserved for him, and only him, in my heart. And no one, not even my mom, could change that.