Free Teach Me by Lola Darling Page B

some random hookup.
    My
inbox pings, and my heart leaps in my chest. It’s
him! my heart cries,
even as my head insists there’s
no way. Not unless he’s
written a detailed apology for this morning.
    I
open my email and sigh. 1
new message from F. Reed .
Not him, just Mom. Subject line: Hope
you’re
having fun!
    But
it’s good to hear
from her. I click into the email. Harper
darling, just wanted to write and let you know that we’re
thinking about you! Your father finally got around to sweeping up the
leaves today, and wouldn’t
you know it, the Loughlins’
dogs got into the mess, and then . . . 
    I
scroll through her usual rambling stories about our neighbors and
extended family members, my smile growing wider and wider as I do.
Much as these stories can get boring sometimes in person, it’s
a nice reminder right now that some things—like
my mom—never change.
    It
makes me miss her. Especially when I get to the last paragraph, all
about how proud of me she is, her star student, and how she misses
me.
    Screw
homework, I need to say hi to her.
    I
hit the call button, and luckily she must still be sitting at her
computer, because a moment later her smiling face lights up my
screen.
    “Harper!
What a pleasant surprise.”
She leans around the computer to shout, “Honey,
Harper’s on!”
presumably at my father, though the deafening nearness of her mouth
to the speaker makes me flinch.
    “How’s
your trip going, sweetheart?”
    “Great!”
I tell her all about the last week since I’ve
caught up with her. I talk about Mary Kate’s
party (leaving out the details, of course), and about my classes, and
the exciting new research project I was picked to help out with (also
leaving out the details).
    By
this point, my dad has appeared over Mom’s
shoulder, crouching down so he can make faces behind her back at eye
level. She swats him without interrupting my story, but that only
makes me crack up, and them too.
    “I’m
proud of you, honey,”
she says. “But I
hope that courses aren’t
the only thing you’re
focusing on!”
    It’s
so unexpected coming from the mother who raised me to work my ass off
for a 4.0 in high school that I can’t
help but stare. My father continues to laugh, probably at my
expression.
    “She’s
right, kid. We didn’t
spend all this money to send you abroad just so you could live like a
nun!”
    God,
I really hope my face isn’t
lighting up beet red at that remark. My poor, naïve
parents.
    “Go
out and enjoy yourself,”
Mom adds. “What time
is it, almost seven-thirty? Shouldn’t
you be out having dinner with your friends?”
    My
stomach growls, right on cue. “Um,
I guess. But I was trying to finish this assignment . . . ”
    “I’ll
let you in on a little secret, Harps.”
Dad leans closer to the microphone, and assumes a gimmicky stage
whisper. “No one
expects you to get perfect grades over there.”
    “My
professors all but told me our study abroad semester was the one time
we could slack off,”
Mom added. Then she pursed her lips. “Though,
I mean, not too much. Don’t start
smoking reefer or whatever the kids do these days.”
    I
snort. “Yeah,
because that was totally my plan. Go to a foreign country and get
arrested for drug use.”
    “Welllll,
you know, some drugs . . . ”
Dad swallows the rest of that
sentence with an innocent smile as Mom turns to whack him upside the
head again.
    I
rest my hand over my heart. “I
promise I’ll enjoy
myself. Responsibly.”
    “That’s
all we ask.” Mom
blows a kiss, and I say goodbye quickly before the conversation can
delve into sappy territory.
    As
I turn off my webcam, though, I can’t
help but find the timing of that call downright suspicious. A quick
scan of my room ensures that there aren’t
any hidden cameras installed (at least, none hidden so poorly that I
can find them).
    Maybe
it’s
fate throwing you a bone ,
I think. The universe cosmically yelling at me: Stop
being a dumbass !