A Donut for Your Thoughts

by Coco Simon

  Talking things out without erupting, or without my emotions spilling all over the place, was such a chore. It made us both uncomfortable, and we knew that too. I just wanted to run from it all and be left alone to sort out my tangled mess of feelings with the help of my therapeutic sketchbook.

  My phone buzzed. I had a new text. I glanced down at it, my heart pounding.

  It was Michelle.

  U ok?

  I sighed and texted back.

  Yes. Thanks for asking. TTYL

  I was happy Michelle had texted me, but where was Lindsay? Did she not even care that she had ruined my sketch? As if this day couldn’t get any worse, my BFF was not even texting me.

  Halfway home, we had to stop at a railroad crossing. This freight train was moving at the pace of a sloth. Leave it to the most awkward car ride of the year to become the most epic.

  I looked out my window, even though there was nothing interesting to see. Even though I couldn’t see her, I could feel Mom staring at me.

  She sighed.

  “So are you going to tell me what that outburst at lunch was all about?” she asked.

  Here it comes. Mom wasn’t one for beating around the bush like Dad.

  My head got blank and my lips refused to move.

  But Mom didn’t let up.

  “Casey? Are you upset with me for some reason?”

  Fair question, I had to admit. When I really thought about it, Mom technically didn’t do anything wrong as a parent. Okay, she didn’t appreciate my love of art, and that stung. And I definitely wasn’t cool with her rolling up on me at school whenever she felt like it.

  However, when I thought of her reason for today’s lunch-table visit, she actually meant well.

  I usually loved having Lindsay over for dinner, almost as much as I loved my mom’s lasagna. But after what happened at lunch, I actually would have appreciated a little space from Lindsay. Which felt kind of icky, because I’ve been totally crazy about Lindsay for as long as I can remember.

  So, tangled up inside, I became tongue-tied.

  The sloth train continued to crawl past, and I started fidgeting with my almost-curls.

  “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” Mom asked.

  She hesitated when I didn’t answer, and then continued, “Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth trying to get you to tell me how you feel. Just remember that no feeling is too big or too small because all feelings are important and deserve a voice. Especially when someone is showing their willingness to really hear you.”

  Mom sure knew how to get me thinking.

  These days I can’t tell big feelings and small feelings apart. I don’t even know how much space any of my feelings should take up.

  Is it big or small that the people closest to me don’t give a hoot about my passion in life?

  That my BFF might possibly be jealous of me?

  Is it big or small that Matt ditched our friendship to play Minecraft or maybe for another cool girl?

  That my mom is my assistant principal and I feel like I can’t sneeze without her showing up out of nowhere with a box of tissues?

  I guess the point my mom was making was that the size of my feelings doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I have them and can share them with a welcome ear if I want to. It isn’t easy to open myself up to my mom, because I feel she always expects perfection from me.

  As for Lindsay, who used to be my walking diary? Since her mom died and especially since I came home from camp this year, much less.

  My dad? Maybe if I got to spend more alone time with him.

  Truth be told, my sister Gabby is the only one who knows me fully and totally accepts me. I don’t want to run to my big sis for every little thing, but knowing that I can if I want to means plenty.

  It would’ve been nice to have that level of comfort with my mom, but she sometimes makes it hard, with her own strong opinions on things having to do with me. While some kids say their moms are bulldogs, mine’s a bulldozer.

  Sometimes I feel like she’s trying to demolish my own opinion of myself, to build it back the way she wants.

  Clearly this sloth train isn’t going to let me off the hook either, so…

  Suddenly, I turned my head to lock eyes with my mom. I never noticed that we were the same height sitting down.

  I looked at her and saw her, us, and, well, everything so differently. It was like this invisible veil between us fell away. We looked at each other as if we were seeing each other for the first time. I had to take a mental picture because never had my mom looked so beautiful.

  Is my bulldozer mom… emotional?

  Her eyes were a little wet, and I could see in them her love for me. I saw warmth, worry, regret, confusion, fear.

  Whoa. My mom was actually, officially, certifiably in her feelings! Maybe in our private universes, most of us are.

  I took a breath and went for it.

  “Ever since I came home from camp this summer, I feel like nobody gets me anymore,” I said.

  Mom zipped her lips and studied me.

  “I also feel like I’ve changed… like, a lot. I think I grew up at camp this summer more than usual. I was excited to come home as this changed girl. But at home, nobody seemed interested in all the cool things I learned there. Everybody was on their back-to-school grind, and then pretty soon, there was this feeling that I never went anywhere at all this summer. Except I felt so much different, so much clearer about who I am because of what I’m passionate about.

  “I want to talk about art to every person I meet. I like to take photographs of interesting things and capture precious moments in my mind and develop my photographic memory. I love to draw people and study their faces and bodies and how they move.

  “I feel like people who’ve known me forever understand me the least, and people I hardly know see me clearly. It’s confusing to be afraid to tell the people that I love most that I want to be an artist and nothing else. I think I’m already an artist, and I want more than anything for you, Dad, and Lindsay to see that. I want you to be proud of me for being me, not some mini version of you.

  “Artists do all kinds of interesting things with their lives. I want to do art with my life! I don’t know what that means exactly, because I’m still figuring that out, but I believe that whatever I decide to do, I can do! I used to doubt myself so much, and for the first time I actually believe in myself! And it’s all because of art!”

  I took a deep breath and looked at my mom. She was still looking at me, expecting me to continue, so I did.

  “I used to say that I would follow Lindsay out of this town to the ends of the earth just so we could keep swapping lunches for the rest of our lives. I came back from camp not feeling that way anymore. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still my best friend. But I don’t really know if I want to go away and live in a big city like her.

  “After art school I feel fine about staying close to home, but I would like to make an interesting life for myself as an artist wherever I end up! I want to scream out this window, ‘I am an artist!’—even if no one hears. I want this to be a hashtag fact in our family from now on.”

  “Hashtag fact?” Mom asked.

  By then, the train had passed and the light turned green. We were finally moving forward.

  “Oh, just some social media lingo, learned it at camp.” I waved it off.

  After saying my piece, I already felt better and was even breathing easier.

  “Hashtag, oh, okay, gotcha.” Mom nodded, filing that one away in her brain.

  She was a middle school assistant principal, after all, and needed to stay in the know.

  “Wow. I’m listening to you, Casey. Go on,” she said encouragingly.

  “That’s really about it.” I shrugged.

  I didn’t know what else I wanted to say. I was amazed that I’d said that much without blubbering all over the place. I was just happy to know that lightning didn’t strike or that waterworks didn’t come just be
cause I shared my feelings.

  “How’s that for pulling teeth, Mom?” I asked.

  Mom couldn’t help but laugh. “I mean, phew, Casey.” She smiled before she said, “You sure put me in my place with that soliloquy. I knew you had it in you, not to tell me about myself, but to tell me about yourself. Thank you so much for telling me how you feel. You really do have a lot going on in that big brain of yours.”

  “I know!” I laughed. “And so much more.”

  “I bet,” Mom said.

  I could actually hear with those two words that she’d heard me, everything I’d said.

  She took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Okay, my daughter the aspiring artist. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously in the beginning. I guess a large part of me saw art as a passing phase in someone’s life until reality hits. One day you’ll have bills to pay and a family to support. I think it’s difficult for artists to pull that off, especially in a small-town setting like ours. But then, I always have to remember that the world is changing.

  “I also have to remember my friend Amy Cooper, the beautiful, important artist,” Mom said. Her voice filled with emotion then.

  We shared a few moments of silence, misty-eyed as we remembered Lindsay’s mom, whom everyone had cherished and loved.

  “I miss her,” I said.

  My lip quivered as I pictured her angular face and soft features in my mind. She was beautiful, inside and out. I could see her so clearly in my mind’s eye that I could almost smell the lavender and see the shade of blue she always painted with and wore. That and her wind-chime voice always filled me with this safe, calm feeling.

  I never told Lindsay that it still made me endlessly sad that her mom was no longer here. I couldn’t imagine how Lindsay must feel to wake up every day without her own mother.

  I looked at my mom’s profile as she drove us home, and something about the way the afternoon light was hitting her round face and her curls reminded me that she was not just a bulldozer, but a beautiful bulldozer, more beautiful than words could say.

  As much as she got on my nerves, I couldn’t imagine life without my assistant principal mom. I could do without the assistant principal part, but that would be the same as her saying that she could do without the artist part in me.

  I knew what I had to say to her next.

  “Casey, I love you,” my mom was saying. “Your life is your show. As your coproducer, I want you to be who you are meant to be, but you better work your butt off to be successful at it. Don’t let me or anyone get in the way of your dreams. As long as you continue to maintain your grades, I will support you one hundred percent in your artistic pursuits. If your grades begin to slip, you will be hearing from me. Fair?”

  I breathed a large sigh of relief.

  “Fair. Thanks for hearing me out… this time. There’s something else.”

  Mom sat up a little straighter in her seat and nodded, keeping her eyes on the road.

  “I want to apologize for being such a sourpuss about you being the assistant principal of my school. I came into middle school with a bad attitude that created my responses to certain things. I should be more grateful and proud to say you’re my mom. I can’t speak for kids in the older grades, but my friends at school admire and respect you. A friend from camp this summer has helped me see how ungrateful I’ve been. Sorry, Mom,” I finished.

  “This means a lot to hear. I accept your apology,” Mom said.

  Her eyes scanned the road as she navigated the more congested part of town, close to the Park. She wiped away a tear with the side of her hand.

  “I now understand why you combusted on me at the lunch table,” she said.

  “I mean, in the middle of having friend drama—” I started.

  “Here comes your assistant principal, inviting your friend home for lasagna,” she finished.

  “Without even asking me first!” I added. “How rude. What if Lindsay and I were in a fight or something? What if I had a ton of homework?”

  “Valid points.” She nodded. “I’ll make sure to check in with you first before inviting your friends over. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said. “Well, at least you didn’t invite Lindsay over for fish sticks. You had all the jocks so hungry for your lasagna, no one was paying attention to just how lame I felt!”

  We laughed long and hard.

  “I guess we do need to set up some boundaries at school,” Mom said, after catching her breath.

  She then fell quiet as she thought for a moment.

  “How’s this?” she suggested. “No chatting on school grounds unless it’s something important and school-related. From now on, when I see you anywhere at school, I’ll just wave unless you stop to talk to me first. How does that sound?”

  I considered this with a smile.

  “Do you have to wave? Can’t we just work on our mother-daughter telepathy?” I asked, half joking.

  Telepathy with me would be impossible!

  “Casey! You’re my daughter! I’m not going to ignore you if I see you! That would draw even more attention.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, that’s even weirder. Okay to wave.”

  “Deal,” Mom said, turning onto our tree-lined street.

  She parked the car in our driveway and turned to me.

  “Are there any other feelings you want to share, about anything at all?”

  “My mug isn’t empty, but I think I’ve spilled enough tea for one day,” I said.

  I hugged her.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said.

  “Thank you for being so vulnerable with me just now,” Mom said. “You taught me something today.”

  “It wasn’t easy to speak up at first, but once I started, it felt really good,” I said.

  Next up, Lindsay.

  Just then my phone signaled that I’d gotten a text message. This time my heart didn’t speed up, hoping, wondering if it was you-know-who as I pulled out my phone to check.

  “It’s Lindsay,” I said. “Turns out she can’t come over for dinner tonight.”

  Phew! Because I feel like I’ve just run a marathon!

  Chapter Ten The Big Surprise

  That week, instead of going to lunch, I stayed in art class a few days to work on a new drawing that had me quite obsessed. I was starting to like spending more time in the most vibrant and inspiring classroom in school.

  Our art teacher, Mr. Franklin, had an open-door policy during lunch hour for student artists. Anyone working on independent art projects could go to his room during lunch period, and Mr. Franklin pretty much left you alone to do your thing.

  He didn’t helicopter the room like in his regular art class. Instead he just sat with his feet up at his desk, chomping away at his lunch and jamming out on his cushiony headphones.

  That Wednesday, I texted Lindsay to let her know I wasn’t coming to lunch… again.

  Finishing something up in Franklin’s room today. Lemme guess… pastrami & swiss on pumpernickel?

  Yup.

  Sheesh.

  If Matt was the king of one-word responses, Lindsay was joining him on the throne.

  Things weren’t the same with us these days, and it was my fault. We both knew we were long overdue for a heart-to-heart, but I wanted the moment to be just right.

  Mr. Franklin was my favorite teacher for a number of reasons, one of which was that he had turned Mrs. Cooper’s old room, now his room, into a constantly changing art exhibit.

  Actually, if you really think about it, you can spot examples of art almost everywhere in school, thanks to the art department that Lindsay’s mom directed for years: from the self-portraits that line the long wall on the way to the library to a ceramic octopus sculpture at the main office sign-in desk. And of course there’s the funky mural in the main hallway that’s dedicated to Amy Cooper.

  My favorite is the painter’s palette that she always used, which Mr. Franklin suspended from the ceiling of his classroom with fishing wire. At least once
a week, usually before class starts, I stand still in front of the hovering palette, spotted with paint colors.

  I gaze up at it for a few seconds, I don’t know why exactly, just to send up a prayer. My way of remembering her, I guess.

  Something about the palette being in midair makes me imagine her on the other side wearing angel’s wings, floating above us as we make art in what used to be her classroom.

  I also feel close to Lindsay’s mom every time I talk to Mr. Franklin.

  He can sketch and paint, too, but he’s more into collage work and bookmaking. He’s mostly known for these awesome, one-of-a-kind handmade books with collages on the cover, which he sells online.

  What I didn’t know until I started talking to Mr. Franklin was that Amy Cooper had been his mentor for many years. Actually, he says she’s the only reason he is an artist at all.

  We definitely have that in common, because I feel the same way about her.

  “Hey, Casey, I want to talk to you about something,” said Mr. Franklin.

  The door was wide open to welcome any other lunchtime artists, but for now, the room was empty.

  Once I reached the front of the room, Mr. Franklin picked up Twin Flames, my first sketch from memory of the campfire, which I’d recently turned in.

  “Casey, this is wonderful work,” Mr. Franklin said, smiling at me.

  He pointed to the campfire flames and continued, “I’m halfway convinced that I can warm my hands over this drawing, it’s that good.”

  I laughed, a little embarrassed. But I was touched by the compliment, especially since I really admired Mr. Franklin as an artist.

  “I’m so glad you like it! Most people might look at it as a stupid fire, but I actually spent a lot of time on it,” I admitted.

  “Well, I am not ‘most people’ and can see your potential a mile away in just one of these flames,” Mr. Franklin replied.

  He waved a hand over my sketch and said, “Your eye for detail is incredible. It actually inspired an idea I have for the school website.”

  “What idea?” I asked.

  “Well, how would you like to submit sketches for the site? We could call it ‘A View from Bellgrove,’ or whatever better thing you can suggest. You can sketch friends in everyday scenes like lunch in the cafeteria, competing in sports, or chilling in the hallway.