Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Me: I do! I mean, who’s going to suspect you? You’re the person LEAST likely to get in trouble and the last person they’d think would steal a mascot.
Seriously. No one would suspect him.
The silence lingers for a moment after his last message. Perhaps a tad too long? I can’t shake the feeling there’s still something bothering him. My intuition tingles.
He’s never usually this wound up.
I decide to push, just a little.
Me: Is that the only thing bothering you? Just the PLP Rhino?
There’s another long pause; for a second I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. Maybe I should’ve just left things alone after he told me about his mascot anxiety?
Easton: Honestly? No.
I sit up straighter, my heart picking up speed.
Me: What else is going on?
The three dots appear, then disappear. Appear. Disappear. I picture him in his bedroom on his bed the same way I am, phone in hand, thinking about how to explain whatever’s weighing him down.
Easton: My parents.
I frown, my thumb hovering over the screen. His parents? I met his mom and think she’s wonderful. I assume his dad is, too. His mom is so easygoing. Way more friendly than my mom, who hasn’t been home a single time he’s been here.
Me: What about them?
Easton: I dunno. They’re just always…on my ass.
I blink at the message.
Me: Your parents are always on your ass???
I press send and wait.
When his next message pops up, I can practically feel the frustration coming through the screen.
Easton: YES.
Me: But your mom seems so cool.
Easton: THAT’S WHAT EVERYONE SAYS!
Me: Shit. I didn’t mean to get you all worked up. You’re shouting LOL.
Easton: See, here’s the thing: My parents act like everything is cool, as if they were soooo laid-back. But they’re not. They constantly push me. It’s like I have to be the best at everything. My dad is the fucking worst.
I feel a twinge of guilt. I don’t have that problem with my parents. The only thing they expect of me is decent grades—not even perfect scores. Good grades. Stay out of trouble. Be kind and respectful, blah blah blah.
I’m sure Easton gets good grades, right? Athletes have to maintain a certain GPA—plus, he’s popular. He has that whole everyone’s best friend vibe. Now that I think about it, though, maybe those things aren’t as effortless as they seem.
Me: What do they want you to be the best at?
Easton: Everything. Grades, hockey. My acceptance to college. My scholarship, which I may have pissed away by being a fuckwad and pulling that prank.
Me: You’re not a fuckwad LOL.
He keeps venting to me as if I haven’t given him a compliment.
Easton: My dad’s always preaching about how I need to “take responsibility” and “show leadership” and crap, but it’s like…I can’t mess up. Ever.
I have no idea what to say to that. The Easton I know is always joking around, always relaxed. But there’s clearly a lot going on beneath the surface.
Me: That sounds exhausting.
He’s not done yet.
My phone is blowing up.
Easton: It is. And if they found out about the mascot thing? HOLY SHIT. For real I don’t even wanna think about what they’d do. They’d never say they’re disappointed, but their silence would be way fucking worse. They have this look they give me—Disappointment Deluxe, I call it.
My mom has one of those, but she’s not around enough to deploy it. Mostly she shoots that look at my dad when he’s being a dumbass.
I guess that’s the thing about parents: Sometimes they have no idea they’re putting that much pressure on their kids. And sometimes the worst pressure isn’t the kind that’s obvious. Sometimes it’s the kind that builds up quietly based on looks and unspoken disappointment. The kind you don’t even realize is weighing on you until it’s too much to bear.
Me: That sucks, Easton. I’m sorry.
Easton: It’s not like I can talk about it. Who’s gonna feel sorry for me? I have the world by the ass (as my dad says). Everyone thinks I have it easy. I mean, what do I have to complain about? It’s not like they’re yelling at me or anything. But it’s like this…silent pressure. You know?
Me: I mean, as someone whose parents are too busy arguing to notice what I have going on, I don’t get it exactly, but I can see how that would be really hard.
Shoot. I wonder if that was the right thing to say.
Maybe he was hoping I could relate. That I’d be someone with an idea what that kind of pressure feels like and not one who simply…sympathizes. But then the next message comes in and I breathe a little easier.
Easton: Thanks. I really wish they’d back off sometimes, you know? Like, I get that they want the best for me, but it feels like I’m always walking this line. Like I’m gonna slip up any second, WHICH I DID but they don’t know about it, and everything’s just gonna fall apart.