Page 43 of If This Gets Out

“No, you’re right,” I say hastily.Please,I silently beg,just give me a break today.“Of course you’re right. That’s why I’m practicing. I know I can do better. The others hung out and watched a movie this morning, actually, but I chose not to, because I knew I had to get some practice in before we—”

“So, you’re being antisocial,” she interrupts gleefully. “Ruben, being part of a team meansbeing part of the team.You can’t just hide in your room every minute you get. You need to be forming those connections and making a good impression.”

I can’t win. I know there’s no point. So why do I even keep trying? “I am part of the team. I’m always hanging out with everyone.”

“Well, just as long as it’s notalways. You need to be making plenty of time to practice.”

We’re full circle again. And she doesn’t even notice. “I am,” I say weakly.

“I heard there’s been some fighting.”

Thereit is. The real reason for the call. Presumably, she saw something while she was out for drinks. Or someone brought it up, and she was embarrassed not to know anything about it. And now I’m thinking of Zach again, and all I want to do is hang up the phone and go hard on the leg press until all the hurt has been replaced by muscle exhaustion.

“Nah, no fighting,” I lie. “It’s just gossip.”

“Good.” Not good that I’m not in a fight with my closest friends, of course. Good because—“You can’t afford to get a reputation for being difficult. Even if there is anything happening behind the scenes, you have to stay professional.”

I’mtrying.Maybe she needs to call Zach and give him this lecture.“Totally.”

“What’s with the one-word answers?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” I rack my brains to come up with a safe topic change. “Where did you go for drinks?”

“Who said I was drinking?”

I roll my eyes at the window. “Nobody. But it’s one a.m. I just assumed.”

“What, I can’t have a nice night out with my friends without being an alcoholic?”

I can save this, I think. “Of course you can. But youshouldhave a cocktail or two. You deserve a nice night out to just have some fun. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish I could.”

Her giggle is genuine now. “Well, I did have a couple. Do I sound drunk?”

“No, you just sound happy.” It’s a lie, but it’s one designed to make her relax. She gives meconstructive criticismall the time, but even imagined criticism is enough to raise her hackles. Compliments, affection, and gushing are the only tools in my arsenal to make her claws retract. Enabling is just another word for self-preservation, sometimes.

“Iamhappy. It was a lovely night,” she says, and I finally relax. I’ve successfully navigated into calmer waters.

Someone enters the gym, and I glance up. It’s Jon. He heads over and sets himself up on the machine beside me, silently. When he’s close enough for me to touch, I grab his arm and mouth “help.”

His eyes crinkle and he takes a few steps back. “Ruben!” he calls when he’s at enough of a distance that it doesn’t blare down my phone speaker. “We’ve got togo!”

“Hang on, hang on, Mom,” I say quickly. “I’ll be a minute,” I call out.

“The bus isleaving,” Jon sings.

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss to Mom, like she’s a conspirator.

“Oh no,” she says warmly. “Sounds like you have your marching orders.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “We can talk on the bus? But we won’t have much privacy.”

“No, you go, I need to get to sleep now, anyway.”

It’s one of our cleaner conversations. Usually she can tell I’m making an excuse to get off the phone and it starts an argument. Thank god for Jon.

I throw my phone into the holder as soon as we hang up, letting out a guttural groan to the ceiling. A ten-minute conversation and I feel like I’ve just fielded a high-stakes interview with one of the nosier TV stations.

At least I came into this gig with a lifetime of experience navigating conversational minefields and noticing traps before they’re sprung. I should send Mom some flowers in thanks for that skill.

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