Eleven Twenty
Bella sat at the kitchen counter, her legs swinging slowly above the floor. The digital clock on the microwave read 11:20 p.m. Her mom was supposed to be home at eleven. Bella told herself that ten minutes didn’t mean anything, but she watched the numbers anyway, waiting for them to change.
Her eyes burned with tiredness. She could have gone to bed. She should have. But she didn’t want to fall asleep without seeing her mom first.
The elevator hummed somewhere in the building. Bella held her breath. A moment later, the apartment door opened, and her mom stepped inside, shrugging off her coat.
“What are you doing up, sweetie?” she said. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
Bella knew it was a lie. I can’t sleep was her most useful sentence. It could mean anything: that she stayed up too late doing things she wasn’t supposed to, or that she didn’t want the day to end yet, or that her thoughts were louder than usual. Rarely did it mean she actually couldn’t sleep.
Her mom went straight to the fridge, pulling out vegetables like this was just another night. “Do you want anything?”
Bella shook her head.
A few minutes later, her mom set two mugs of tea on the counter. Bella didn’t want hers, but she wrapped her hands around it anyway. The heat felt grounding. Her mom studied her face.
“You’re crying,” she said gently. “There’s no reason to. I’m here.”
That was enough.
Bella turned away, but the tears slipped out anyway, hot and embarrassing. Her mom stepped closer and cupped her face.
“Were the kids mean to you?” she asked. “Or the teachers? — it was the teachers, wasn’t it?”
Bella shook her head. Nothing bad had happened at school. Nothing new, at least.
Her mom frowned, searching. “Did Fenway die?”
“What? No,” Bella said, choking on a sob. Fenway was the neighbor’s dog. Why would she even think that?
Then it spilled out. “They all already have one,” Bella said. “I’m the only one. I’m going to have nothing.”
Her mom blinked. “One what?”
“A college acceptance!” Bella snapped, then immediately hated herself for it.
“Oh, Bella.” Her mom sighed and pulled her closer. “That’s not true. You’re not the only one. And you are smart and cute. You’ll get in somewhere.”
“But that doesn’t matter,” Bella said. “They don’t care if I’m cute or nice or anything like that.”
The crying got worse. Her mom grabbed a tissue and wiped Bella’s face, but the tears came back just as fast.
“Come on,” her mom said softly.
She led Bella to her bedroom and tucked her into bed like she used to when Bella was little. Then, surprisingly, she climbed in beside her. Bella pressed her face into her mom’s shirt.
“I’m proud of you,” her mom whispered. “No matter what.”
Bella turned away so her mom wouldn’t see her crying again. “I don’t know about that,” she murmured.
Sleep took her before she could say anything else.