“What do you mean you’re not going to the senior prom?”
I stared at her, she stood there with one hand on her hip. In her other hand, she brandished a wooden spoon. Mom was making basil pesto pasta, which is one of my favorites.
“I dunno Mom, ‘cause I don’t want to go. That’s why.” I tried looking behind her, to see if she had grated parmesan cheese yet. She must have anticipated my interest in the food because she moved to block me.
“Dante… that’s a lie, I can see it on your face. What’s wrong, honey?” her brow furrowed, and genuine concern played across her face.
She’s shorter than I am, actually, she’s tiny. I suppose she’s about the size one would expect from a professional ballet dancer turned teacher.
“f**k… I don’t know…” she let the F word slide. Well, after waving her wooden
