“You know what I do when I feel a little down?”
“…”
“I go to my kitchen and pull out that powdered hot chocolate baggies and pour two of them in this little white mug with llamas checkered on it. And it’s so thick and rich. And if I’m feeling a little, oh how do you say, extra, I’ll make myself some whipped cream to dollop on top.”
“Well, Mrs. Morris, what would you recommend I do after I just got my ass kicked in front of the whole school, Dr. Hansel is telling my mom that I’m going to be suspended for a few weeks, and it’s 106 degrees outside? Would you still recommend a boiling cup of hot chocolate?”
“Well, no. I suppose not. What about cookies? Everyone likes cookies, right?”
“Do you have some?”
“Why would I have cookies?”
“Well, why would you bring it up?”
“I’m just trying to make you feel—oh no. Your nose. It’s bleeding again. Here take this.”
“Thanks.”
“Tilt your chin up. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
“I thought they said you’re not supposed to do that anymore.”
“Okay then. Aren’t you the little contrarian?”
“Aren’t you the little contrarian?”
“Excuse me? Did you say something?”
“No.”
“Mhmm. Thought so.”
“…”
“You want some Cheetos?”
“Are they the spicy kind?”
“No.”
“You got something else?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll take ‘em.”
“…”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“…”
“J., can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why’d you hit him? You must have known what he’d do.”
“I guess I just snapped. All year he’d been saying these horrible comments to me—just nonstop. And when he said my food smelled… I just—I don’t know. It’s burong isda. Of course it’s going to smell. But it smells fucking good.”
“J., I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“…”
“J.? I think they’re ready for you.”
“Yeah.… Okay.”
“Wait. Here, take this.”
“Is this hot cho—”
“Yes. I always have some in my thermace. I don’t really drink coffee. Caffeine and all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morris. I feel a little better now.”