“I love you, little Sweetness and Light,” my mother says.
“Whatever,” I answer, and keep on walking. My mother can be useful, but she’s pretty annoying. Just think about it. First of all, I’m not little. I’m a teenager, for God’s sake. Goodness sake, I mean. (Mom says never take the Lord’s name in vain, but you should hear what she says when she’s mad, or for no reason that I can tell.)
Anyway, I’m not little, I’m not sweet, and I don’t generate light, unless you’re one of those witches that can see auras. Mom might be; she’s that weird.
I walk a few steps, then turn back and give her a hug. “Okay, what do you want?” She’s right. I mostly only hug her when I want something. The rest of the time, she’s just part of the furniture. She’s right about that, too.
I do want something. I want a LOT. I want money. I want to stay up all night and sleep all day. I want to eat candy drink soda, play video games and watch TV. Hang out with my friends. I want to avoid school, practicing the piano, taking baths, wearing clean clothes, cleaning the bird cage and burying the compost.
I hug her again, stroke her hair. “Friend,” I say. “Milkshake,” I say. “Real friends make their friends milkshakes. You’re my friend, right Mom?”
“Oh,” she says, “you’re going to make me a milkshake, how nice.”
“Well, since you can’t . . .” but she’s already getting out the milk and the ice-cream.
“Chocolate,” I yell, as I dash upstairs. I can make a perfect milkshake, I just hate washing the blender. Now I can get onto Runescape and see if Simon or George are on yet. And she can wash the blender.