"Pizza, Pizza!"

We are pulling into Meadowview when Meeka says, “Wow, this is such a cute place!” Her Cole Han loafers and Coach purse tell me that Meeka Jones is complimenting out of fear, not sincerity.


“It’s not bad,” my mother agrees with a sudden streak of aloof pride. “The covered parking is a nice treat, though. It helps to be buddies with the landlord.” She winks at me as if we are best friends, as if it is that easy to forgive and move on.


“Do you cook, Mrs. Fluchter?”


“So long as it comes from a box,” I say and wait for my mother’s cheeks to burn.


“Exactly,” my mother says, shocking me into silence. “Pizza okay with you?” she asks Meeka.


Meeka opens her mouth to speak, but no sounds emerge. She seems to be considering the question with the weight of a Presidential Election. “Thank you, Mrs. Fluchter. Yes, thank you. Pizza sounds just perfect!’


My mother and I look at each other. For a moment, it is just like Before. For a moment she means everything to me, again.