Amy's Flower

Written in Kerry Madden's teen writing workshop at Vroman's. I'm debating whether to write more or to leave it as just a little glimpse into the narrator's life.

Amy gave me a flower a few days ago, and I let it dry on the dashboard of my car. I didn’t feel right bringing it inside where my parents could and would see it. They would ask me, “What’s the occasion?” And when I shrugged my mom would pinch dad’s sleeve and half-worriedly, half-excitedly whisper, “Steve, it’s from a girl.” Which means of course, “Our little baby’s all grown up and dating!” I dunno, I mean that’s not what I’d mind so much as what my mom’d think of Amy. She’s a great girl and all, it’s just – well, she dyes her hair pink. She’s got a nose ring. Her parents are divorced, which my mom says is the reason kids get messed up. Anytime we watch the news and it reports some new kidnapping or shooting, my mom sighs as they handcuff the perp and says, “He must have had such a difficult family life.” Sometimes I think she and dad are just staying together because of me, because they don’t want to screw me up. And then I see them holding hands, just like Amy and I do, and they seem suddenly so young and giddy – fights are in the past, blame over the miscarriage is forgotten, they’re twenty again and have their whole future ahead of them. And I feel it would be imprudent to show them a flower I got and remind them that their only child is getting older, because that makes them older, too.