The chicken noodle soup tastes how it always does, fake, and it isn't a good kind of fake; to me, it just tastes like a bland fake. It's kind of ironic that I don't like it, even though both my parents do. I eat it anyway.
"So, Mom," I ask. "How was work?"
"Oh, it was fine," she says, "mostly boring paperwork," she continued after a pause. "Boring paperwork," she repeated. Mom's job is working in real estate, so it's not that exciting.
When I finish high school, I am going to work in construction. My dad thinks I should. In fact, he was the one who suggested it to me.
I shoveled another spoonful of soup into my mouth, trying again to "taste the good in it" as my mom would sometimes say, but failing for the millionth time. I look up briefly and say,
"Did you hear, the Coronavirus has started to kick up again?"
"Oh yes, I heard it on the radio on the way home," she responds, then takes a bite of her favorite meal. "Are you excited for high school tomorrow?" she asks, changing the subject.
"I guess so," I reply, not looking up from my soup.
We finish up the rest of our dinner in mostly silence. Then I clear my dishes from the table.
"I can wash the dishes," I volunteer, as I put my bowl in the sink, smiling a somewhat fake smile in my mom's direction.
"That's very kind of you," replies Mom. She finishes her bowl of soup and drops it in the sink. I wash the dishes as fast as I can while still doing a good job, then head off to my room. Tomorrow is the first day of school in a brand-new school year.
I look at my phone. Six o'clock. Dad will be on his way home soon. Just then, a reminder pops up on the screen: "School starts tomorrow at nine, yay." I had put "yay" in it to try and make myself look forward to the day ahead, but it doesn't really help.
I am stupidly bored, so I sit at my desk and do nothing.
"LOL," I think, which is an abbreviation for "laughing out loud." "LOL," that I can't even find something productive or fun to do. At last, I decide to take a walk around my neighborhood. I go downstairs.
"Be back in a bit," I shout, hoping it is loud enough for my mom to hear.
"Ok, but be back before dark!" she shouts back after a few seconds. As if I can't take care of myself in the dark.
"I'm sixteen, Mom!" I respond,
"Well, I just want you to be safe ok honey."
Honey is a nickname my mom gave to me, not because I'm her little honey baby, but because when I was seven, I accidentally spilled honey on myself while helping her make honey brittle, so ever since then, that name has stuck, pun intended.
I head out the door with no further discussion, then walk down our driveway and turn west, in the direction of Winnipeg's first street. My intention is to go get a doughnut. Tim Hortons is one of the finest places to get one. Out of the twenty different Tim Hortons, I pick the one closest to my neighborhood, which is the one near Seven Oaks Hospital.
When I arrive, there is no one in line, so I step right up to the counter.
"Welcome to Tim Hortons, can I take your order?" says a short, rough-looking dude with dark brown, almost black hair.
"Yeah, I'll just have two Boston creams," I say.
"Is that everything for you?" he replied, and I give a small but noticeable nod. "Two Boston creams!" He shouts over his shoulder. I watch as another employee selects two Boston creams from a shelf behind the cashier. The female worker places the two doughnuts on the counter. "That'll be $3.45," the guy at the till says. I pull out my wallet from my back pocket and hand him a five. He takes the bill and places it in the cash register, then hands me $1.55 in change.
I take the two doughnuts, find a nearby table, pull out a chair, and sit down. I set one of the tasty treats on a napkin and bite into the other. It tastes like it always does. Sweet and Delicious. Nothing like the chicken noodle soup. This was fake, but a yummy kind of fake. I take another bite of my Boston cream, chewing slowly to get every last ounce of flavor. With every bite, I feel happier, and before I know it, the first one is gone. I pick up the second doughnut, planning to enjoy it more than I did the first, resolving to eat it more slowly. I take one bite and then wolf it down, instantly regretting my decision to do so.
"Oh well," I think, and I get up to leave. Just as I am walking to the door, my dad enters.
"Hey Macky," he says.
"Hey, Dad," I respond.
"I'm just going to get a coffee."
"No problem," I say, continuing towards the door. "I'll be waiting in the truck."
"Ok." He replies before ordering. I push open the door, holding it long enough for a little girl and her mother to enter.
"Thank you very much, young sir," the mom says as I walk outside. I spot my dad's black Chevrolet and walk over. I hop in shotgun and pull out my phone, 6:35.
After three minutes, my dad comes back. He opens the driver's door and jumps in, then starts the vehicle and does a little drum beat on his lap before turning to ask,
"Want to watch a movie when we get home?"
"I guess. What do you have in mind?" I absentmindedly scratch the top of my head.
"I was thinking Endgame."
"Yeah, I'd want to see it, I don't think I have yet."
"Perfect." We drive home and pull into our driveway, then go into the house. My dad goes ahead and starts setting up the movie, while my mom makes popcorn.
The movie is really good, with lots of sad parts—Mom cries at most of them—but also plenty of uplifting scenes and amazing moments. It lasts three hours and two minutes, which makes this movie the longest one I have ever seen.
"That was a really great movie," I say when it's done.
"I know, right?" Mom says, "and like the part when Captain Marvel flew in, OMG."
"Well, I'm going to bed, it's quarter after ten," I say, looking at the time on my phone.
"Night, son," replies my dad.
"Ok, see ya tomorrow, honey!" Mom calls up the stairs as I head off.
"Good night'' I call back and close the door to my room. I toss my shirt off, and it lands on my desk chair, then take off my pants and put them in the laundry basket. I grab my sling pack from my closet and pack it with the necessary school stuff, and put it on my desk. Then I walk into my personal bathroom and up to the mirror, flexing my muscles.
I go over to my weight rack, pick up two thirty-pounders, and start doing reps. After about twenty-five of each arm, I put them back and slide into bed. Tiredly, I set an alarm on my phone for eight o'clock and close my eyes.