He deadpans at me. "I am so not in the mood this morning." Ah, not enough milk in the cereal again. "I don't find your quips clever or amusing." Someone really needs to tell his mom he wants it exactly three-fourth full; not four-fifths and not two-thirds.
At the end of each month, she would look on the bill to see I had sent around a hundred messages and was always delighted to see how many friends I talked to. The truth is, though, I just sent messages to myself. I'm not very popular in my school, which doesn't bother me, but if Mother found out, she'd probably throw parties for me and send out invitations to everyone she knew. Why did I text myself? I don't know; I guess kids just know when their parents really need them to be something. I sort of feel like I need to be "that kid" for Mother.
At this moment in spacetime, I think I could hear her pumps clicking across the floor from several miles away. Unfortunately, she's only a few feet behind me.
"Is there a problem here?" she asks, voice sniveling.
"Oh," Ms. Carlyle twirls her pen in the air before sighing. "Which do you have less of?"
I glane down. "Plastic."
"Then plastic."