Jamie and the Giant Truth

                The front door slams, and Karen vaguely wonders if she’s going to have to replace the glass one day. Teenagers.  Jamie throws her backpack down into a kitchen chair, kicks her mules off toward the pile at the stairs, misses by a mile.  She walks - stomps - into the kitchen, violently pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, and sits down to wait.  There are rules about these adolescent temper tantrums; as far as Karen can tell, teens aren’t actually allowed to talk about what’s bothering them unless someone asks them first.          
         
                Karen continues chopping vegetables, and Jamie continues growing more agitated.  Finally, when her daughter is simmering as much as the pot in front of her, she tentatively asks, “So, how was school?”
         
                The force of the water bottle hitting the Formica counter top startles Karen, but she knows better than to let it show.  She’s already got a daughter and son out of the house, and another one besides Jamie in high school.  If that doesn’t make her a pro when it comes to these situations, she doesn’t know what does.
         
                “Bad, I take it?”
         
                “Mr. Hanson made us do this stupid exercise thingy today.”
         
                “What type of ‘exercise’?”  Karen’s not sure if she really wants to know; the way Jamie says “Mr. Hanson” makes it sound as if he kicks puppies or eats little children for a living.  And teenage drama aside, one can never be too certain with high school art teachers.
         
                “We had to ‘tell the absolute truth,’ as if that has anything to do with Monet.  He put us in this circle and made us ‘be honest’ about what we thought about each other.  It was humiliating.”
         
                “And. . .”
         
                “And I got Davie Clarence.”
         
                Oh.  Davie has always been an outcast even before hormones got involved and kids got really brutal.  Karen, like any good mother, frowns upon gossip and talking badly about people, but Davie . . . Davie is weird, if she is totally honest with herself.  He has proudly eaten his boogers since first grade and routinely throws bitten toenails at people.  Jamie, occasional fits aside, is a pretty decent kid, but even she has limits.  Karen can only imagine where this going to lead.
         
                “So what did you tell him?”
         
                “He has nice earlobes?”
         
                “What?”  The statement is so bizarre that Karen gives up her pretense of dinner preparations and turns to face her daughter. “What? Earlobes?”
         
                “I know, I know, but what was I supposed to tell him?  You smell like mildew?  I think your high-waters are creepy?  Hey, nice neck mole?”
         
                “Well, I guess you couldn’t have . . . Wait, do you really think he has nice earlobes?”
         
                Her daughter turns the color of the tomato smeared on Karen’s apron.  “Um, they’re okay, I guess.”
         
                “So that’s what you’re upset about?  You told Davie Clarence he has nice earlobes?”
         
                Jamie’s face clouds over so fast Karen’s pretty sure she just set a land speed record.  “No, Mr. Hanson,” again, in that horrible tone, “failed me.  Said I wasn’t being ‘honest.’  It’s like he wanted me to insult him.”
         
              Karen dismisses the comment with a wave of her hand.  This she can handle.  “No matter.  I’ll talk to Mr. Hanson tomorrow.  So, who got you?”
         
              Jamie’s eyes glaze over.  “Eric Miller.  He’s sooo gorgeous.  And he said. . .”
                                                        _
         
              The next day, as Mr. Hanson and Mrs. Singer have a parent teacher conference as to what exactly constitutes as acceptable grading, Jamie opens her locker, and a piece of paper flutters down.  There is a quick message scribbled: a “thank-you for not embarrassing me” note from Davie.
         
              Jamie’s almost sure the smudge in the corner is probably most likely not earwax.