The engine's vibration is the only words that are exchanged in the car whilst my mother occasionally clanks the rear view mirror and then rests her hand back on the gear shift.

It is Thursday, 5 days past my of my surrogate smoking and nonchalant sacrifice for Jackie.

He still hasn't called on me but in the dead of some night, I'm quite sure I heard the creaking ballad of bicycle chain swooning in the air. I hoped for a rock pelleting my window shield as a sign of his presence but anything near of that level of brotherhood had subsided from happening.

I'm not upset.

"So, where are we going again?" I inquire and it isn't to the thin air but to mum. Evidently, my mother traded communication with me for some peace and quiet. I was afraid that she had commitment issues since she always abandoned that Charles Dickens book just a few minutes after she had picked it up and a small plate of sandwiches would materialize in the kitchen.

"We aren't going to the school. That's for sure." She has taken a turn right after Anglo street and the new road that seemed to stretch miles with three stories buildings standing on the sides like Golems.

I'm quite assertive that we aren't going to school and a few reasons come to mind.

On the day of my petitioned capture, my mother was in the principal room, stuck in a wordless conversation with the man as a few grunts were audible to me as I stood outside of the office. The class ended half an hour ago but for this sudden rift, Harvey and some other kid who looked incredibly unclean, peaked from the cover of the pillar and jeered me on.

I smiled and then for the discomfort of the scene, eased of to perform a little wave.

The phrase "Time off" punched the office glass and soon after that, mum departed from the stuffed office room and without a word to me or anyone else, started her power walk down the paste colored hallways.

Mum's power parade has an unconcerned tone of anger in it since she fixes her gaze on the straight point and doesn't wither from there as the feet stomps clicking on the ground.

She is a woman who harness so much zeal that in her lifetime, she would never regret the enthusiastic buzz of her departed adolescence.

The car whizzes past a strange looking fountain and the back wheel screeches like a race car as the vehicle shoots off out to the other side.

But the silence in the car is still so heavy that I can make out every snickering sound of the parts; the light switch lightly slapping on every turn, the bitty sound of the car's bonnet bobbing slightly up on the pitched rood, my mother's death dense concentration, the radio light numbly glowing in the luminous sun of afternoon.

She can be role playing as Micheal Schumacher and from her tough compression, she actually may be.

Mum is performing sharp corners and quick overtakes of the small number of cars that are slowly trudging around on this droopy hour of Thursday.

No one goes nowhere on Thursday.

"If you are going to kill me, better do it in the marsh. I always wondered if it would feel warm or cold. Even though the guy on that movie thought it was cold. Maybe he was dying at night. . I would want to see it for myself. . you know. . kill the confusion."

This is quite possibly the most juvenile thing one can say to his mother.

"Frey, we are not going to the Marsh." My mother cracks the sentence. The car depletes a bit of speed.

"And it's not called the Marsh." I have succeeded since my mother added something without prodding or invitation.

"So, are you dropping me at the orphanage?" I inquire as I check the side view mirror and catch a hideous reflection of myself, wearing a butter colored sweater which has the lethal potency of making me look like a love deprived homosexual.

I'm glad we aren't going to school. The bullying of Harvey would reach sky high if he sees me like this. Even street cred and juvenile respect could not control the damage of this outfit.

Usually, as a freedom of being a human, I practice the comfort of choosing my clothes in the morning and even though sometimes I end the whole week, mostly wearing a favorite jumper or pants a lot, I don't have objections for outfits.

But this morning, mum was keen to portray her maddening anger at me in the early hours of morn since she stood there on my return to the room form the breakfast table and aggressively pointed at the bundle of clothes on the table.

I relate to Anna Frank on her experience of living in a Nazi concentration camp but I seemed to do better since Mustard gas was far away from being involved.

"You do have to warn them that I have trouble waking up early in the morning." I pause to add annoyance to my voice as I return. .

"I hope I can keep my bike there without being forced into bullying."

"You're not going to the orphanage, Frey." Mum affirms as her left hand clutches onto the radio dial button and without aim, starts witching it around.

Mum never listens to the radio because it breaks her attention off as well as her sheer hatred towards modern pop filled stations and their on loop songs sets her mood off,

I must be making progress with my anoying behavior.

"If we are going to the executioner, then please tell him to go for the heart. The thing is, I love my neck and don't want it to . ."

"Frey. . . just. . shush." Mum loses the line of anger in her mind since a little spot of smirk catches on to her face. She realizes that I realized her quirky laughter as she turns her head around and bops the radio to a stop.

"So, what are we going to do about it?" I ask as I watch the smile on mum's face loosen it's grip.

I referred from saying "What are you and dad going to do about it?" mainly because mum's at the second cycle of Dad's absence.

My mother runs through a couple of moods whenever my father goes on to his adventure to save the world from various, malice diseases.

The first is, being strong hearted. She gladly drops dad off to the train station and on her way back stops at some coffee shop to read the newspaper with her legs crossed as she gently sips her hot beverage.

At night, she even goes through the trouble of difficult home cooking since the "The way of making Italian " ( an infamous cookbook ) sits on the windowsill.

She reminds me the "Women empowerment documentaries" that sometimes returns to TV, especially around March.

The second cycle of mum's rather lazy change usually falls on weekdays, lasting till Sunday and if worse, pushes the Thursday mark. An ancient record player swoons and circles around as the needle scratches it till the song comes to a deary end and without enforcing the element of surprise, begins again.

Unlike my mother who sits in the armchair, which is as old as me and lazily flips through the bundle of sent work from the "NewsHouse" with no urgency or sense of examination because in the morning you can spot the rejects and the acceptance pile mixed together.

The great jolly mood, or else as I call it, "The Typewriter Tantra" bursts through her skin before the second week can come to an end. On those occasional days, mum is seen driving around the 'drive ins' of restaurants in search of prepared food because 'Sally from the News House expects these two articles to be done by Saturday and my hands are too unclean to botch anything up.'

It is during her second mood that I can really ponder how mum was in her youth through the observation of her present movements. I can imagine a 17 year old version of my mother with no distress at all; walking down a school hall with a file under the nook of her arm, passing the driver's test in the school's parking lot on her first trial, openly shunning the local woman empowerment group.

"Hmm. Do about what?" The car overtakes a moving van and slips in through the traffic lights just in time as it turns red.

My mother can qualify as a getaway driver.

"About what I did." I exhaust the word and to add to the gravity of the crime, turn away towards the passenger window.

"Oh, about that." She grunts. The car's now vibrating and waddling through the middle market which is like the rest of the Seinefield, is abandoned at this very moment.

"Did you already forget about it?"
"Of course not. I was just busy with. . . silly things." There's a pause in her voice before the adjective silly can slip through which means at the last moment, my mother replaced silly with important.

"Like what?" I inquire.

"Like. . . finance and . . . a bit of. . . mortgages." Mum's appreciative skills of lying is now completely baffled since her divided attention is struggling to balance both driving and misleading talk at the same time.

"So, are you saying I'm less important than those things?"

"Of course not, Frey. It's just. . ." I'm tempted to drag the absence of dad in this conversation.

The pull of teenage hormone is too much.

"Is this because. . " The left side car stomps on this movement of juvenile rage as it's loud honk breaks the conversation decibel.

I catch a side glance of the driver with the pure fury shooting from my eyes. The woman in the next car seems to be on the run from law as her face is mostly sunglasses, the hair is replaced by an eccentric orange scarf and the slack overcoat which is too hot for the environment is slumping to the top of her neck.

I try to establish her face in my mind so that during my leisure, I can think of her and curse since it is she who broke the weight of my punchline of the conversation.

My mother taps the brake and lets the yellow Ford Beetle pass as she mumbles, "Maniac."

"So, I'm not going to be punished?" It was more of a statement rather than a question since all along the year, I have been obedient to whatever my parents had to say about me, calm whenever my mother was off to achieve her careerist's ambitions, supportive on Sundays when the air brought only sad Crooner's songs in albums.

I wonder if my reputation for a good child is actually important to them or cannot fully compete with the long scale of both of their careers.

My mother hates the word 'careerist'. It will be immensely insensitive to drop something so harsh on her good mood swing now.

"No, Frey. You have done something really wrong. And you have to compensate for it."
"But isn't it normal? You know it. You're from Social. Addiction in the cusp of adolescence is somewhat. . expected."
"Just because it's common doesn't mean it's right." The car's slowing down to a gradual 35 mph.

Either my mother is drowning speed to take a turn on the right hand side meadow or she's actually listening to what I am saying.

"You never asked me why I did it."

I shouldn't push my mother like this, especially when her hands are responsible for controlling the car.

I would like to be gender neutral about this fact, but in a recent survey, the lion's share of car accidents have a woman as a driver, which is just below 'drunk and driving' according to the percentage.

Statistics don't lie.

"I don't have to, Frey. I already have some theories in my mind."

Mum's cryptic talk silences me for a second as I watch the car running around the long stretched road where two meadows have sacrificed some square footage to make a two lane highwayesque road.

I try to find something witty to say which will make my mother slightly lose control of the car again.

I'm at a loss of words.

"Where are we going?" I think mum's taking me to one of those communities which are incredibly weird in various terms and fields. According to my mother's social scientific pages which are draped all around every table in her room, "A totally open relationship with family members is the best way to raise your child to be a morally balanced citizen."

Dad was responsible for discovering such a ridiculous headline of a thesis paper and to elongate the banter, he clutched it down under his arm to the dining table and read it all out before the two of us.

The gist of the hypothesis stands as,

"The parents must build up an environment suitable for the child so he or she has no trouble in confessing or communicating with the parents about anything, from sexual education, addiction to the grounds of moral and religious believes."

After my father hilariously finished reading the rough first draft of the paper, we all agreed to the benefit of being open to each other, even though I thought that paper was absolute BS.

Just imagine if anyone was absolutely honest to everyone, about everything.

Exhibit 1 : Harvey : If he comes home and catches his mother worrying to death on the living room couch and then starts his proud description of all the horrible, mean things he said to everyone on that day. About how he called Praisely " Pastry ", made fun of Denise being a homo, emitted loud sexual groaning sound during biology when Mrs. Muhr was discussing the reproductive ways of Frogs.

Exhibit 2 : Jackie : This isn't much of a disaster scenery because his parents are already aware of Jackie's knowledge about their unfaithful relationship with each other. But the scene would be absolutely devastation of Lisa sits down on the dinner table on a casual Friday and describe out her flirty, fiery friendship with an office friend who is much too friendly to drop her home off every night.

About the time, they were both a bit too drunk and he was helping her to the car when his hands were softly clutching to the side of her waist, maybe a bit too close for comfort but she didn't bother with the disapproval because Lisa knew her marriage was already in shambles.

I don't really know if his mother actually did this in real life or the surrogate husband had already done the dirty but I expect things to play out like this.

In conclusion, knowing everything all the time is equivalent to being cursed since certain relics remind you about certain someone's secrets.

Usually, I can relate to this emotion but sadly, I cannot at this moment because I am completely lost in guessing where my mother is taking me and the past assumptions about an Orphanage is poking my mind on being true.

"We are here!" My mother chirps at the sight of a red bricked building which slowly arches into my cone of contemporary vision as I squint through the confusion to detect the institution's identity.

I didn't know places like orphanages go through the trouble of using happy colors such as red.