Shedding: Ecdysis and Dysecdysis. All reptiles shed their skins, referred to as ecdysis, in a manner that differs from species to species.

Snakes shed their skin to allow for further growth and to remove parasites that may have attached to their old skin.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

There has been a lot of activity in the social conundrum of things which I have not noticed until Friday's launch at the cafeteria. I was drunk on the whole episodic invention of my inner, unexplored traits with Ms. Eden so much that the school's large Burgundy colored notice board caught me off guard whilst I was on the prowl for Kenny.

He had been reluctant once again, for some reason or the other and disappeared from class just before Advanced Math.

But I stopped looking for that big, fat lard of math fearing, fleshy body when the flickering achievements of yesterday flagged me down.

It has been a long driven tradition of Seine High to participate in the county debate tournaments and West Debate Competition. The history of this events can be tracked back to 20 years before when a group of snotty nosed, acne stroke and heavy rim glass wearing nerds somehow managed to get into the Quarter Final of the Summertown County Debate.

Even though they had been obliterated in the Semi to a Christian Missionary Education Institute, on a misunderstood topic of 'Scientific Breakthroughs in the upcoming millennium', they were received like heroes of a new age when the Cream colored rented van finally brought them back home.

Mr. Marsh, the school's veteran debater and quite possibly the next Gandalf for his abundance of white hair still has that photograph hung over his head. If you stare at the frame picture for long, you can even hear the disbelief and the sense of sudden accomplishment tearing out of the colored paper picture.

At first, I was feeling the shimmering excitement of seeing Clay, wearing the official Navy Blue Jacket with his hair parted in a 7 year old who has just gotten back from Church. Then I saw Rommery as she stood beside him in the photograph where the zoomed picture has unfortunately cut the image of their secretive hand holding.

The sourness in the mouth tipped to the highest when the titled headline was in sight.

'Seine's Primary Selective of The Prime Directive'.

The Selective list just made the mood worse as the names were printed out in a mediocre sized front.

"Ingram Holland, Clearance Burton, Rommery Holloway, Yolanda Emile and Noah Nash."

Excess of the white paper was tagged with a bolted suggestions as an invite for the Editorial, research, drafting and Substitute for the Primary Selective.

The warming sensation of self discovery was already being transferred to the past from the present to make room for the new emotions.

Betrayal often tastes like cold choc muffins.

"Eh, Frey."
"What now, Noah?"
"'ave you finished . . . the essay's for Monday?"
"Um . . no. Didn't even start."
"Shit, man! I thought I was gonna copy off from you."

I know it is a one kind of unfair judgment to publish someone's characteristic from one of their faults but I am feeling extra pessimistic during lunch, especially to a quad of names that appeared on the board.

I give a meaningless nod before Noah shakes off his shortcomings on 'Environment Pollution Report' due on Monday.

I smear the creamy crumbs on the border of the oily packet, trying to put Mr. Marsh's upset and toiled face on the canvas of my imagination when his glorious Primary Selective come back to Seine after their well deserved beating on Summertown.

The new girl's smile fizzes out to a stop as she tries to pull away from Harvey. But he notices this silent disapproval as his hands gesture out the apology without words or concrete empathy.

The only good thing about Friday's launch is observing the unprecedented fact that Harvey's principals and blurry idea of teenage romancing has changed from " Meaningless groping " to a sympathetic, sensitive vision of proper manners.

'Help' is a four letter word.

'Mum' only has three.

Numbers don't mean anything when my firm grip on living the 'Juvenile Era' to the fullest is at risk.

I am effortlessly stomping on the rock hard pavement, hoping to left my mark of aggression, anger and rage on the skin of the earth.

It is futile since nothing happen rather than myself who trips on the ridged rock in the creased sidewalk in front of the driveway.

It is safe to assume that my mother is the wisest and the most resourceful parent and member in my family tree. Mum won this validation of myself without a tough competition because I have not seen my father in action lately, except for his annual groans, completed with appropriate explanation of the good relationship of a bad back and old age when he is tasked with planting the Christmas tree.

I am not trusting myself in taking decision with the borrowed knowledge and reading 'People's Opinion' page, the only two ways I can come to a conclusion to any decision.

Firstly, because the 'People's Opinion' page has been getting kookier recently and turned into a feature that has the compilation of complaints. As evidence, 'Newspaper: Abusing the Freedom of Speech'. At first sight, the titled explained that it was a form of complaint in the usual, gritty manner of passive aggressive ranting with misplaced examples.

But when I invested the next 5 minutes in the paper and ended up halfway through the neat and perfectly executed sentences, I knew Dr. Dovan had a point or something to think about.

"It is common in humans to perceive things under a different light than it actually is. Since humans have the tendency to imitate, they might sometimes act out some similar characteristic behaviors or start to see them in themselves after reading it in a book or an article. Even though, human psychology is vast and unpredictable, the theory of imitation is believed by many renowned psychologists and scientists.

After reading the symptoms of a disease, a person may start to find clues and evidence of those symptoms in themselves, despite of not being sick. Stress, lack of rest, lowered self esteem are the usual culprits for these kinds of triggers."

I put down the paper and blinked a couple of times in hasty successions, as if I was blinded by a flood light or trying to forget a horrible image.

I could not shake the feeling off.

Could it be true that in the past days and the month, I was just mimicking what I have read on the papers, in Mum's sociology guides, imitating the behavioral patterns she read out loud from her drafts and notes?

It is a matter of question and self examination to explore the fact that my social genius might be borrowed.

***

"You know, Dad called while you were out."

I'm on the couch, resting and at the same time, working out the possible equations of sources that could be the triggers of my emerging sadness.

The diagnosis is futile.

I know the causes but the cure is nothing more than a large, glaring question mark.

"He's hoping to see you soon."

I am not too thrilled for my father's return. It is a properly dissected emotion since my father is the sole inducer of the romantic in mum and her amorous persona likes to feel human emotions which includes a lot of tears and tissue papers rather than think it through.

"He says he's bringing a surprise with him, this time."

The thought of Margaret's entrance, in the middle of my social loss of friends is similar to throwing gasoline on the bonfire.

I try to imagine Margaret, walking up the door from the driveway, stepping into the lounge, standing and smiling to see the Victorian Architecture in action as her head swoons around all over the stair's landing.

She has no face since I have never seen a picture of her, anywhere. All I can imagine is a bundle of human flesh, scotch taped into a girl's structure, walking around the kitchen counter.

"Oh, guess who came down to see me this morning!"

There's the shimmering buzz of the television, the faint sound of Mrs. Bonneville taking her 4 o'clock stroll around her dead flower garden.

I don't guess.

"Jan!" She flaps the noun with excitement as her silhouette appears under the yellow Halogen.

The blinds in the kitchen quarters are all pulled to a tight close, so no nuisance can be caused by the access of any fugitive sun light.

It is one of Mum's many perks.

"Lucy and Ebie came too. And Ebie brought a bouquet like she was visiting a cancer patient."

Mum's laugh bounces off the kitchen sink before infiltrating the natural light filled living room area.

I can tell that my mother is back to her naturally happy state since the lack of my participation is being ignored. She does not care what I think of her jokes or who came to visit her.

At least one of us is sitting on the brighter side of the desk.

I halt a breath to add this event on my hypothesis.

It is evident that only one of us can be happy under this roof.

The simultaneous indulgent of happiness is not allowed for two.

"Ah . . damn! Now I feel bad for saying all those things to Jan. Ugh! I can get so carried away sometimes--"

Mum departs from the boundary of artificial light but not completely as her mind commands her body to a stop on the mouth of the door. The edge of her back is being clung on by the Halogen but her front is being invited by the slow churned yellow rays that are bouncing off the wooden patio to her front.

Her posture spells proud mysticism.

I continue to convey and prolong my silence as long as I can before my mother realizes that parenting usually requires the parents to be involved in building up their kid's morale and being aware to solutions to their problems.

Not the other way around.

"You know the Friday's column setting . . thing? The whole thing I was getting so worked up by?"

I cannot maintain the persona of a Buddhist monk who has taken a silent oath, especially from my mother's eyes which is searching for signs of life in the living room and enlightened the fuse of my social interaction.

"Uh-huh." I grunt with the participation of enthusiastic eye action.

Our house is similar to old timey Shakespeare plays where the boys would play girls and the girls would play boys, according to some ancient tradition. Except the roles of Newell's Residence did not switch gender but places.

Mum is wearing the name tag of "A teenager in bloom".

Mine's say "Frustrated adult".

"It turned out alright. Actually better than alright--well better than what I expected and it wasn't bad."

Mum is holding an imaginary baby in her arms as her fingers wave around the air.

This is a key omen of the woman's passion and delirium.

My mind tries to salvage some leftover ecstasy from mum's broaden smile that stretches to the border of her cheeks, in a young, jubilant manner.

I feel my serotonin on the rise, for a second. Before it tumbles.

Like a kid on his first bike ride.

No second hand happiness is allowed.

"That . . guy--editor--what's his name--George something . . he did not do bad at all. To be honest, I was expecting a train wreck but it turned out good at the end."
"So, are they keeping him?"

I ask, as I inch away from her stance.

I hope my mother understands symbolism.

"No, nah. They aren't . . well, Jan did say something about keeping him . . . as a semi, a temp maybe. Well, apparently, this George was trying out his hand in things. . . said he only wanted to see if he could do it."
"So, he . . just popped out of nowhere?"
"I thought that at first too."

Mum fastens the speed of her pacing as to appreciate our mutual pattern of thinking.

I bombard my mind with the previous events, depressive episodes, angry words exchanged between my friends and myself, Margaret, what Dolarous did.

I gather all the affairs that I find sad and bitter for my mother's telepathic intrusion to find.

"No, . . but that's not the case, apparently. He didn't just step out of a mist. He was working with one of Jan's--other prodigies and she referred him to her."
"So, are you not worried anymore?"
"Haha! Pfft! Frey. I was never worried, in the first place. I'll admit I was surprised but you know Jan. She had to do what she had to do. And she's right, you know. People cannot always deliver, every week."

I think of what my mother felt about Payne and his failure in publishing the fashion weekly.

"The ass size of a Persian whore" is a bundle of words that are too hard to forget.

"I know I acted out and everything but . . it's all fine, now. And now, as we are all made up, I can finally get some work done."

I spy my mother's hands as she stops in front of the glass side door to craft a cautious look at Mrs. Bonneville.

Dad's sweater is hung on the washer's hook. She is wearing a beige turtleneck, the sleeves have been hassled to her elbows.

The underside of her left wrist is already dotted with suspicious looking blots of ink.

She is already getting things done.

I focus on the telepathic line to one Julia Newell, standing 4 feet away in arched posture.

I draw in the images of Jackie's poor physical retort to the letter as he shoves me on the side of the pickup, Clay's fidgeting pose during Bio lab as he swallows the awkwardness without making eye contact, Rommery's measured " Socially acceptable " smirks.

I want my mother to slowly stand beside the couch as her face banks down to meet my distinctively saddened disposition. I want her to ask me questions of things that may be hazardous to the comfort of my life, I want Julia to lob her arms around me and assume things when I feel too trapped to speak.

I do not want "Directive Julia Newell, NewHouse Veteran and Not Retired".

I want to see the persona of my mother who cares about Dad enough to go through the lengthy trouble of acquiring freshly produced potatoes from the Farm Trope.

The shuffling of comfortable pants draw near, stepping one foot in front of the other.

The pair of hand reaches down.

They grasp onto the dual tea cups and saucers, balancing them carefully as I see the back of my mother on her way to the kitchen.

"Sorry about the mess, Frey. I know I always give you a hard time about keeping your room clean, but I was too . . . . into the hour to get anything done."

My mother is dead.

Only "Directive Julia Newell, NewsHouse's Veteran Editor" exists in the house.

The halogen has swallowed her to her ambition.

"I'm going out."

I say, as I calmly grab hold of the backpack that is kissing dust from the side of the couch. The grip on the side strands is too arrogant and strong as it scraps the back of my neck.

Despite of being an inanimate object, the backpack can sense my distress.

My mother cannot.

I try to think of things that will grant me a fix of momentary comfort. I think of Ms. Eden appreciating my passive aggressiveness in her strange way of approval.

The discovery of inner, hidden talent of writing hate letters is losing steam slowly.

"Oh, you going out?!"
"Yeah."

The door shunts open as the premature chill of the wind gains entrance to the warmth of the dining table's zeal.

My mother's neck has contracted itself to a raise to meet my actions. Her eyes are dispersing the yellow artificial rays of the bulb, creating long, dark shadows around her nose.

She looks evil but in actuality, she's just self involved and careless about fathomably large family elements.

"Where? It's not Mrs. Gideon's class day at Blue Ridge, is it? Isn't it Friday? "
"Hmm, Friday."
"Then, where are you off to? I wanted to have dinner at . .7. I can't really eat anything because--well . . I have a few things on my hand."

Julia smiles as her lips prod in the quirky manner, lending a comical view on the wooden surface of the table where the mats have been covered by loose papers, pages, journal entries, a letter size envelope and an open application.

The brown statement of the furniture has been covered by " Passion white " .

These are the present evidence of all the things that I currently hate.

"I'll be back . . late."

I try not to think of more subtle ways to send the message of my "Slip in my jolly character" to Mum.

The coat stand stands innocently near the open door with its pedestrian face being silent.

One little push will grant me a power play to display my teenage angst.

"Well, where are you headed? Is it one of those late baseball games again? Because I do not like the idea of you walking around late in those parts of the town."
"It's not. I'm heading over to Clay's. The Summertown's coming up in November . . and Mr. Marsh says we should start early . . and spread. . . the way--"
"Hold on! Wait. Are you in?"
"What?"
"Are you in with The Directive? Did you get selected, Frey?"

Mum's shoulder chips upward as her smile magnifies under the deep light and from the lack of my answer, her face looks yearning in suspense.

I perceive the rise of affection in the air but I act nonchalant to the emotion.

Sometimes indifference is key to a healthy mindset in the hazardous teenage years.

"Yes . . I am. I mean, it's not yet final because they're gonna have a second one and--"
"Oh, God. Frey! Why didn't you say it before? Oh . . I'm so proud of you!"

The chair protests as mum pushes it back whilst she gets up and continues to carry the smile on her disposition.

'Ingram Holland, Clearance Burton, Rommery Holloway, Yolanda Emile and Noah Nash.'

The name Frey Newell is absent from the list of 'Primary Selective'.

Mum does not know that.

She does not need to.

"It's . . no big deal. I was in last year, remember? But I didn't have to go . . because I wrote the chart and the pointers with the guys beforehand--"
"But . . I did not remember that . . ugh jeez! I forgot, didn't I?"

Mum's laughter starts to rumble the searing heat off of my mind as she circles around the dining table for some unexplained reason.

"And . . Frey . . you don't share much."

You don't ask much, mum. You just say the things about yourself and dump yourself down to your work.

"Anyway, I gotta go . . you should eat up. I could be late."
"You know . . what we should do? I have got these incredible papers on debate techniques. It's very informative and they even went through the trouble of color coding--"

Her hand abandons the sheet and grabs hold of another one as her smirk loses steam.

"What's popular in the curriculum these days?"
"Global warming is getting hotter."

I say as I seep the laughter from the joke out of my lips, hoping she would join.

"Huh." is the only reply.

"When's the Summertown debate?"
"Mid November. You shouldn't worry about the snow, mum . . I mean, it is Summertown . . they must have named it for a reason, right?"

The jokes are rejected, from the laugh of mum's usual laughter.

Her head crones down to a specific splotch of white, covered violently in a hasty handwriting.

She tilts it just at an appropriate angle for me to grant a peak at the dates.

My wait for the reply is too long, she's providing an unnecessary amount of attention to the calendar and not towards me.

I add the word " Calendar " to the long list of things that I despise on every level.

"Mid November? Um . . so like 18 . . 20? Around like that?"
"Maybe. Probably."

If she is willing to take me to Summertown, for whatever silly reason, like the Annual Debate Competition or just for the sake of getaway, I would be willing to.

I can see myself standing on the podium and slashing Nash's throat with the perfect pronunciation of words like 'Hybridization', 'Auto Directory and Locomotive expulsion'.

My long list of statistics of the temperature rate in various parts of the world, the decrease in the square footage of ice in Antarctica, the increase of RMG sectors in Southern Asia, the philosophical take on making War Machines to prevent wars; Ingram's three pages of torn notebook will not be able to handle my precise, calculated digits.

I will go through any lengths of trouble so that I can spend a solicited amount of time with mum, the primal version of Julia Newell who emphasizes more on Family than Ambition.

"Oh . . that's great. That's perfect. How long?"
"It takes a week but I'm confident we'll stay two because we're getting that trophy this year."

I answer before she can finish.

I am eager.

"Oh! I know Gravis stays home at that time of the month. . . but could Jan get there in time?"

The question is not shot out to anyone in particular and this trait of mum is not atypical because on Sunday mornings, from my snoozed posture under the blanket, I can hear my mum talking loudly to the conscious of Julia Newell, scratching up a list of all the necessary shopping she needs to complete before evening.

During this trance of verbal alignment of things, mum does not acknowledge my existence.

I'm not delighted by this prospect.

"Who's Gravis?" I ask.

The serotonin is being thrown out of the throne at an unforeseen uprising.

"Gravis Bedlam? Remember? He stayed with us for like months at a time?"

I mouth the word 'No' even though my intentions are budging me to ask her how Gravis is connected with me and my incursion to Summertown.

"Oh, come on, Frey. You remember him. He taught you a whole lot of things. He was like a teacher to you. Come on, do you not remember?"

The insulting/comical smirk has transferred its state to questionnaire annoyance.

"4th grade? You wanted to send a thank you note to Ambrosa but you were too embarrassed? Gravis helped you with the whole thing and even taught you how to write letters properly."

I remember who Gravis is since the image of a clean but smelly patch of beard, contracted eyes from lack of sleep are the only two features I can recall. My mother is sly and cunning at every conscious breath she takes mainly because she drew my attention with the story of Ambrosa, one of my mum's friend who took care of me at an episodic Friday afternoon that stunk with the smell of my vomit.

"So? What about him?"
"I had just the best thought and hear me out. We could stay at Gravis's for the two weeks and Jan's an old friend so she could come with us too! Bring the other loose gooses with her. Hmm, I wonder if Bret will come or even if he's alive--"

Mum laughs mindfully as the corner of her eyes curve with the message of anxiety. Instinctively, about the living state of Bret.

"And?"
"And . . . we could just have a good time. I mean, we haven't seen each other or that crazy circle for such a long time . . I mean. . probably, some people could come and we could have a good time together. You'll enjoy it too!"

I'm as silent as the coat rack, standing stumpy on the side of the door.

"Besides, I bet it's gonna be good for the debate too. If half of those guys can meet up with you, trust me, you'll be well prepared about anything. Cecile's a scholar herself and she'll be enough. You might have seen her name in the papers. She won a few good ones when she was at your age."

I do not need Cecil. I do not want to know any of them or spend a day, let alone two weeks with more devoted version of my mother who toiled their life to the mission of writing and publishing.

I just want to spend some quality time with my mother, both of us being committed to our mutual ground of Debate.

And nothing else.

"And . . Gravis is a well renowned publisher now. He even has a fan club . . . sending him a ton of mail to Utah, to his 'office.'"

Mum stops to giggle at the word 'Office' with pressure to ensure the humor.

I find nothing funny.

"And . . we can definitely come to an agreement. Or I hope we can. . . About the book. I have been thinking about writing so long."

I have transformed my persona into a coat rack's.

The sun is on the churn back home and its delayed shine is turned low as the seeped light that entered through the door slowly loses contrasts and brightness.

Mum stands in the glory of electric lighting. Halogen is making the yearning look on her face pop so that I can feel the guilt if I take the teenage way to showcase my angst.

"You have been . . telling me, cheering me on about that book and I--uh--I think it's time, Frey. I think . . there's no better time than Now."

"Definitely." is all I say.