56 Life’s a Bitch Ryleigh Huppler I never really took into consideration what my mother always told my little brother and me when we were growing up. She always said to us, “Life’s a bitch” whenever our family would go through some sort of struggle, no matter how young we were. I usually just shrugged it off, except when her words applied to me—then I got very annoyed. I’m surprised, from the number of times that she used the phrase, that “bitch” wasn’t my first word. I can just hear it loud and clear whenever I reminisce about the unfairness of school: “Welp, life’s a bitch. Nothing you can do to change it,” she would always say, with the blankest expression on her face. She never really looked at me when she said it either; she was usually looking out of the window while sipping her coffee, or filing her nails for the millionth time that day. Perhaps her ignoring me was her way of taking away the tension (and, sometimes, tears) of the situation. My mother rarely ever got mad, or even excited, unless you lied to her. Well . . . if she caught you lying. There were many times that my brother Jack and I got away with lying without her knowing. It’s a great skill to have growing up. When you got caught in a lie . . . well, you didn’t hear the end of it for weeks. By “didn’t hear the end of it,” I mean that she would tell everyone in my extended family and our neighbors within a twenty-mile radius how badly you messed up. “Yeah, I get it,” I’d say over and over again. I think my mother is the reason why I never really complained about much—I just sucked it up and moved on. I learned from as young as two that “complaining gets you nowhere.” Yes, my mother always said that a lot, especially to Jack, who loved to pout about everything under the sun—especially about losing his favorite toy train when he was younger. I wasn’t one to spill to my mother every little situation that was going on at school. I gave her some details here and there of what was going on in my life, usually only telling her things that she asked about, which wasn’t much. My life wasn’t that exciting, and it was just odd telling my mom stuff that she doesn’t really need to know about. What high school boy tells his mom everything? Many . . . but certainly not me. Lately, I haven’t been talking to my mom. Nothing against her, I just haven’t been in a good mood to hold a good conversation with her, or my brother, really. I’ve just been going through some crappy middle school-like drama . . . * * * “Wait—what?” I unintentionally slammed my locker door shut as my best friend, Vince, gave me some upsetting news. “Yeah . . . don’t be spreading that shit around though,” he waved his hands in my face with an anxious expression and let out a deep sigh. “Travis just started talking to me-this is my chance.” Vince was my fellow running back on the high school football team.
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