[center][hr][hr][img]https://i.imgur.com/LUjs1Ja.png[/img]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/V5x6J6T.png[/img]
[sup][color=6B6295]Starring:[/color] [color=5C6F8E]Chrysler and Angela Reyes[/color]
[color=6B6295]Setting:[/color] [color=5C6F8E]Home, Friday Afternoon[/color][/sup]
[hr][hr][/center]
[indent][indent]Tires peeled against the asphalt as Chris turned his [url=https://i.imgur.com/DTSOcg0.png]KTM Super Duke[/url] down Washington Avenue. It wasn’t the nicest bike on the streets, but it was his. Back in 2017, when the cycle was originally manufactured, it would have cost about as much as a mid tier sedan, but Chris bought her for only a few hundred bucks via Craigslist. The seller warned that she didn’t run, but she’d be good for selling parts. Chrysler had other plans though, like putting the skills he was learning at trade school to good use. With a little elbow grease, love, and many late nights spent cursing in the garage when the parts he ordered didn’t work, Chris finally got the bike street ready. He even got it a new paint job, black and blood orange. With a few more months of tinkering, it was [i]race[/i] ready. That was the best part, giving those rich kids a run for their money — quite literally — in a motorcycle that he didn’t put more than a few grand and a year’s worth of manual labor into. Take that, capitalism!

Chris kicked the rumbling engine off in his driveway and locked the motorcycle up in the garage beside his mother’s beater of a car. That’s what you did in his neighborhood. You locked your shit up, or it would gain a habit of wandering off in the middle of the night. Slapping the garage door button, Chrysler made his way inside the house. The first room connected to the garage was the kitchen, where his mother, Angela Reyes, was washing dishes at the sink. The relatively young woman, at least for someone with a 17 year old son, turned her head over her shoulder and smiled at him. [color=6B6295][b]“Hey, baby,”[/b][/color] she greeted warmly before turning back around to her housework.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Hey, Moms,”[/b][/color] he replied, sitting down at the kitchen table and setting his pin-covered, ratty, old, black backpack down on the linoleum floor. He didn’t have immediate plans, so he’d sit and chat with his mother for a bit. It was Friday, after all, a good time to catch up with her before she hit the bottle.

[color=6B6295][b]“How was school?”[/b][/color] His mother asked, her head still facing the window while she washed a cup. Chris was starting to get comfortable, kicking his shoes off and wiggling his toes in all of their glorious freedom. The next step in the afternoon relaxation ritual was a good long drag. The rebellious teen pulled a plastic red lighter and a pack of Marlboro’s out of his jacket pocket and lit up a cig before returning them to their places. Noticing a small plate with some apparent breadcrumbs on it across the table, Chris pulled it towards him to flick his ashes on.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“It was fine. Just school, nothing special.”[/b][/color] He responded, exhaling a breath of smoke as he did so and leaning back in the chair. [color=5C6F8E][b]“How was work?”[/b][/color]

Instead of answering, Angela’s head tilted up. She turned the faucet off after a few moments and waited. Little did her son know, she was sniffing the air. Angela turned around, her almond shaped eyes narrowed into angry slits.

[color=5C6F8E][i]Ah, fuck…[/i][/color] He thought. Five foot nothing and a hundred and ten pounds of pure maternal rage, incoming. Angela marched over to her son, who was now sitting back upright in the chair. She plucked the cigarette straight out of his lips and stabbed the butt out harshly into the plate that he had been using as an ashtray. Without any words, she held out her hand.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Seriously?”[/b][/color] Chris asked incredulously as he looked at her opened palm. What was this about? She knew he smoked, why make a scene all of the sudden? He looked from her palm to her face. Her eyes narrowed further, and damn… Hell hath no fury like a bent filipina mother. Chris wasn’t about to lose his life over a pack of cigarettes and a BIC lighter. He fished the objects out of his jacket pocket and placed them in her palm silently.

[color=6B6295][b]“These things will kill you. No more.”[/b][/color] Angela scolded, slapping them on the plate and turning around. She hastily walked over to the trash and tapped the plate against the plastic bin, dumping the contents into the garbage.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Yeah, you know what else kills ya?”[/b][/color] Chris asked in retaliation. If she wanted a fight, he’d brawl. Throwing out his cigarettes, what kind of shit is this? Someone must have pissed in her coffee at work. His mother turned around in response, her hands on her hips, though one was still holding his makeshift ashtray. [color=5C6F8E][b]“Vodka.”[/b][/color] He said curtly, his eyes flicking over to her liquor cabinet. Touché, madre.

[color=6B6295][b]“Mind your tongue with me, binata!”[/b][/color] She hissed, gesturing harshly at him with the plate. After that, she seemed to mellow out slightly. [color=6B6295][b]“What are your plans tonight?”[/b][/color] She asked, turning back to head towards the sink, as if none of that previous argument took place.

What in the actual fuck was going on? Chris felt like he was going to get whiplash from this conversation. He should have just went to his room, damn. [color=5C6F8E][b]“I dunno, going out?”[/b][/color]

[color=6B6295][b]“Out?”[/b][/color] You could practically hear the judgmental eyebrow raise in her tone.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Yeah, out.”[/b][/color] He confirmed without clarifying.

[color=6B6295][b]“You will do your homework first?”[/b][/color] She framed it like a question, but it was a demand. Chris could see that, he knew how this dance went.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“... It’s Friday.”[/b][/color] Chris said as an excuse not to. His short response was answered by her violently throwing the plate down into the dishwater. Suds flew up and clung to the curtains on the window, and the clang of porcelain against the steel sink caused Chris to startle in his seat. 

Spinning around, angry once again, his mother went on a full-on rant. [color=6B6295][b]“What is wrong with you? What did I do so wrong? You need to get serious! Do your homework, do school. Do you want to live like this your whole life? Huh? Do you?! You need to get ready for college, not smoke cigarettes and go out all the time. Be better than this. You hear me, binata?”[/b][/color]

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Alright! Shit, don’t break plates over it, fuck.”[/b][/color] Chris responded, standing up with his hands in surrender. He honestly didn’t know what she was capable of, was she gonna chuck a plate at him next? Damn… [color=5C6F8E][b]“I’ll do homework first, aiight? But I’m still going out after, it’s Friday, Moms.”[/b][/color]

He was going to leave it at that. Just go to his room and maybe actually do some homework like he promised. Maybe. But as soon as he walked through the threshold to the hall, he felt a pang in his stomach. Guilt. He turned around to see his mother facing away from him, looking rather defeated with her sudsy hands against the counter. Sighing, he approached her. [color=5C6F8E][b]“I don’t think I need better than this, Moms. I ain’t mad at what we got, and you shouldn’t be either. You did the best with the hand you were given, aiight? You did good for us, and I ain’t mad… If I act out, it’s really just on me, ‘kay? Or we came blame my dickhead father, he’s a good scapegoat, right?”[/b][/color]

At that, Angela turned and cracked a smile. Throwing his mystery dad under the bus could lighten any mood. Chris pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back comfortingly. Truly, he didn’t like it when they fought, even if they were well-versed in it. [color=6B6295][b]“You’re a good boy.”[/b][/color] She whispered as an apology.

[color=5C6F8E][b]“Only to the people who matter most.”[/b][/color] Chris said, and pulled away enough to kiss his significantly shorter mother’s temple. [color=5C6F8E][b]“I’ll go do my homework now, promise.”[/b][/color][/indent][/indent]