Faking It

Faking It

She must be fucking deaf, I think. I've been yelling for the past ten minutes and she hasn't turned around. The vacuum cleaner is on - but she can hear me, I know she can. It's a crap vacuum cleaner anyway. It doesn't make a lot of noise, not half as much as it should, 'cause it's got no goddamned suction which makes it fucking useless so really that moron otherwise known as my mother is shifting the dirt from place to place, not even that, just disturbing it. No wonder Dad's allergies are so bad.

"MUM, TURN THE DAMN THING OFF!" I yell at her. She's got her back to me. I don't want to admit this, and I'm definitely never going to admit it out loud or to her, but I've suddenly realised that I msut've inherited my ability to fake it from my mum. Faking it is harder than you think. Not just lying, that's for kids, but actually pissing people off big time from what your body is saying. You might be saying to Mr. Woodhouse, the Maths teacher who tried to get me interested in trigonometry for about four years that you're SO sorry for forgetting your homework and it will NEVER happen again...but your arms and your posture and even your nose is saying: you're a loser and you ain't never gonna get any homework out of me about fuckin triangles, you cunt.

Funny the way things work out. I look like my mum but I never thought for a moment that my attitude could ever be inherited from her. It's not really inherited. Just copied. But she's got it down to a pat. I'm getting really pissed off now.

"MUM!" I roar at her again. She's starting to fucking HUM now. She's enjoying this. We watched this video about maternity once. It wasn't about the reproduction, it was about parenting. I think it was in sociology. I liked sociology. Two reasons. One was that I like knowing how things work. I didn't get this fucking society but I udnerstand it better now. I like knowing what goes on in people's minds. As I suspected, it's fucked up. The second reason is totally superficial. Miss Waterstone has incredible tits. If any of the lads had said that to me I'd be on them in a second - You WHAT? She's a teacher, man! They're not sexy, and if any of 'em are then they must be fuckin' prostitutes after they clock off.

But as it is, it's me that thinks Miss Waterstone has incredible tits, not the lads, so I don't give myself a hard time over it. It's TRUE. She must be about 30 but she's definitely not had any kids. Any woman can have big tits, most of the girls do, but how many are skinny, big tits and they're pert too. I'm serious. They could direct air traffic. All they need to do is to flash to aircraft in the dark and she'll be all set for a career in the air traffic control. It's not sick or anything, I'm not going to FUCK Miss Waterstone. She's a teacher, man! I just like her tits. Nothing more.

That's IT. I take the plug out of the socket. Mum might be a great faker, but it's a useless act when your props go missing from the stage. She wheels around, as though she's just realised I was there.

"Maximus, that's really not very helpful!" she admonishes.

"I've been yelling for the last half hour!"

"Well, yelling won't do very much good when the vacuum cleaner is on, now will it?"

"That vacuum cleaner is a piece of shit, Mum and you were only using it so you could avoid talking to me!"

"Maximus, that would be juvenile. Don't talk to me that way. What was it you wanted to say?"

I've rehearsed this. But suddenly I think of all the other things I want to say. One at a time. I'm pissed off for so many reasons, really. My name - Maxmimus. The grief it causes me. Maxi-Puss is my nickname to the cunts on the football team. Max to the ones I like. Anthrax-Puss to some nerds who think they're fucking cool.

The way she barges into my room without knocking. I've seen it before! she wails. I gave bith to you! Apparently my penis is a source of fascination to that bitch. She's stopped doing it now, though. It's not my fault she SAW me wanking. I was thinking of Miss Waterstone and herpert incredible tits and she just BARGES right in there. It was at midnight or something. She shouldn't even be awake. I got the lecture the next day. She said to me, all serious and upset as though I'd HIT her that she didn't want to see that ever again. Maybe she wouldn't've had to if she'd have KNOCKED I said, but it's MY fault she said. It's always MY fault.

But it's NOT my fault this time. Not even close. It's all her.

"How long will this last?"

"Maximus, for God's sake, what are you TALKING about?"

"I think you know."

"I'm pretty sure I don't."

"Michael, Mum, this is about Michael. I'm not asking for details, I don't want to know them. I want to know times. How long has it gone on for. How long will it take for you to call him and say it's over. Or how long it will take you to tell our solicitor to start divorce proceedings. Either."

Her face has lost its fake edge. It's real, too real. I preferred her surreal pretence. The look she gives me is full of lov and hurt and anger and grief and disappointment and helplessness. I'm finding it really hard to feel even the slightest bit sorry for her. My dad is a bastard but I don't think he's screwing anyone. That's just low. Kind of pathetic. She's just fucking throwing it all away.

"He's a friend," she manages. Yeah, and I'm master of the universe. A friend who gives out sexual favours would be closer to the truth, although if it was just sex it would be less bad but it's NOT. He's her boyfriend. They kiss, they fuck, then they talk.Emotional connections are the hardest to sever, some psychologists say. I don't really believe that crap. Look at my parents. Twenty-one years and she's screwing some asshole called Michael and Dad doesn't even notice.

"A friend with a large cock, is what you said to Sarah."

I don't know why I had to go and say THAT. I don't want to think of my Mum's bastard fucking boyfriend Michael's fucking cock with which he fucks my fucking cheating Mum. Sarah is Mum's fucking best friend who fucking hates dad. Fuck this. I can't stop cursing in my head. I'm getting angrier as the absurdity hits me. Sarah is a married woman but she can gossip to Mum about her affair like they're teenagers. Worse than teenagers. Soap opera stars.

"Does Jude know?" That's all she said as confirmation. Jude is my dad. That's all she cares about. I shake my head at her. She begins to cry. I don't really give a fuck anymore. That's my moral duty done for the day. I've ratted out my mum. I would kill Michael but what would the point of that be? I load up the PC and start to play the computer game. I listen to my mother cry. I hope to God or whatever that my ability to fake it is the only attitude I've copied from my mother.