Grantedby Andrew Hammer "I wish she was dead," I said quietly to my cousin as we stood in his living room watching our mothers talk one late fall day freshmen year. My mom and Aunt Sharon spoke of nothing in particular, simply enjoying each other's company. My mother often embarrassed me, and that day was no exception. I was embarrassed by how she dressed, with her dorky Christmas socks and shirt tucked in all the time. Then there was the way she acted: always so joyful, not realizing what it was like being seen with her. The things she said (and firmly believed) also bothered me, such as "Parents don't expect enough of their children," and "The day I say boys will be boys, you may as well just shoot me." This was not the first time I felt a strong dislike toward my mother, but it was one of the last. That evening I went home unaware of how much influence my mother had in my life. Nearly a week later, I found out. My parents were disappointed with me and my older brother, Peter. They felt we were making typical teen mistakes and didn't like our choice of hangouts, our clothing that didn't fit and, sometimes, our friends. Most of all they hated our music with its loud banging and screaming. One night, I became so frustrated with my mother when she threw out my favorite CD that I punched a hole in my wall. I quickly rearranged the furniture so no one would notice. Pulling up to school the next morning, I went through the usual routine. I tried to sit low in the seat of our old beat-up station wagon so no one would recognize me as my mother dropped me off. I tried to get out as quickly as possible. As I gathered my things my mother said, "Good-bye." I managed to utter, "Bye," as I slipped out of the car. Not much stands out about that day in school. Just before it was over, however, I do remember glancing out the window at an ambulance speeding down Main Street. It reminded me of my first-grade teacher, a scary, old woman who always made us say a Hail Mary for the person the ambulance was rescuing. Arriving home with my friend, I found my brother, Peter, watching TV with my little brother, Greg. "Where's Meta?" I asked, noticing my sister's absence. "Out with all the rest of the big eighth-graders?" "She and Mom went shopping," Peter replied. I made myself a float and sat down to watch TV. An hour later we heard the distinct crackle of stones in the driveway. Although I knew it would be my mother, my instinct led me to look outside. "Andy, who is it?" Peter asked. "It's a cop. He's just turning around." Then I realized the cop wasn't backing up. The car door opened. "He's getting out!" At first, I worried I was in trouble. Peter and I went to the door to meet the officer. I remained as still as possible and hoped politeness would keep away trouble. Seeing how slowly he approached, I relaxed a bit. As he reached the door, he took off his hat. "Is your father home?" he asked. "No, he's still at work." His questio

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Excerpted from Our Voices, Our Visions: Today's Teenagers Sharing Thoughts on Friends, Family, Fitting In, Challenges, Loss, Memories, Love, Heroes by John Meyer, Stephanie H. Meyer
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