When Lars arrived home from work that day, hearing the sound of tired old music floating from the living room window, he groaned, immediately knowing the mood in the house wasn't good. His mom only turned on her records when she was depressed.
He winced as he stepped inside, and realized just how screechy the music was, the records all having been scratched from overuse during the years. Groaning, he shoved his headphones over his ears and turned on his own tunes, and peeked into the living room from the staircase. His mom, Martha, was wearing a cold towel mask over her eyes, muttering the words to the music as it played.
Groaning again, Lars pulled his headphones off, and called down from the stairs, "H-hey mom!"
Jolting slightly at the noise, she lifted the towel off her eyes, and spoke as she sat up, her voice strained, "O-oh, hello Lars! Back so soon?"
"Uh...it's 6:00," he muttered, pointing to the clock, "I'm always back at 6."
"O-oh! I must have really zoned out then!", she laughed awkwardly, obviously frazzled, and avoiding eye contact with her son.
"Uh...right," Lars glanced to see the huge stack of records she'd taken out, and figured she was in enough of a funk to not even notice herself flipping the records over and changing it, "Whatcha listenin' to? Can hardly hear it over the scratches..."
"Evidently," his mother began with a sigh as she lifted the album cover, "Jim Croce. Got this one in a store in a place called Pasadena back in '75."
"Oh," he clicked his tongue, "Well uh, looks like dad's not home yet, I'm gonna go upst-"
"Please wait a minute, Lars," Martha sighed, "Sit down", and pat the seat of the couch, "We need to talk a minute-"
"Ah fuck-", Lars hissed under his breath.
"Laramie," she spoke sharply a second, then sighed, "I really don't want to fight over this, OK?"
"Fine," he huffed, and dramatically flopped onto the couch beside her, arms crossed, "What?"
Rubbing the bridge of her nose wearily, she reached for the report card on the coffee table, and Lars immediately tensed up.
"Mom I-"
"You realize this is the beginning of the school year, and that you can get these grades up fast enough if you just-"
"It's not a big deal ma, I-"
"It is a big deal! You're flunking your classes!," she frowned, "This is your last year in school before you graduate, and you still don't know where you're going for college!"
"Community college can-"
"Lars. We told you, we want you to learn how to be independent, and at least try for four year college. We know you're smart- your teachers even know you're smart," she pointed at comments that had been left on the report card, "So please just put the effort into-"
"Fine!", Lars huffed, "I don't see the point in it but fine."
"Lars, you can't just work at that donut shop forever. You're going to have to do something more worthwhile with your life-"
"Like what?", he sneered.
"Like, you know, a job that you can use to move up to places in the world-"
"You already think I've hit rock bottom, ma, what's the point?"
"It's not too late!", she insisted, "You just need to put the effort in, and then we-"
"Then why can't I go to culinary school or art school? Those are the only damn things I'm good at!"
"We can't afford them," she whispered, reaching to pat his hand, "We'd love to send you there but we-"
"Fuck!", Lars hissed, "It's not fair, the two things I can do without being crap, and I can't even go."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Yeah," Lars glowered, sounding bitter, "Me too."
She began to cry, and Lars' stomach twisted, "Oh...fuck...shit...no no no, mom don't...god damn it...mom I'm...I'm sorry OK, j-just don't cry-"
"I just don't know what to do anymore!", she cried, "I'm doing all I can to help you get by, and you won't do anything to help yourself!"
"M-mom," Lars started, "I-"
He hated hearing her cry like that, it made him feel worse than he already did. Why did he have to fuck things up so much?
"Mom," he tried again, and already felt his throat tighten, "I just- every time I do try to get the work done, it's never good enough! I can't get the assignments done, I just stare at the paper and can't do anything, I-", he shuddered, and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, "I can't do anything right. I suck at everything because I'm too tired and bored for it, none of my friends except for my coworker are speaking to me because they all like some kid pretending to be me instead of me, and I don't blame them because I'm the fucking worst-"
"Lars, that's not true-"
"It is!" Lars snapped, holding back tears, "And you know it! You and dad- you just...you didn't even give me a chance to say anything yesterday! You just stood there with everybody while I basically learned how much everyone hates me, because I can't learn to be so goddamn happy like everyone else in this stupid town!"
His mother covered her mouth while Lars kept talking, tears streaming down his face, "You think I want to be like this? Like a failure? Someone who tries to get people to like me, and no matter what I do, it never works? Someone who's so stupid a-and lousy a-and pathetic that he can't even get something as fuckin' easy as an essay done and turned in because everything I touch turns to shit? Someone who's parents are so ashamed of him they don't ever go outside with him?"
Lars choked out a sob, and looked at his mother with the most broken face she'd seen from him aside from his normal outbursts of irritation, "Am I a bad son?"
"Oh, Laramie," Martha whispered, watching her son break down emotionally, and pulled him into her arms, yelping as he began to flail, "Lars- don't, don't-" and wrapped her arms around him tighter, trying to assure him to stay calm and not panic, and hugged him against her, "You're not a bad son, I promise. You're not."
"B-But I'm-"
"You're not," she repeated, having wiped her own tears, "You're not even a bad person. Not even close. You just...make bad mistakes sometimes. As does everyone...you just...you need to figure out what you can do to try and stop them whenever you can..."
Lars just sat tensely in her arms for several minutes, hiccuping, and tears running down his face as his mother ran her hand across his hair, trying to think of what to do or what to say. She wasn't even sure there was anything she could do right now, not in the state Lars was in now.
Martha felt terrible for having made him feel like that, like he was some irredeemable frightening monster to be avoided. It just became so difficult for her to keep looking for the sweet loving child she bore and raised that had, after so many years, fights, rejected questions, teacher conferences, and swears, become someone she hardly knew anymore, unless it was to argue or feed or drive somewhere.
And none of it was really anyone's fault. Not even him. It was all just a really messed up part of growing up. And he just got the worst case of it.
"You're not a bad person," she repeated after several minutes, reaching another hand up to wipe tears off his cheek like she did when he was a child, "You haven't burglarized anyone yet...intentionally," she thought back to the day before.
"What?", Lars asked, almost sounding like a mix between a sob and a laugh, "Where did you even get that idea-"
"Never mind that," she sighed, reaching for tissues, and giving him one, and then providing one for herself, "We can talk about getting you a tutor, or someone to help you out with at least some aspects of this-"
"But I don't-"
"I know you don't want to," she sighed, "But it's either you put the effort in, or you have someone who makes you put it in."
Giving him a gentle rub of the back, "And maybe we can get you into some counseling to-"
"I don't want that-", he suddenly spoke up sounding worried, voice wet.
"You might need it though," she sighed, "It will be a step above you feeling so bad about yourself all the time, don't you think?"
Lars didn't answer, just roughly rubbing at his face with the tissues.
"...do you want to try cooking dinner again tonight? We went to the store yesterday while you were out."
"...yeah," he mumbled, voice tired, "Whaddya want-"
"You decide," she smiled a little, fixing her glasses, and folded up the report card, tucking it away to discuss with her husband later. The last couple days had been rough, and she could worry about psychologists, counselors, tutors and the like later after dinner. If cooking a meal could be some sort of motivation for her son, then she'd allow it.
"Ok," he blew his nose, "Can I go upstairs and wash my face, and get out of my work shirt?"
"Certainly," she nodded.
"O-oh, yeah, I invited a friend, Sadie, over to hang out sometime this week, we're gonna watch a movie and stuff."
"Sadie? Was that the blonde girl you- I mean...Steven, was running along with yesterday?"
"Yeah," he nodded, "We go to the wrestling matches and stuff too."
"A girl friend?", she smiled, teasing a little.
"Just a friend," he rolled his eyes, huffing a little, and headed up the stairs with a bit of an energetic hop, "I think I wanna make poutine and salad for dinner! That sound okay?"
"No idea what poo-teen is," she snickered, "Tell me?"
For the next ten minutes, Martha was content to hear her son ramble from upstairs about french fries, gravy, Canadian roadhouses, and food carts with the occasional eager swear and a cheerfulness she cherished more than anything else, even more than the records she kept for gloomy days.