On the right side of my screen I see “Susan. She has 29 facebook friends. Suggest friends for her.” Suddenly I’m back in junior high school, except there’s a horrifying new twist: my mom is clutching her tray in the cafeteria, searching for a place to sit.
Poof! Facebook spings a halo and perches on my right shoulder. “Invite her over to your table,” it whispers in my ear. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I protest. “I already accepted her friend request. What more do you want from me?”
“Make her feel welcome. Introduce her to people. It’s hard to be the new kid.” If Facebook had a face, I’m sure it would have a most disapproving look.
I dig my heels into the floor and stare at my feet. “Why should I listen to you? You’re not even supposed to be here. It’s 1987.”
“…After all she’s done for you,” Facebook drones on. “She raised you to be better than this.”
I ponder this for a moment. It’s all true. There was never a moment in my life when my mom wasn’t there for me. She always taught me the difference between right and wrong, and when I showed my less-than-saintly side, she taught me to be disappointed in myself without punishment.
However, publically announcing her less-than-popular status is also the perfect opportunity to get back at her for dressing me and my sister in twin hand-croqueted ponchos until we were in the second and fourth grades, respectively, chimes in an altogether different voice from my other shoulder.
The devil wins again.