I was lying on a couch in my bedroom (I asked my parents if I could have a couch for a bed because I was completely obnoxious) talking on the phone* to a girl. The girl that I was talking to, a moderately attractive female with impeccable teeth, was a sophomore.
There was music playing in the background (hopefully it was Outkast's "Elevators" or Junior M.A.F.I.A.'s "Get Money," but it was probably a radio grab of Tag Team's "Whoomp! (There It Is)") and I was in basketball shorts** and no shirt.
*I am exceptionally sad that my sons will never know what a house phone is. And I am exceptionally exceptionally sad that they will never sit at the kitchen table tethered to it while they sing R&B songs to girls while wife and I sit in the living room and pretend not to listen.
**Two pair, actually. True player shit.
I was doing my very best to sound like Wesley Snipes in White Men Can't Jump (desperately confident, slightly aloof) because it wasn't cool to be slightly weird and brainy until several years later. We were on the phone for, I'd guess, ten minutes, most of which were spent by me trying to get her to understand how good of an idea it was for her to let me see her boobs. And that's when my mom walked in. And she was steaming.
Now, if you know nothing else of Latino culture, please know this: An angry Mexican mom is probably the most devastating force that's ever been. An angry Mexican mom is like if you took that scene from Congo where all of those hippos started eating people and multiplied it by the part in Inglorious Basterds where the two guys are standing on that balcony firing into the crowd as the theater burns. That's what I had walk into my room.
She was shouting about a report card, of which I'd claimed hadn't been given to the students yet. She shouted about my sisters, saying they'd gotten theirs, so where was mine. To which I replied something like, "I don't know. I'm in high school. They're not. Maybe it's different."
She shouted that she'd better not find out I'd received it already. To which I replied, "Mom, no, never. I make good grades. It'd make no sense for me to hide my report card." Then she shouted that she was going to call the school the next morning, and if they had it she would torture and kill me, or something. To which I replied, "You know what? I remember getting it now. It's in my backpack. I think I might've failed biology."
And that was that.
She came charging across the room (a scene best recreated in Avengers when Hulk is smashing through all those pipes in the ship's hull) and snatched me up. She grabbed me by my arm like I was toddler, stringing me up to my tip-toes. Somehow, she materialized a belt in her hand. And PIYAOW! and PIYAOW! and PIYAOW! and PIYAOW!