“Nothing,” I say, shoving my phone in my pocket and turning the sink back on. Jeez, what used to be the semi-relaxing cool-down time of washing dishes has apparently become “corner Adam and ask him about his life” time.

“Oh really?” She grins. She places the rest of the dishes on the kitchen counter and I shrug as I hand her a plate.

“Are you going out with friends tonight?” she asks, unable to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

“What do you think?” I scoff, not looking her in the eye.

“What about that Caitlin girl?” she suggests. “It sounds like you two have a lot in common.”

“We have a lot of classes in common,” I correct her. “She’s really popular,” I add after a moment, as if that explains everything.

“What’s wrong with that?” God, my mom cannot let anything lie.

“Nothing’s wrong with that, Mom,” I say, exasperated. “But I’m, you know, not popular, so we don’t really run in the same social circles.”

“What about the other kids from debate?” she presses. “You never hang out with any of them outside of school?”

“Not unless we need to practice.”

“I’m just worried about you, sweets,” she says, putting down the plate and brushing my curls down.

“I know you are, but you don’t need to be,” I assure her, even though we both know that’s not exactly true. “I like being alone. I’ll make friends in college.”

“You know, you don’t have to save up—you can have friends now and in college,” she teases gently, giving me that big-eyed “worried about my little boy” mom look. It’s a killer look.

“Yeah, thanks, I know that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But not a lot of high schoolers want to hang out with the depressed gay kid. I’m not exactly first on people’s lists for keggers.”

“Well, first of all, you’re not to drink if you get invited to any ‘keggers.’” She raises her eyebrows and takes another plate from me. “And secondly, I think people might surprise you. I know you sometimes feel worlds away from everyone else—”

“Mom, please—”

“But that doesn’t mean people can’t relate. I’m sure there are other kids at your school who struggle with mental health or their sexual identity—”

“I’m not struggling with my ‘sexual identity,’ Mom—”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she says sternly, pinning me with a look. Uh-oh, somehow we’ve wandered into Serious Talk territory. “I just mean that, while you are a very special young man for many reasons, you are not the only—as you put it—‘depressed gay kid’ in the world. But if you never give anyone a chance, you’ll never know.”

I turn off the sink and start to put the dry dishes away.