mystery-shopper skills helped her achieve that goal.
Josie pulled into the Hummer’s recently vacated slot and a loudspeaker blared, “Amelia Marcus!” Barrington students didn’t rush out of the school in packs. They were announced, and only when their ride had arrived. They could be picked up only by designated drivers. Anyone else needed written permission, filed at the office in advance.
She saw her daughter’s yellow hoodie bobbing through the downpour. Amelia opened the car door, flopped into the passenger seat, and dumped her backpack on the floor.
“Awesome storm,” she said. The rain had plastered Amelia’s bangs to her forehead.
She still allowed her mother to kiss her, and Josie was grateful. Amelia no longer had the sweet smell of a little girl. Now Josie caught the strawberry scent of her shampoo.
“You’re just like your father,” Josie said. “He loved bad weather. We used to go out on the balcony at his apartment and watch the wind and rain until we were drenched. Even when the tornado sirens were blaring, he didn’t want to go inside. One night, a barbecue grill sailed past us on the second floor.”
“Daddy was fearless,” Amelia said proudly.
And reckless, Josie thought. That same disregard for risk led Nate to fly drugs into the US and get arrested and sent to a Canadian prison. It also made him an ardent and inventive lover. Josie remembered making rainy day love while thunder crashed and lightning lit up the bedroom, but she couldn’t say that to her eleven-year-old.
“Am I like him?” Amelia asked.
That was the opening Josie had been waiting for. The storm had eased to a light shower. Josie turned onto the wider, safer lanes of Lindbergh Boulevard. Time for that mother-daughter talk.
“You’re brave like he was,” Josie said. “It takes courage to go to a school like Barrington on a scholarship. You have your father’s brown hair and eyes. It’s a richer color than mine.”
Amelia’s smile was as bright as her yellow hoodie.
“You have his freckles, too. I noticed you covered them up with my makeup when Ted made us dinner.”
“Freckles are fugly,” Amelia said, her face sullen.
“Please don’t use that word,” Josie said.
“Why?”
“You know why. It’s a contraction of the F-word and ugly. And freckles are not ugly. Rashida Jones has them.”
“She was Karen in The Office. The cute one who got dumped for Pam,” Amelia said.
The cute one. That was progress, Josie thought.
“That’s her,” she said. “Her parents are Quincy Jones and Peggy Lipton from Twin Peaks. Rashida could cover up her freckles or laser them off, but she doesn’t. Neither does Emma Watson. A few freckles didn’t keep her out of the Harry Potter movies.”
“Okay, I get it,” Amelia said. “You’ve been surfing the Internet for ways to make me feel better about myself.”
Josie stopped at a red light. A pale yellow sun peeked through the clouds.
“Busted,” Josie said. “I also found out that Miley Cyrus has no freckles.” She grinned at her daughter. Amelia hated Miley.
“She smoked salvia in a bong,” Amelia said, her lip curling in disgust. “The light’s green.”
Josie figured she’d made her point. “Are you and Grandma having a cooking class at her place tonight?” Josie asked.
“I’m worried about Grandma.” Amelia was talking too fast. Josie’s daughter seemed eager to distract her from the uncomfortable subject of freckles, covered or uncovered. “We were supposed to make stuffed steak. Now Grandma says we’re making deviled egg casserole instead.”
“It sounds rich but good,” Josie said.
“It’s lame and disgusting,” Amelia said. “We’ve made eggs for the last two classes, Mom. Eggs are cheap. We used to fix meat and fish. We’d make pork chops, catfish, sirloin tip roast, even stuffed peppers. Now she’s teaching me about cooking on a budget.”
“That’s good,” Josie said.
“Maybe. But we couldn’t make that
Josie pulled into the Hummer’s recently vacated slot and a loudspeaker blared, “Amelia Marcus!” Barrington students didn’t rush out of the school in packs. They were announced, and only when their ride had arrived. They could be picked up only by designated drivers. Anyone else needed written permission, filed at the office in advance.
She saw her daughter’s yellow hoodie bobbing through the downpour. Amelia opened the car door, flopped into the passenger seat, and dumped her backpack on the floor.
“Awesome storm,” she said. The rain had plastered Amelia’s bangs to her forehead.
She still allowed her mother to kiss her, and Josie was grateful. Amelia no longer had the sweet smell of a little girl. Now Josie caught the strawberry scent of her shampoo.
“You’re just like your father,” Josie said. “He loved bad weather. We used to go out on the balcony at his apartment and watch the wind and rain until we were drenched. Even when the tornado sirens were blaring, he didn’t want to go inside. One night, a barbecue grill sailed past us on the second floor.”
“Daddy was fearless,” Amelia said proudly.
And reckless, Josie thought. That same disregard for risk led Nate to fly drugs into the US and get arrested and sent to a Canadian prison. It also made him an ardent and inventive lover. Josie remembered making rainy day love while thunder crashed and lightning lit up the bedroom, but she couldn’t say that to her eleven-year-old.
“Am I like him?” Amelia asked.
That was the opening Josie had been waiting for. The storm had eased to a light shower. Josie turned onto the wider, safer lanes of Lindbergh Boulevard. Time for that mother-daughter talk.
“You’re brave like he was,” Josie said. “It takes courage to go to a school like Barrington on a scholarship. You have your father’s brown hair and eyes. It’s a richer color than mine.”
Amelia’s smile was as bright as her yellow hoodie.
“You have his freckles, too. I noticed you covered them up with my makeup when Ted made us dinner.”
“Freckles are fugly,” Amelia said, her face sullen.
“Please don’t use that word,” Josie said.
“Why?”
“You know why. It’s a contraction of the F-word and ugly. And freckles are not ugly. Rashida Jones has them.”
“She was Karen in The Office. The cute one who got dumped for Pam,” Amelia said.
The cute one. That was progress, Josie thought.
“That’s her,” she said. “Her parents are Quincy Jones and Peggy Lipton from Twin Peaks. Rashida could cover up her freckles or laser them off, but she doesn’t. Neither does Emma Watson. A few freckles didn’t keep her out of the Harry Potter movies.”
“Okay, I get it,” Amelia said. “You’ve been surfing the Internet for ways to make me feel better about myself.”
Josie stopped at a red light. A pale yellow sun peeked through the clouds.
“Busted,” Josie said. “I also found out that Miley Cyrus has no freckles.” She grinned at her daughter. Amelia hated Miley.
“She smoked salvia in a bong,” Amelia said, her lip curling in disgust. “The light’s green.”
Josie figured she’d made her point. “Are you and Grandma having a cooking class at her place tonight?” Josie asked.
“I’m worried about Grandma.” Amelia was talking too fast. Josie’s daughter seemed eager to distract her from the uncomfortable subject of freckles, covered or uncovered. “We were supposed to make stuffed steak. Now Grandma says we’re making deviled egg casserole instead.”
“It sounds rich but good,” Josie said.
“It’s lame and disgusting,” Amelia said. “We’ve made eggs for the last two classes, Mom. Eggs are cheap. We used to fix meat and fish. We’d make pork chops, catfish, sirloin tip roast, even stuffed peppers. Now she’s teaching me about cooking on a budget.”
“That’s good,” Josie said.
“Maybe. But we couldn’t make that
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