didn’t.
Delinquent
ON THE FIRST day of school, I watched from the kitchen as Ruthie the senior backed out of the driveway in her VW clunker. A few minutes later, a big yellow school bus—my big yellow school bus—slowed to a stop at the end of my street, idled, then pulled away.
Hence my mother’s sigh, her sideways glance in my direction. Was I sure I didn’t want her to drive me? It wasn’t too late. If I hopped in the shower right now we could still make it.
“I told you,” I said. “I’m not going.”
“Well, if you change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
“But if you do…”
“I won’t . God, Mom. How are you not getting this?”
“All right.” My mother nodded, rubbing the counter with her dishrag. “All right, I understand.”
“Good,” I said.
I couldn’t believe she was pushing the school thing. Last night, in the Mayer Family Debate about Education, my mom had been my biggest ally. While my sister threw out terms like pity party and enabling —and my father reminded me that when he took the job in Connecticut, he chose Millbridge specifically for the quality of the public schools , public schools that have an anti-truancy statute —my mom was the one who insisted I have time to heal.
But now, with Ruthie back to school and my dad back to being a workaholic, maybe she didn’t know what to do with me. Maybe me staying home all day was cramping her style.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I told her. “Whatever you need to do, errands or whatever, just do it.”
“Well,” my mother said, “I already went to the market … and the dry cleaning won’t be ready until tomorrow … and—I know!” Her face lit up. “Why don’t the two of us go into the city? We haven’t done any back-to-school shopping yet, and the stores won’t be crowded. We could grab a bite, get you a few cute outfits for fall….”
“Cute outfits for fall.” Ha!
What was the point of shopping if I was going to spend the rest of my life in my pajamas? Besides, the thought of me and my mother in a dressing room together—under fluorescent lights, surrounded by mirrors—made me sick. I literally couldn’t stomach the thought. Yet I couldn’t stomach the thought of her at home, either, hovering over me.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m up for the city today.”
“Well,” my mom countered, “how about just Lord and Taylor? We could find you a little dress, some heels….”
I stared at her. “Why would I want a dress and heels ?”
She smiled, swinging her dishrag through the air like a pom-pom. “Homecoming!”
“What?”
“Homecoming!” she repeated, gesturing to the calendar on the wall. “October twenty-fourth!”
Of course. The minute my mother started planning an event, or whenever she received something in the mail—a baptism invitation, a tooth-cleaning reminder, a school calendar—she would document it, in color code, on the kitchen wall. Every upcoming occasion in our lives from here to eternity.
“You and Ryan will make up,” she continued, “or another boy will ask you. Either way, you’ll want to look your best at the dance.”
Oh, there were so many things wrong with this I didn’t know where to begin. How could my mother, who was born in 1972, still think we were living in the 1950s? Nobody went to dances as couples anymore. Not to mention the fact that there was no way in hell I would show this face on a dance floor, high school gym or otherwise. I hated to rain on my mother’s homecoming parade, but…
“I’m not going to any dance. Ever.”
“Of course you are,” she said brightly.
I told her no, I wasn’t, and if she thought otherwise then she was in for a lifetime of disappointment.
“Oh, honey,” my mother sighed as I grabbed a bag of Chips Ahoy! from the pantry and marched right back to the couch.
I turned on the TV and started flipping around—one stupid game show and soap opera after another, reminding me of how
Delinquent
ON THE FIRST day of school, I watched from the kitchen as Ruthie the senior backed out of the driveway in her VW clunker. A few minutes later, a big yellow school bus—my big yellow school bus—slowed to a stop at the end of my street, idled, then pulled away.
Hence my mother’s sigh, her sideways glance in my direction. Was I sure I didn’t want her to drive me? It wasn’t too late. If I hopped in the shower right now we could still make it.
“I told you,” I said. “I’m not going.”
“Well, if you change your mind…”
“I won’t.”
“But if you do…”
“I won’t . God, Mom. How are you not getting this?”
“All right.” My mother nodded, rubbing the counter with her dishrag. “All right, I understand.”
“Good,” I said.
I couldn’t believe she was pushing the school thing. Last night, in the Mayer Family Debate about Education, my mom had been my biggest ally. While my sister threw out terms like pity party and enabling —and my father reminded me that when he took the job in Connecticut, he chose Millbridge specifically for the quality of the public schools , public schools that have an anti-truancy statute —my mom was the one who insisted I have time to heal.
But now, with Ruthie back to school and my dad back to being a workaholic, maybe she didn’t know what to do with me. Maybe me staying home all day was cramping her style.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I told her. “Whatever you need to do, errands or whatever, just do it.”
“Well,” my mother said, “I already went to the market … and the dry cleaning won’t be ready until tomorrow … and—I know!” Her face lit up. “Why don’t the two of us go into the city? We haven’t done any back-to-school shopping yet, and the stores won’t be crowded. We could grab a bite, get you a few cute outfits for fall….”
“Cute outfits for fall.” Ha!
What was the point of shopping if I was going to spend the rest of my life in my pajamas? Besides, the thought of me and my mother in a dressing room together—under fluorescent lights, surrounded by mirrors—made me sick. I literally couldn’t stomach the thought. Yet I couldn’t stomach the thought of her at home, either, hovering over me.
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m up for the city today.”
“Well,” my mom countered, “how about just Lord and Taylor? We could find you a little dress, some heels….”
I stared at her. “Why would I want a dress and heels ?”
She smiled, swinging her dishrag through the air like a pom-pom. “Homecoming!”
“What?”
“Homecoming!” she repeated, gesturing to the calendar on the wall. “October twenty-fourth!”
Of course. The minute my mother started planning an event, or whenever she received something in the mail—a baptism invitation, a tooth-cleaning reminder, a school calendar—she would document it, in color code, on the kitchen wall. Every upcoming occasion in our lives from here to eternity.
“You and Ryan will make up,” she continued, “or another boy will ask you. Either way, you’ll want to look your best at the dance.”
Oh, there were so many things wrong with this I didn’t know where to begin. How could my mother, who was born in 1972, still think we were living in the 1950s? Nobody went to dances as couples anymore. Not to mention the fact that there was no way in hell I would show this face on a dance floor, high school gym or otherwise. I hated to rain on my mother’s homecoming parade, but…
“I’m not going to any dance. Ever.”
“Of course you are,” she said brightly.
I told her no, I wasn’t, and if she thought otherwise then she was in for a lifetime of disappointment.
“Oh, honey,” my mother sighed as I grabbed a bag of Chips Ahoy! from the pantry and marched right back to the couch.
I turned on the TV and started flipping around—one stupid game show and soap opera after another, reminding me of how
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