The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro Page A

disgusting,” Nana said as she clucked her tongue and just stared at the screen. “This is
filthy.
I hope this isn’t part of the exercise.”
    “Okay, Nana,” my brother-in-law said, tightening the last bolt. “It’s all ready.”
    “I
really
don’t think this is a good idea,” I protested. “Nana, I’ll take you to the mall every day. We can walk from Easy Spirit Shoes to JCPenney and then to Sears! I just don’t feel good about you using this thing!”
    “Oh, I’m going to use it, all right,” Nana said, looking it over. “I think I can fit three whole bras on here!”

Amy’s Mom,
the Fairy, and
the Hedge Clippers
    I usually never answer the front door when someone rings the bell. Never.
    I made it a force of habit after countless bored, middle-aged men kept coming up to the door inquiring about the aging, disintegrating 1968 Oldsmobile rotting in my carport under a thermal blanket of dust. I would explain that the car didn’t belong to me. They’d offer me money. I would explain that it belonged to my father. They would ask why he didn’t wash it. I would explain that the whole thing was a restoration project he was going to start when he retired. They would tell me that’s why they wanted it, too. I would then explain how my father entrusted to me the car’s only existing set of keys in case I needed to move it during a fire. They would ask me if the car still ran good. I would explain that I had no idea. I had placed the keys in an old jar for safekeeping, but by mistake had not realized that some silica-gel crystals at the bottom of the jar would dissolve any kind of metal in a matter of three years, which was how long it took me to open the jar and discover that the keys had turned into little metal matchsticks and that I was scared shitless to tell this to my father. Only then would the men go away.
    I got tired of telling the story, so I quit answering the door.
    One Saturday, something changed. I don’t know what, but the doorbell rang, and before I could stop myself, I was turning the knob and opening the door.
    Through the screen door I saw two short figures, one of whom was wrapped in an explosion of pink tulle and sequins. As I stared closer and tried to understand what creature was before me, the other one spoke.
    “Hi,” it said.
    “Hi,” I replied hesitantly, slowly recognizing them.
    “We’re from down the street,” it continued.
    “I know,” I said, finally realizing what was on my front porch. They were children. Girl children. One was dressed up like a ballerina. And they were each carrying a pair of hedge clippers.
    I shook my head. No one is going to believe me, I thought.
    “Can we cut your bushes?” the bigger one asked. “We like cutting bushes, and we’ve been in business for two years.”
    “You’ve been cutting bushes since you were two?” I asked.
    “I’m
eight,
” she sighed disgustedly.
    “And I’m six,” the ballerina said.
    “Does your dad know that you have those?” I asked, pointing to the clippers that were as tall as the ballerina’s shoulders. “They’re kind of dangerous.”
    “Oh, yeah, he knows,” the older one said. “He told us to do it.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, but my bushes were just cut,” I lied. “But if they start getting crazy and growing out of control, I’ll run right down to your house to get you, Child Bush Cutters.”
    “Okay,” the big one said, rather disappointed as she started to turn away.
    “Out of curiosity, how much would you charge me?” I asked, not knowing that, essentially, I had a big stick in my hand and was getting ready to poke a big, mean bear with it.
    “However much money you had in your purse,” the ballerina offered.
    “What if,” I replied, “I only had a nickel?”
    “A nickel would be fine,” the big one said. “We’re supposed to get six hundred dollars from Amy’s mom next week.”
    I was confused. “Are you Amy?” I asked the ballerina.
    She replied that she was Staci,