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Authors: Kristin Walker
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gaudy for 10:23 a.m. “More like cried on their shoulders. I grew up with Barbara Miller. So did half
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the board. It wouldn’t shock me to hear that Barbara told them some sob story about trying to raise two kids and work full time while her dirtbag husband flits around the world, burning up her savings account with some young, sexed-up tramp.”
Mrs. Beaufort bristled. “Well, however she might have phrased it, it’s obvious that her divorce is coloring her judgment. Marriage is a sacrament, not a college prerequisite.”
Mom got up and brought a plate of coffee cake to the table. “I feel terrible for what she’s going through, but to hold our kids’ diplomas over their heads—it’s too much.”
Electrocuted Skunk twirled her finger in her mug handle.
“And what about kids who aren’t even straight? It’s cruel, if you ask me.”
“And I’m sorry,” Big Earrings said, “but how is some course going to teach them how marriage works? I’ve been married three times, and I haven’t figured it out yet.”
She snorted. “I figured out how to call a lawyer, though.” She held up her hand, and Electrocuted Skunk high-fived her. A woman in a cream-colored jumpsuit who had been silent up till now set her mug down hard. “As president of the PTA, I move that we pledge our help to Vivian in her opposition to the marriage education course.” Mrs. Beaufort seconded the motion. “All those in favor?”
Four hands shot into the air.
Mom beamed. She’d successfully allied herself with the most powerful group of women in our little town. Housewives with anger issues, plenty of disposable income, and way too much free time. Mom was set. “Thank you, Cybil. Thank 70 Kristin Walker
you, committee. I think we should start with a petition,”
she said.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and crept upstairs. I fished my marriage ed journal out from under my bed to make an entry. Over the years, I’d learned that under the bed was the best place to keep anything I didn’t want found, because there was so much crap—papers, magazines, dirty socks, grocery bags—that no one would ever suspect that anything of value was under there. Sort of like hiding in plain sight.
Not that I thought the journal had any value whatsoever.
Saturday, September 7
The dance last night was . . . wel , let’s just say memorable. Not that I stayed for long. I went, spent some “quality time” with Todd (now aka Señor Shitslacks), and left. Poor Mar—I dragged her out of there. But I was just fried. The planning beforehand, plus the stress of waiting, and then the deed itself. (Although Johnny Mercer kept me company, which was actual y okay. Either he’s real y dopey or he has a wicked sense of humor. I suspect it’s the latter. For example, when he and Mar and I were at the store before the dance, I told them about how I have to get the cheerleaders their precious water, as if they even break a sweat. And Johnny said, “Hey, look on the bright side. You could always spit in it.” Isn’t that hilarious?)
But re the prank. I have to say, I real y expected to end up energized and juiced-up by the whole thing. Don’t get
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71
me wrong; it was hysterical while it was happening. But once it was done, and everybody went back to what they were doing . . . I dunno. The coolness didn’t last very long. I realized that I had absolutely no desire to stay. Bizarre. I had total y pictured myself spending the rest of the dance in ful -on gloat mode. Which, okay, doesn’t say much for my character, but then again, in the end, I just left. So maybe I’m not a complete jerk.
Oh, and one more thing. This journal may soon become recycling, because my mother has got this marriage ed course in her crosshairs. One of the things that can make my mom a huge pain in the ass sometimes is that when she sinks her teeth into a new project (like this, or say . . . forcing me to get a terrible haircut when I was twelve), she pretty
CHAPTER 8
69
the board. It wouldn’t shock me to hear that Barbara told them some sob story about trying to raise two kids and work full time while her dirtbag husband flits around the world, burning up her savings account with some young, sexed-up tramp.”
Mrs. Beaufort bristled. “Well, however she might have phrased it, it’s obvious that her divorce is coloring her judgment. Marriage is a sacrament, not a college prerequisite.”
Mom got up and brought a plate of coffee cake to the table. “I feel terrible for what she’s going through, but to hold our kids’ diplomas over their heads—it’s too much.”
Electrocuted Skunk twirled her finger in her mug handle.
“And what about kids who aren’t even straight? It’s cruel, if you ask me.”
“And I’m sorry,” Big Earrings said, “but how is some course going to teach them how marriage works? I’ve been married three times, and I haven’t figured it out yet.”
She snorted. “I figured out how to call a lawyer, though.” She held up her hand, and Electrocuted Skunk high-fived her. A woman in a cream-colored jumpsuit who had been silent up till now set her mug down hard. “As president of the PTA, I move that we pledge our help to Vivian in her opposition to the marriage education course.” Mrs. Beaufort seconded the motion. “All those in favor?”
Four hands shot into the air.
Mom beamed. She’d successfully allied herself with the most powerful group of women in our little town. Housewives with anger issues, plenty of disposable income, and way too much free time. Mom was set. “Thank you, Cybil. Thank 70 Kristin Walker
you, committee. I think we should start with a petition,”
she said.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and crept upstairs. I fished my marriage ed journal out from under my bed to make an entry. Over the years, I’d learned that under the bed was the best place to keep anything I didn’t want found, because there was so much crap—papers, magazines, dirty socks, grocery bags—that no one would ever suspect that anything of value was under there. Sort of like hiding in plain sight.
Not that I thought the journal had any value whatsoever.
Saturday, September 7
The dance last night was . . . wel , let’s just say memorable. Not that I stayed for long. I went, spent some “quality time” with Todd (now aka Señor Shitslacks), and left. Poor Mar—I dragged her out of there. But I was just fried. The planning beforehand, plus the stress of waiting, and then the deed itself. (Although Johnny Mercer kept me company, which was actual y okay. Either he’s real y dopey or he has a wicked sense of humor. I suspect it’s the latter. For example, when he and Mar and I were at the store before the dance, I told them about how I have to get the cheerleaders their precious water, as if they even break a sweat. And Johnny said, “Hey, look on the bright side. You could always spit in it.” Isn’t that hilarious?)
But re the prank. I have to say, I real y expected to end up energized and juiced-up by the whole thing. Don’t get
CHAPTER 8
71
me wrong; it was hysterical while it was happening. But once it was done, and everybody went back to what they were doing . . . I dunno. The coolness didn’t last very long. I realized that I had absolutely no desire to stay. Bizarre. I had total y pictured myself spending the rest of the dance in ful -on gloat mode. Which, okay, doesn’t say much for my character, but then again, in the end, I just left. So maybe I’m not a complete jerk.
Oh, and one more thing. This journal may soon become recycling, because my mother has got this marriage ed course in her crosshairs. One of the things that can make my mom a huge pain in the ass sometimes is that when she sinks her teeth into a new project (like this, or say . . . forcing me to get a terrible haircut when I was twelve), she pretty
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