never tell what Scott might do. So,â Ava said to me, âletâs get going, shall we? Marthe has the baby and I promised weâd come right back.â She turned her attention back to Mom. âMartheâs our nanny. Honestly, she runs our life. We wouldnât be able to get out of bed in the morning without her.â
I adored Marthe, even though I never understood anything she was saying. She smelled like sweet cinnamon buns, the kind my mother used to make for breakfast on snowy mornings. I missed those mornings, Mom and Dad bustling around the kitchen and Cody and me drawing pictures at the kitchen table. Thinking about it, I can almost smellthe strong coffee brewing and the rich cinnamon of those pastries.
âDo you want to share a cab downtown?â Ava was asking Mom.
âNo, thanks,â my mother said.
I wondered if she had imagined sharing a cab downtown with Dad while she was in the bathroom on the train, foolishly putting on lipstick and perfume. I found myself wondering what Dad would do if he saw her right now, smelling good and looking almost hopeful. Deep down I knew he would do absolutely nothing. He was married to Ava now. I kissed Mom as fast as I could, gulping a big dose of Chanel Number 5. It was weird standing between Mom and Ava. I just wanted to get out of there.
Cody clung to her leg whispering, âMama, Mama, donât leave me like this.â
I disentangled him. I wanted to get away from my mother and melt into life with my father and Ava. We only had the weekend. Every minute counted.
âGood-bye!â I shouted to her, dragging Cody along by the elbow. Even his sniffling couldnât ruin my mood. I felt lighthearted and happy.
I linked arms with Ava. Everyone who saw us would think she was my mother. âTell me everything you and Daddy have done since I was here last.â I hoped my mother saw me walking out like this, arm in arm with Ava Pomme, the Tart Lady.
Chapter Four
DEAD MOTHERS
M arie Taglioni, the famous Italian ballerina, was so famous that they named stuff after her. In Russia, for example, there were Taglioni caramels and cakes and even hairdos. After her last performance in 1842, someone bought her ballet shoes for 200 rubles, cooked them, and served them with a special sauce. Then her fans ate them! That sounds like something people would do for a saint, doesnât it?
Marie Taglioni was also very plain-looking. Her teacher in France said, âWill that little hunchback ever learn how to dance?â And then Marie Taglioni became the perfect image of a ballerina. Standing en pointe in her white tutu with her hair parted in the middle and pulled back, wearing a floralwreath. So certainly, I, Madeline Vandermeer, could take it when my gum-chewing second-rate ballet teacher Misty Glenn yelled at me during class: âMadeline, what are you, a chicken? Youâre holding your arms like you have chicken wings!â If that wasnât bad enough, then Misty Glenn said, âCluck! Cluck!â and a bunch of girls laughed.
Not Demi Demilakis, a girl in my class. She looked at me with pity. She has these really bulgy eyes, like a frog. Like any minute they might pop right out of her head. Sheâd just moved here from Cleveland, of all places. I asked her once after class if she knew my old friend Rose Malone and those eyes of her went all bulgy and she said, âShe was in my grade at Gilmore!â Demi missed Cleveland. Her father used to take her surfing on polluted Lake Erie and she had her birthday party at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now sheâs just a new kid, like me.
Still, I didnât want her pity. When she looked at me that way, I glared at her hard. She shrugged and went back to her lazy arabesques. The girl in front of me was wearing a tie-dyed leotard. Madame would have made her leave class. And the girl in front of her was barefoot. Leave it to my mother to find this place.
âNice
I adored Marthe, even though I never understood anything she was saying. She smelled like sweet cinnamon buns, the kind my mother used to make for breakfast on snowy mornings. I missed those mornings, Mom and Dad bustling around the kitchen and Cody and me drawing pictures at the kitchen table. Thinking about it, I can almost smellthe strong coffee brewing and the rich cinnamon of those pastries.
âDo you want to share a cab downtown?â Ava was asking Mom.
âNo, thanks,â my mother said.
I wondered if she had imagined sharing a cab downtown with Dad while she was in the bathroom on the train, foolishly putting on lipstick and perfume. I found myself wondering what Dad would do if he saw her right now, smelling good and looking almost hopeful. Deep down I knew he would do absolutely nothing. He was married to Ava now. I kissed Mom as fast as I could, gulping a big dose of Chanel Number 5. It was weird standing between Mom and Ava. I just wanted to get out of there.
Cody clung to her leg whispering, âMama, Mama, donât leave me like this.â
I disentangled him. I wanted to get away from my mother and melt into life with my father and Ava. We only had the weekend. Every minute counted.
âGood-bye!â I shouted to her, dragging Cody along by the elbow. Even his sniffling couldnât ruin my mood. I felt lighthearted and happy.
I linked arms with Ava. Everyone who saw us would think she was my mother. âTell me everything you and Daddy have done since I was here last.â I hoped my mother saw me walking out like this, arm in arm with Ava Pomme, the Tart Lady.
Chapter Four
DEAD MOTHERS
M arie Taglioni, the famous Italian ballerina, was so famous that they named stuff after her. In Russia, for example, there were Taglioni caramels and cakes and even hairdos. After her last performance in 1842, someone bought her ballet shoes for 200 rubles, cooked them, and served them with a special sauce. Then her fans ate them! That sounds like something people would do for a saint, doesnât it?
Marie Taglioni was also very plain-looking. Her teacher in France said, âWill that little hunchback ever learn how to dance?â And then Marie Taglioni became the perfect image of a ballerina. Standing en pointe in her white tutu with her hair parted in the middle and pulled back, wearing a floralwreath. So certainly, I, Madeline Vandermeer, could take it when my gum-chewing second-rate ballet teacher Misty Glenn yelled at me during class: âMadeline, what are you, a chicken? Youâre holding your arms like you have chicken wings!â If that wasnât bad enough, then Misty Glenn said, âCluck! Cluck!â and a bunch of girls laughed.
Not Demi Demilakis, a girl in my class. She looked at me with pity. She has these really bulgy eyes, like a frog. Like any minute they might pop right out of her head. Sheâd just moved here from Cleveland, of all places. I asked her once after class if she knew my old friend Rose Malone and those eyes of her went all bulgy and she said, âShe was in my grade at Gilmore!â Demi missed Cleveland. Her father used to take her surfing on polluted Lake Erie and she had her birthday party at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now sheâs just a new kid, like me.
Still, I didnât want her pity. When she looked at me that way, I glared at her hard. She shrugged and went back to her lazy arabesques. The girl in front of me was wearing a tie-dyed leotard. Madame would have made her leave class. And the girl in front of her was barefoot. Leave it to my mother to find this place.
âNice
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