haw-haw for a not-so-big guy. “Good one. Do you mind if I borrow it?”
“All yours,” I said.
“Tell her the rest,” my mom said, sipping her wine. I could tell she was enjoying the conversation.
“I’m working on a model that predicts the release rate of methane as the polar ice packs melt, and the acceleration it will have on global warming.”
“Sounds pretty important,” I said. Although it was a side of doomsday to go with my meal and I still didn’t want the guy at my kitchen table, I guessed it was good that there were smart people looking out for the earth.
“Speaking of important,” my mom said, “how’s school?”
“Good. I kind of made a friend. She asked me to write a fashion column for the school paper.”
My mom perked up. “That’s great news.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Why not? It’s perfect for you. And the writing portion of it will be good experience.”
My mom was not a huge fan of my interest in fashion. Not as a future career, anyway. She claimed my aptitude tests predestined me for something more challenging. Our compromise was that I’d get a bachelor’s degree before becoming the next Stella McCartney. She was certain it would be from UCLA, both my parents’ alma mater, but my dad and I were cooking up a college choice that was a lot more interesting or, rather,
beaucoup plus intéressant
.
“I’m just not sure they’re the kind of kids I want to hang with.”
My mom gave me a look. Before moving, she’d given me the have-an-open-mind lecture.
“Plus, it’d be a tall order,” I said. “Writing about fashion up here. I saw a guy today in overalls. Honestly. And a girl with white shoes and dark panty hose. Panty hose!”
“Kat,” my mom said. My rant had embarrassed her. I could tell.
“Family budgets around here can’t afford too many trips to the mall these days,” Stanley said. “Maybe that’s your angle. A way to make a difference. Fashion for the budget-conscious.”
The guy looked at me like he wanted to be congratulated. Like he’d had some sort of epiphany or mentoring moment. I stared at him for a long time. It became awkward. I continued to stare. “Great idea, Stanley,” I said finally. “And maybe I could do a nutrition column and call it Donuts for the Diet-Conscious.” I’d gone too far. I knew it immediately. My mom looked at me like she didn’t know me, or want to, anyway. She was either too mad to discuss it right then or didn’t want to make Stanley feel any more awkward. I’d knew I’d pay later, plus interest.
With her face pulled tight, my mom stood and cleared plates. Stanley stood and proclaimed the scouring of pots and pans his specialty, holding up two big hands like ruddy mitts. I sat at the table listening to my mom rattle dishes and slam cupboards. I overheard Stanley say, “I don’t take it personally. Divorce is tough on kids.”
I got up and logged on to the computer in the family room, leaving them to their domesticities. Normally, I considered Twitter the greatest invention since slingbacks — there was something about that little blue bird I couldn’t resist — but that night I just couldn’t focus.
My mom came into the room, mentioning dessert and a movie on the Lifetime Channel. The Lifetime Channel! She had an avowed weakness for love stories, extra cheese, tissues on the side. My dad used to run from the room with his hands covering his ears. The good news — my mom couldn’t be too angry if she was talking to me; the bad news was plated and carried in by Stanley. Any log-shaped chocolate concoction is gross. A couple of PhDs should have been able to figure that much out. I excused myself and went to my room.
Crying. Incessant crying. A newborn in distress. But where is it coming from? To my left? To my right? No, behind me, definitely behind me. The baby needs help. Now.
The wails lengthen, an unbearable crest of despair. I need to find the baby, but something is wrong with my legs.
“All yours,” I said.
“Tell her the rest,” my mom said, sipping her wine. I could tell she was enjoying the conversation.
“I’m working on a model that predicts the release rate of methane as the polar ice packs melt, and the acceleration it will have on global warming.”
“Sounds pretty important,” I said. Although it was a side of doomsday to go with my meal and I still didn’t want the guy at my kitchen table, I guessed it was good that there were smart people looking out for the earth.
“Speaking of important,” my mom said, “how’s school?”
“Good. I kind of made a friend. She asked me to write a fashion column for the school paper.”
My mom perked up. “That’s great news.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Why not? It’s perfect for you. And the writing portion of it will be good experience.”
My mom was not a huge fan of my interest in fashion. Not as a future career, anyway. She claimed my aptitude tests predestined me for something more challenging. Our compromise was that I’d get a bachelor’s degree before becoming the next Stella McCartney. She was certain it would be from UCLA, both my parents’ alma mater, but my dad and I were cooking up a college choice that was a lot more interesting or, rather,
beaucoup plus intéressant
.
“I’m just not sure they’re the kind of kids I want to hang with.”
My mom gave me a look. Before moving, she’d given me the have-an-open-mind lecture.
“Plus, it’d be a tall order,” I said. “Writing about fashion up here. I saw a guy today in overalls. Honestly. And a girl with white shoes and dark panty hose. Panty hose!”
“Kat,” my mom said. My rant had embarrassed her. I could tell.
“Family budgets around here can’t afford too many trips to the mall these days,” Stanley said. “Maybe that’s your angle. A way to make a difference. Fashion for the budget-conscious.”
The guy looked at me like he wanted to be congratulated. Like he’d had some sort of epiphany or mentoring moment. I stared at him for a long time. It became awkward. I continued to stare. “Great idea, Stanley,” I said finally. “And maybe I could do a nutrition column and call it Donuts for the Diet-Conscious.” I’d gone too far. I knew it immediately. My mom looked at me like she didn’t know me, or want to, anyway. She was either too mad to discuss it right then or didn’t want to make Stanley feel any more awkward. I’d knew I’d pay later, plus interest.
With her face pulled tight, my mom stood and cleared plates. Stanley stood and proclaimed the scouring of pots and pans his specialty, holding up two big hands like ruddy mitts. I sat at the table listening to my mom rattle dishes and slam cupboards. I overheard Stanley say, “I don’t take it personally. Divorce is tough on kids.”
I got up and logged on to the computer in the family room, leaving them to their domesticities. Normally, I considered Twitter the greatest invention since slingbacks — there was something about that little blue bird I couldn’t resist — but that night I just couldn’t focus.
My mom came into the room, mentioning dessert and a movie on the Lifetime Channel. The Lifetime Channel! She had an avowed weakness for love stories, extra cheese, tissues on the side. My dad used to run from the room with his hands covering his ears. The good news — my mom couldn’t be too angry if she was talking to me; the bad news was plated and carried in by Stanley. Any log-shaped chocolate concoction is gross. A couple of PhDs should have been able to figure that much out. I excused myself and went to my room.
Crying. Incessant crying. A newborn in distress. But where is it coming from? To my left? To my right? No, behind me, definitely behind me. The baby needs help. Now.
The wails lengthen, an unbearable crest of despair. I need to find the baby, but something is wrong with my legs.
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