seven
ON SUNDAY MORNING MY MOM ANNOUNCES THAT SHE’S TAKING THE DAY OFF.
“That’s cool,” I tell her. I want to add, What else is new? since she often takes the day off on Sunday — usually to go shopping, her favorite form of stress relief. But I don’t say this. She seems to be grumpy enough already. Why push things? Besides, I got to go shopping yesterday. Even if it wasn’t exactly stress free.
“So you’ll stick around the house then?” she asks as she picks up her new Marc Jacobs bag — the one I’ve been eyeing lately and wish I could borrow sometime because I’m pretty sure it would impress Kendra. One nice thing about my mom is that she really does have good taste, especially for an older woman, and she doesn’t mind spending money on designers either. “You’ll keep an eye on Nana?”
“Sure. Have a good time.” I point to her purse. “I so love that bag, Mom.”
She shakes a finger at me. “You already got my Burberry bag, Reagan. Don’t sneak off with this one next.”
I laugh. “It was just a compliment, Mom. Have fun, okay?”
She smiles. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll get you something while I’m out.”
I consider putting in a specific request but think better of it. My mom does not like to be told what to do. Better to just play it safe. “Cool,” I say
I’m actually relieved to spend the day at home without Mom in the house. I’m ready for some R&R. Oh, it’s not that I don’t love my mom. I totally do. But she can be pretty demanding. And the truth is, it’s hard to really relax when she’s home. It’s like she wants me to stay busy or something. I realize this is because Mom has a type A personality, which she is quick to point out to anyone interested. In fact, everyone who knows my mom is fully aware of this. I’ve even overheard coworkers talking behind her back. Naturally, I’d never repeat anything like that to Mom. There would be no point.
“Is Diane gone?” asks Nana as she emerges from her room wearing her favorite pink sweats and an old cowboy hat that used to belong to my grandpa.
“Yeah, for the day,” I tell her as a form of reassurance. Even though Nana’s memory is fading quickly, she seems to know to lay low when her daughter’s in a foul mood.
“Do you want to watch …” She pauses to think. “That TV …” She frowns now, then points to me. “That thing …”
“You mean the country music channel on TV?” I ask, knowing full well that’s what she means.
She thinks for a moment. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Sure,” I tell her, heading to the family room to turn on the TV. I go to the CMT station, then crank the sound up the way Nana likes it. This is one of Nana’s favorite pastimes, and I usually put it on before I go to school in the morning. But whenever Mom is home, we leave it off because Mom can’t stand country music. Worse than that, she makes fun of it and anyone who enjoys it. She even teases Nana for liking it. Nana used to say that the only reason she listens to it is because it reminds her of Grandpa. He used to play the steel guitar. I don’t exactly remember that about him since I was barely walking when Grandpa died, but I’ve seen photos of him with his guitar and I imagine that I heard him play.
After Grandpa died, Nana came to live with us. Or maybe we went to live with her. I’m not even sure now which way it was. But I do know that without Nana’s help, my mom wouldn’t be nearly as financially comfortable as she is now. Not that we’re rich like Jocelyn likes to think. But we’re okay. It’s because of Nana that my mom can afford to go out and buy Marc Jacobs bags.
LeAnn Rimes is on CMT right now. It looks like she has a new video, and I actually stay to watch it. Nana is swaying to the music and I decide to dance too. I would totally die if anyone saw me dancing with Nana to LeAnn Rimes, but it’s actually pretty fun. This is one of my biggest secrets. I actually like country music. But there is no way I would tell anyone — not even my old best friend, Geneva — about this. I’ve liked LeAnn Rimes since I was a little girl. I almost feel like I grew up with her, although she was probably already fairly grown up back then.
“Wasn’t that great?” I say to Nana when the song ends.
She’s smiling. “Yes. What is her name, Reagan? I can’t remember.” I tell her and she nods. “Yes. That’s it. LeAnn Rimes. LeAnn Rimes.”
I stick around and listen to a few more, but then I hear the doorbell and I nearly jump out of my socks.
“Who’s there?” asks Nana, almost as if she’s playing the part of a knock-knock joke.
I turn down the sound on a video of Clint Black, which I know will disappoint Nana. “I’ll go check,” I say. “You stay here.”
So I make a dash to the door and am horrified to see that it’s Sally. What is she doing here? I take in a calming breath, smooth my hair, then open the door.
“Hi, Reagan,” she says, peering past me like she wants to come in and snoop around.
“Sally!” I create a surprised expression for her benefit. “What are you doing here?”
Now she holds out a red and white shoebox. “Somehow your shoes got shipped to my house.”
“Huh?” I study the box, then realize they’re our new cheerleading shoes. “How do you know they’re mine?” I ask somewhat suspiciously. I have a feeling she’s just using this to get into my house, maybe to spy on me so she can report to the others. Or maybe I’m just paranoid.
“You’re the only one who wears a six.” She points to the size on the box. “Right? Did you get your shoes yesterday?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know.”
“Then these have to be yours.” She cranes her neck slightly, still trying to see inside.
“I’d ask you in,” I say quickly. “But my grandmother is here and we’re in the middle of something.”
“Oh.” She nods. “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow then.”
“Yeah. And thanks for dropping these by.” I want to ask her why she didn’t just bring them to school. Why she didn’t save herself the trip. But I think I know the answer. She’s out to get me. I just know it.
I shut and lock the door, thinking that was a close one. What if she’d sneaked into my house and seen me dancing to Clint Black with Nana? I see Nana now, in her pink sweats and crumpled cowboy hat, softly rocking to the music — a slow number by Toby Keith — and I realize how hokey it would look to someone like Sally.
How would I ever live something like that down? Okay, I know I’m probably overreacting, but these things can and do happen. I really need to be more careful.
I go around and lock the back door and tilt the wood blinds up just enough so someone wouldn’t be able to see in from outside, then finally I turn the music up again for Nana. It’s the Dixie Chicks now and, as tempting as it is to stay and rock out, I tell Nana that I need to do homework. She looks disappointed but doesn’t protest. Still, there’s this look in her eyes and it makes me sad.
“It shouldn’t take me too long,” I promise. “Then we can do something fun, okay?”
Her eyes light up a little. “Okay.”
Sometimes, like now, I feel like a total hypocrite. I didn’t really have to leave Nana to do homework. Crazy as it seems, I think she knows this. And yet I can’t imagine the humiliation I’d feel if someone like Kendra or Sally were to walk in and see me dancing with her to the Dixie Chicks. Talk about setting yourself up.
I sit down on my bed and slowly exhale. Everything feels so tiring to me. Trying to meet other people’s standards … pretending to be something I’m not … jumping through hoops … smiling when I don’t feel like it — it’s all so exhausting. Besides feeling like a hypocrite, which is bad enough, I am starting to feel sort of lost as well. Like I’m not really sure who I am or where I belong. Sometimes I just wish I could escape the whole thing. I lie down on my bed and long for a break — or maybe just a nice long nap. Then, just as I close my eyes, my cell phone starts to ring. I tell myself to just let it ring, but something inside snaps back to attention and I grab it, answering even before I check my caller ID.
“Hey, Reagan,” says a voice I suspect belongs to Jocelyn.
“How are you?” I ask.
“I’m okay now. But I was totally wiped out yesterday. Man, please don’t ever let me drink that much again, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I mean, okay.”
“Thanks for getting me home. I can’t remember much, but I think I remember that.”
“No problem. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Have you ever had a hangover before?”
I sort of laugh. “No. And I don’t plan on it either.”
“That’s because you’re smarter than I am.”
“Some people have to learn things the hard way, Jocelyn.”
“Well, honestly, I am never doing that again. The truth is, I’ve never really been into the whole drinking thing. I just wanted Kendra to think I was. How did she know that neither of us drinks, Reagan?”
“Trust me,” I say, “I didn’t tell her.”
“Maybe she has ESP”
I laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”
“So, do you wanna do something today?”
I consider this. On one hand, it would be fun to hang with her. But on the other hand, I promised Mom I’d stay with Nana today. I think about asking Jocelyn to come over here but decide against it. Jocelyn seems pretty cool, but I don’t think I can trust her enough to let her see how it really is here. Nana is unpredictable. She could do anything from two-stepping to Garth Brooks to emerging from the bathroom wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. What if something weird happened and Jocelyn told everyone about it? I couldn’t deal with that.
“I would do something today,” I tell her, “but my grandmother is here and I promised my mom I’d stay with her.”
“Is she sick?”
“Sort of. She can’t be left alone.”
“I could come over there.”
“Nooo,” I say slowly. “She’s not that comfortable with other people. It’s kind of upsetting, you know.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m sorry for you. It sounds like a drag being stuck with a sick old grandma. I think I might get my mom to take me to the mall.” She laughs. “Not to buy anything, of course, but just to look around and get ideas. I wish you could come.”
“Me too,” I say. And that’s actually true. Just hearing Jocelyn’s voice now makes me want to spend time with her. Oh, she might not be a class-A friend, especially after getting drunk at Kendra’s party the other night. But she is fun. And in some ways I do think I could trust her. Oh, why is life so complicated?
“See ya tomorrow then?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll pick you up for school in the morning.”
“Thanks!”
I push the End button, then fall back onto my bed. Seriously, I am so tired I feel like I could probably sleep for a couple of hours, but then I hear this loud crash and I leap to my feet and rush out in time to see Nana standing in a mess of broken pottery. And she is barefoot.
“Don’t move,” I yell at her, which actually makes her jump. “Really, Nana,” I say in a calmer voice. “Don’t move, okay? You’ll cut your feet if you step on any of that.” Then I run for the broom and sweep a path for her. I can tell by the brightly colored shards that it’s the Mexican bowl, Mom’s favorite piece of pottery, that’s been broken. I have no idea why Nana had it out. “It’s okay,” I say as I guide her away from the broken pieces, but she is crying by the time I help her sit down on the couch.
“I’m sorry, Reagan,” she sobs.
“It’s okay, Nana.” I pat her on the shoulder. “I’ll clean it up.”
“That bowl …”
“It’s okay, Nana,” I say again. “It’s just a bowl.”
“Diane’s bowl.”
“Yeah. Why did you have it?”
“Chips. I wanted chips.”
I remember now how Mom sometimes uses that bowl for nachos. Of course, to anyone whose mind works in a normal fashion it makes no sense why Nana thought getting that bowl down would magically produce chips. But somehow I understand.
I get the remnants of the bowl swept up and dumped into the trash compactor but worry that Mom will see them there. So I put some newspapers and other things on top to hide them. Of course, she will eventually notice the missing bowl. But no need to tell her on her day off.
“Want to go get some nacho chips?” I ask Nana when I find her sitting on the couch right where I left her.
She smiles and nods.
“Stay there,” I say. “I’ll get your shoes.”
But once we’re in my car, I realize I don’t really want to take a chance of running into anyone I know. So instead of going to my favorite taco place, which has the best fish tacos in the state, I drive all the way across town, choosing a rundown taco stand I would normally avoid — a place I can be equally sure my peers would avoid. Will the madness ever end?
eight
TO MY AMAZEMENT, THE FIRST HALF OF THE FOLLOWING WEEK GOES EXTREMELY well. So well that I think maybe I’ve made it past some invisible social barrier. Maybe I have actually arrived. Kendra is treating me not only like a fellow human, but like a friend. Meredith is also being very nice. Even Sally, although a bit frosty, seems to be trying. The only fly in the ointment is Jocelyn.
“What is going on with you?” she asks me on Wednesday after practice. As usual, I’m giving her a ride home. But her attitude these past couple of days is making me rethink this friendship.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you and Kendra — when did you two get to be so buddy-buddy?”
“At her party,” I say as I turn onto Jocelyn’s street. “Oh, that’s right, you were too wasted to notice.”
“Don’t you know she’s setting you up?”
“I don’t think so.” Now, I don’t want to overstate my case, but I’m almost certain that Kendra is not setting me up. If anything, I think she may be trying to set up Jocelyn. But no way am I going to mention this. Besides, I don’t know it for sure. All I know is that Kendra’s been saying little things about Jocelyn, behind her back of course, which makes me think that Jocelyn is about to become Kendra’s new target. And, while I do feel bad for Jocelyn, I have to admit I feel some relief at getting a break from this position myself.
“I think you’re being pretty naive,” says Jocelyn as I pull up in front of her house.
“Whatever.” I sigh in a tired way. “I just get so sick of all this, Jocelyn. Isn’t it possible we might all just end up being friends?”
She laughs. “I wish. But unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. I overheard Kendra making fun of me today. It was in the bathroom at lunch, and she didn’t know I was in the stall. Or maybe she did!”
“What did she say?” I ask in a way that sounds like I’m totally bored by all this.
“She said Chad was just using me at the party to have a good time and that he took advantage of me because I was drunk.” Jocelyn’s voice breaks a little. “She said he won’t give me the time of day once he gets what he wants from me.”
Now, that’s pretty harsh. But I wonder if Jocelyn really heard Kendra right. Or maybe she’s blowing it out of proportion.
“Well, that’s sort of true,” I point out.
“What?” Her eyes flash with indignation.
“I mean it’s possible that some guys will take advantage of a girl who gets drunk — can you deny that?”
“Well, no. But I don’t think Chad’s like that.”
“But you’ve been complaining about how he’s barely spoken to you this week.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget he was a little wasted too. Maybe he’s embarrassed.”
“Or maybe he was so wasted that he can’t remember who he spent the evening with.”
“Oh, Reagan!”
“Well, you don’t know, Jocelyn. And that’s probably what you get from drinking too much.”
She opens the car door now. “Thanks for the lecture,
Reagan. I really needed that.” She shakes her head and frowns. “And I thought you were my friend.”
I sigh. “I am your friend. But friends don’t let friends act stupid.”
“Thanks.” Then she slams the door and I drive away. Okay, I’m thinking maybe it’s about time to cut this girl loose. The way things are developing with Kendra, I might do just fine without Miss Loose Cannon anyway.
When I get home, I notice that the front door is standing open and suddenly feel alarmed. Is it possible that Nana has wandered out? Is she fully dressed? Could she be wandering around lost? I quickly pull my car into the garage. As usual, Mom’s not home yet, which is a relief. She’s been hinting again that our setup with Nana is not working. And part of me thinks maybe she’s right.
I hurry into the house. “Nana?” I yell loudly. “Nana?”
“She’s in here,” calls a female voice from the direction of the bathroom. Okay, now I’m really worried. Is some stranger in our house? In the bathroom with Nana? I run toward the bathroom, then notice muddy footprints leading from the front door to here — is it possible that we had a break-in? I wonder if I should grab the phone.
“We’re in the bathroom,” calls the voice. And now it sounds a little familiar and not at all threatening.
“What is going on?” I demand as I push open the partially closed door in time to see Nana with her yellow sweatpants hiked up to her knees as she sits on a kitchen chair that’s situated next to the bathtub.
“Hey, Reagan,” says Andrea Lynch, my temporary class-C summertime friend. She looks up from where she’s bent over, washing what looks like a whole lot of mud from Nana’s feet. The bottom of the bathtub is brown.
“Hi, Reagan,” says Nana with a happy smile. “I got dirty.”
“I found her in my mom’s garden,” says Andrea as she rubs some soap into a blue washcloth.
Harsh Pink with Bonus Content Page 7
