by Robin Brande
It’s already made up, came the answer.
Then stop teasing the poor boy.
And worse—stop teasing yourself.
[3]
First week of December. Posie acted the hell out of Ophelia in Hamlet. Her picture on the posters in the halls. Rave reviews in the school and city newspapers. My friend’s fame was growing.
Which brought an invitation from an unexpected suitor.
“The Winter Formal?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“No, of course.”
“Good.”
Brett Rutledge had a bad reputation. Sure, he was startlingly good looking, with sandy blond hair, showcase white teeth straightened to perfection by his orthodontist mother, and the broad chest and shoulders of a champion swimmer—UCLA had already offered him an athletic scholarship—but Posie never fell for things like that. Or so I thought.
“I told him we’d have to go out somewhere neutral first,” she said. “Get to know one another.”
“What? Posie, why are you even considering it? That guy sleeps around more than Jason.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We certainly do! Ask anyone. He’s a total pig.”
“Lizzie, settle down. I didn’t say I was going to sleep with him.”
“I assume not. But what makes you think a guy like that will take no for an answer?”
Posie sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “He’ll just have to. Those are the rules.”
[4]
I had my own invitation to reject.
“No, thanks,” I told Chris. “But that’s nice of you.”
“You sure?” He spun on the ball of his foot. “We really cut up the floor before.”
“We sure did,” I lied, “but sorry, I can’t.”
I walked in the opposite direction and fought the urge to wipe off my tongue with my sleeve. I can’t believe that guy tried to French me. I can’t believe he was my first kiss. And what’s with asking me out? I thought he was gay. But maybe he thought Jason would be going with me again.
Fat chance.
Jason barely looked at me anymore when we passed in the halls. He certainly never hung out at Posie’s. That last stupid phone call of mine had finally been enough to cool whatever affection he felt.
Which is what I had decided I wanted.
Right?
[5]
And next thing I know, Posie’s in love.
She came home from the Winter Formal at one-thirty in the morning with stars in her eyes. “It was so wonderful.”
I had spent the evening watching a string of stupid reality shows with Posie’s mother. Mrs. Sherbern couldn’t get enough of those things. After three hours of non-stop sniping and bitching and back-stabbing, I wasn’t in the best of moods. I had gone to bed in a snit. And now Posie was waking me to share her happy news. No thank you very much.
“How was Brett?” I asked sarcastically.
Posie threw her pink feather boa on the chair. She kicked her shoes into the closet. “Wonderful. A perfect gentleman.”
I snorted. “I’m sure.”
She pulled her 1920s pink flapper costume over her head. “He was.” Posie narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You could have gone, you know.”
“Right. Be Chris’s beard.”
I love that term. I heard it on some British drama on PBS once. It means you’re the woman a man goes out with to cover the fact that he’s gay. Not a very flattering role.
Posie sat on my bed and gave it an extra bounce. “Please don’t be in a bad mood. Can I tell you about tonight?”
I relented. It wasn’t her fault I was such a twit and couldn’t hold on to my man. “Sure.”
“I love his teeth.”
“Okay . . .”
“They’re so white and straight.”
“So obviously he had braces—so what?”
Posie shrugged. “I don’t know, I just like them. And he’s a great dancer—you should have seen him.”
“Better than Jason?”
“Impossible, but good nevertheless.” Posie hesitated, then whispered, “He kissed me.”
“Of course he did.” My heart did a slow burn.
“And he is a GREAT kisser. I didn’t think he would be, but . . .” She closed her eyes and her voice trailed off as she replayed it in her mind.
I cleared my throat. My virginal senses were piqued.
Posie understood the issue right away. “Don’t worry, it won’t go any farther than that. He’s trying to decide between UCLA and Stanford. Either way, I’ll probably never see him again after this summer.”
According to our code of virgin honor, you’d never sleep with a boy you didn’t have any real hope of marrying. Brett was sunk, whether he knew it or not. Posie could only consider in-state boys.
“Stanford, huh? Pretty pricey. Must be rich.” The way I said it made it sound like he had syphilis.
“His family’s rich, but so is yours,” she reminded me. “So don’t get self-righteous on me.”
“It’s different for me. My parents didn’t give me a Beemer on my sixteenth birthday.”
“His didn’t either,” Posie said. “God, are you being a brat tonight! Forget it—you obviously don’t want to hear about this.”
I didn’t need to take it out on her. Here I was living in her bedroom, eating her mother’s food, taking advantage of her hospitality. The least I could do was let her share her excitement.
“Posie, I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“I have to go take off my makeup,” she answered. “Maybe when I come back you’ll be pleasant.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated when she returned. “Go ahead. Tell me everything.”
Posie lay on her bed and extended her arms over her head in a great long cat stretch. “I don’t know. It was a wonderful night. I had a lovely time.”
“So what are you going to do? I mean, with him leaving and everything?”
“Kiss him,” she answered with a smile. “A lot.”
“He’s not Jason, you know. What makes you think he’ll stop?”
“Because I already told him,” Posie said. “He knows he’s not getting past the waistband.”
“Oh, but above is okay?”
Posie’s mouth tilted at one edge. “We’ll see.”
It’s one of those moments in time I wish I could freeze, rewind, and rewrite to come out differently. I should have said this, Posie would have said that—there would have been a different outcome altogether.
“He is cute,” I conceded.
“Delicious,” Posie agreed.
One more mistake to add to the list.
Christmas Cards
[1]
I sent Jason a card saying I was sorry and I hoped he would have a good Christmas. He still didn’t call.
My father sent me a card with a letter inside about honoring your mother and father, about not bearing false witness, about the wages of sin being death. About what a horrible daughter I was being. Merry Christmas.
My mother sent me a card telling me she loved me and hoped we could go into the new year with a fresh start. She also invited me for Christmas dinner with Mikey. And Charles.
Ho, ho, ho.
[2]
“I’d rather have Mexican with you.”
Mrs. Sherbern seemed sympathetic. “I know your mom will be glad to see you. Try to cheer up.”
I asked Posie about the men in her own mother’s life. Had she ever brought any of them home?
“Never,” Posie said. “I don’t think she’s ever dated. I’ve never heard her talk about anyone.”
“Your father’s been gone how long?”
“Twelve years.”
“Your mom’s gorgeous. I can’t believe she wouldn’t have a man.”
“I know. But she doesn’t seem to miss it.”
Obviously my mother had a different mix of h
ormones. Because when she opened the door and ushered me in and finally introduced me to her lover, all I could think was:
SEX.
Because he reeked it from every pore.
The man was STUNNING.
In fact, he looked a little like Jason. How weird is that? Tall, same thick, black hair, dark brown eyes, wickedly sexy smile.
I wanted to puke.
Suddenly I could imagine too much: all those positions, all that sweat and screaming and writhing. Oh, my God, they must have had sex every single minute they were together. No wonder my mother looked so thin. She could barely find time to eat.
He shook my hand. I was already ready to bolt.
My mother put her arm around me and smiled proudly. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Just like her mother.”
Please, please spare me.
It was just the four of us, including Mikey. My little brother seemed so happy to have us all—or most of us—together again as a family. And as far as I could tell, he actually liked Charles.
“So, Charles,” I said, “how long you two been together?”
“Lizzie—” My mother shot me a warning look.
“It’s okay,” Charles said. He patted his mouth with a cloth napkin. The table sure was fancy—gold-rimmed plates, silver serving pieces, crystal glasses—the works.
I wondered if that was his taste or his decorator’s. We certainly didn’t have those things at home.
“I think you know how your mother and I met.”
“Yeah, so how long did it take?” I asked smugly. What a bitch I can be.
Charles covered my mother’s hand with his own. “I love your mother very much.”
“Uh-huh.” I took another bite of bread. “So, are you going to marry her? I mean, when the divorce is final.”
“Lizzie! Would you try to behave? We can talk about those things later.”
Mikey couldn’t wait to swallow what was in his mouth. “Are you?”
“I don’t know yet, honey. We’ll talk about it later.” My mother widened her eyes at me. It felt good to be me right then.
“I’m writing a new story,” I announced. “About a girl who goes to school one day and comes home and discovers her mother has fled the country. Turns out the mother was a CIA agent and never told her daughter. And now all these people are after her. It should be good. I haven’t figured out the ending yet.”
“Yes,” Charles said, “your mother told me you like to write. I think that’s great.”
“Thanks,” I said. “One day maybe I’ll write about you.”
“Lizzie, can I talk to you?”
I had to suppress my smile. I was having such a good time. But I knew my mother was angry.
We met in Charles’s hallway—thick reddish-gold carpeting, golden rust walls—definitely my mother’s touch. She loved things the color of her hair. It was her own particular vanity.
“Lizzie, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I wasn’t expecting that. My smug expression vanished. “Can’t you take a little fun?”
“Fun? You think treating Charles rudely is attractive, young lady? You’re embarrassing me!”
“Oh, sorry to embarrass you, Mother,” I snapped. “Wouldn’t want to do that.”
“What’s gotten into you? I thought we were getting along so well?”
The truth is, we had been. I could sit through a dinner with my mother and Mikey now and hardly ever say anything nasty.
I shrugged. I didn’t like having her in my face like that. Why did I even come?
“You can go out there and be nice,” my mother said, “or I’ll take you back to Posie’s right now.”
“Fine. Take me back.”
My mother shook her head. Tears welled. “I thought we were doing so much better.”
“Guess not,” I mumbled, and went to get my purse.
[3]
It used to be on Christmas Eve we would go as a family to church.
It used to be I would sit with my best friend Tessa Blake and we’d sing harmony to all the Christmas hymns. At the end of the service we’d all light our candles, and the lights would go out, and the whole congregation would hold up our candles and softly sing Silent Night.
Nothing could be more beautiful.
Then afterward we’d all stand outside in the freezing air having hot chocolate and frosted sugar cookies the church ladies served from their cart.
Tessa and I would exchange gifts. Something small—a bracelet, a necklace, whatever. Everywhere around us, people would hug. A magical, loving event.
It used to be my parents and little brother and I would go home then, and even though it was already late, we’d stay up a little while longer and light the tree and pick out one gift apiece to exchange. All the rest of them had to wait until Christmas morning, when we’d awaken to the smell of my mother’s sweet rolls and sausage frying on the stove.
It used to be my mother and father slept in the same bed, my brother was an innocent child, and I was a happy girl.
Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy, reincarnated Christmas.
They don’t have cards for that.
The Root of All Evil
[1]
It was the beginning of the spring semester, and a fear began to nibble at me. I put off examining it for as long as I could, but it was always there and I had to address it soon.
College. What about college?
“Any day now!” Miss Stewart said when I asked her if she’d heard about financial aid for me.
Any day now wasn’t soon enough. I’m a planner. Graduation wasn’t that far off, and I needed to know what to do.
I couldn’t go scraping to my father and say, “Hey, I know I’ve accused you of molesting me, and Mom has included that in her divorce petition and she’s suing for custody of Mikey and me, and I know you know I hate you, but I could really use tuition for a four-year college, so what do you say—bygones?” But it wouldn’t be bygones, of course, because I wouldn’t stop hating him just because he paid. So there was nothing about that scenario that worked. I was on my own.
No help from my mother, either. She had gotten a few small decorating jobs, but that certainly wasn’t enough to support herself and two kids, let alone send one of them to college. I’m sure Charles was still helping her, but what was I going to do—ask him? Not after my Christmas performance. So no salvation there.
I was seriously starting to panic. Maybe my father was right about what he said that day in the park—that I would fail because I didn’t think things through.
I was so focused on trying not to freak out that when Mrs. Sherbern brought it up she caught me completely off guard.
“Sugar,” she said one night over a dinner of take out from her favorite Cajun restaurant, “I think you know you’re always welcome here.”
I don’t think I even nodded, and I know I didn’t say anything, because I was sure the next words would be bad news—something like, “But it’s time to move on. I want my house back.”
“You’re like a sister to Posie,” Mrs. Sherbern continued, “and almost like another daughter to me.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled past the mouthful of jambalaya I still hadn’t managed to swallow.
Posie intervened. “My mom has an offer to make.”
I met Posie’s eyes and found them bright with mischief.
“Mom is going to be your foster mom,” Posie announced. “She checked into it, and if she does it officially, she’ll get money from the state, and then she can afford to—”
Mrs. Sherbern broke in. “I want to send you to college. With Posie.”
I suffered then. I couldn’t bear it. I bowed my head to cry. Man, how I cried. It was too hard, hearing out loud that I had lost both my parents and was now orphan enough that my best friend’s mother would have to adopt me. That she wanted to—that was hard to hear, too. I didn’t know her very well and I didn’t love her. I didn’t look at her as a substitute mother.
I felt guilty and overwhelmingly grateful that she would even consider such generosity.
“I can’t,” I burbled. I swallowed the lump in my mouth. I lifted my weepy eyes to Mrs. Sherbern’s and said, “Thank you so much, but I can’t.”
She smiled gently. “Of course you can.”
“No. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Who says?” Posie demanded. “Don’t be silly. My mom and I talked about it—it’s perfect. You and I can keep living here and—”
I pushed my chair back and stood. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
There was no place to flee but out the door. I walked the neighborhood for an hour in the dark. I stumbled over the pavement, crying and talking to myself and trying to sort out all the opportunity and misery that had just come my way.
Was this a blessing from God, and I was spitting in His eye by saying no? Or was Mrs. Sherbern’s offer just one more wrong thing in a whole sequence of them, and it was up to me to start righting them one by one?
Money is so personal. You can act like it isn’t but it is. It’s not money that’s the root of all evil—people get that wrong all the time. The Bible says it’s the love of money that destroys you. I don’t love money—I fear it. I’ve been brought up to understand how corrupting it is. It becomes your idol, the thing you worship and organize your life around: Do I have it? Can I get it? How much? How quickly? Do I have more than he does? How did he get it?
In our church if you were rich you couldn’t be ostentatious about it—that’s a sin. It shows both Pride and Greed (tell that to the TV evangelists). So you drive a modest car for ten years before you buy another modest car. You live in a house that’s just big enough. (Mind you, not everyone follows this—there were plenty of gaudy houses in our congregation, but ideally you’d want to act like that was the only house you could find on short notice, and you’ve had to learn to live with it. Or you bought from my father, and then everyone understood it was God’s will that you live in such a fine house.) You can take nice vacations with your family, but not too many and not too far away. You rarely eat out—that’s a waste.
But Mrs. Sherbern wasn’t like that. She didn’t spend money crazily, but she also didn’t horde it. She bought herself and Posie whatever they needed. She ordered out whenever she felt like it. She spent money on manicures and massages and hairstyles, and had a gardener and a pool guy and a cleaning woman once a week. My father would have hated being married to her. He would have made her life hell.
