Now I can holler even harder! This is great—free lectures!
And if I do holler, Mom can say, “Oh, goodness me, look at the time! Don’t you have skate practice, or someplace you’re supposed to be, honey?”
Then I know we both think it’s time for me to go back to my house—have us a lil’ time-out.
Sometimes, in the saddest, most knuckle-draggin’ way, I used to feel that if my mom wasn’t my mom and was just some random girl my age, she wouldn’t necessarily want to be my friend....
Or vice-versa.
I gotta admit, that Coming of Age crap is a drag.
But now I shrug and cheer up and just am glad she’s my mom. Nobody’s perfect. She loves me, I love her—a million times around the world. And sometimes that’s enough.
Besides, after our time-outs I always come back, the main reason being that I miss her a lot.
And another is because . . . well, laundry is freaking costly!
I’m still into sweats and hoodies. It’s just easier. I’ve got several I’ve cut off at the knees and elbows for skating and summer, which is quickly approaching. At least it is everywhere else in the country, according to Facebook. Here, it’s mostly still frigidly raining, but the days keep getting longer.
And I must say springtime evenings are a very cool thing in Seattle. When it’s not raining, when the light returns, the sun sets over the Sound, lingering in these lazy, golden, cinnamon-rose swirls, reflecting across the salt water. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem to really get dark; dusk just blends up into the sky from the city’s ambient lavender night light.
So, any-hoo, I think that brings you up to speed.
Now I’m going to go see Mom, my brother, Paul, and Leo, and do some laundry.
Luckily, I didn’t skin my driving leg. I can feel it starting to tighten up already.
Mom is putting stuff away when I get there. She just got back from the store. Grocery bags piled high!
And The Bomb is glad to see her auntie Rusty!
She is such a pretty dog. She is all shiny and smiley and healthy and her big wolf teeth are sharp and white. I give her some kisses where the dark fur comes to a little point on her lil’ husky forehead and she wags. She gives me some kisses back on my cheek. Good, sweet girl!
I miss living with a pet so much! But I just can’t afford one in the city. The special pet deposit is like five hundred dollars (in addition to the regular deposit) when you move into a rental, if they’ll even let you have one. It’s lame! Bommy would never dookie in the house, unless there was an emergency! But try telling a landlord that. When Beau and I rented our house that was one of the first questions. That’s how I knew how much the deposit was. And that was only if we had a cat. No dogs allowed at all!
I look to see what else is in the paper bags. So many . . . and so full! Whoa.
Mom is spending way more on food now that she is working. I get a mango out of the bag.
“Dang, Mama, mango? I might move home.”
“Hey, don’t cut that yet. I don’t think it’s ripe till day after tomorrow.”
“No, it’s good, I can tell. It’s all mushy and yummy.”
“Still—don’t. Have an apple.”
Her tone makes me stop.
Saint Teresa, patron saint of control freaks; pray for us.
I put the uniquely unripe mango back in the sack. She bails it out of the bag and puts it in the fruit bowl. Gives me a little look. Fine. Fruit bowl it is, boss lady!
I sigh, as wearily as she ever did when I lived with her.
And she hears me and turns around in genuine concern. She comes over and puts her hands on my cheeks and stands on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. I have to bend down for her to do that now.
“How are you two doing up in that terrible house?” She looks at me searchingly and I feel my annoyance melt. “Do you keep the windows and doors locked all the time?”
“Pretty much. We’re fine. Beau has to be careful with his bike though. Block watch guys said there had been a few petty robberies recently,” I say.
See, I told her this as a comfort and also to distract her from tripping on our safety. No worries; just petty property crimes. So that she’s not to worry. See, Mom, honey, I don’t even have a bike and Beau McCarefulbritches brings his inside!
Yeah. So that strategy backfired.
She immediately starts freaking out.
“What?! When?! Were they armed?! Oh, honey!! Do you know anyone who got robbed?! Did any of your neighbors?! Did anyone call the cops?! Oh, why do you guys have to live there?! It’s a terrible neighborhood! It’s awful! And they litter!”
My mom is so random. I keep a straight face.
“Okay, Mom, I promise to do something about that. The litter.”
She stops and points her finger at me.
“Rylee, you stop making fun of me! It’s true! It shows people’s attitude! Oh, just never mind, Miss Smarty!” She’s getting cranky-face again.
I change the topic.
“I ordered my cap and gown today.”
She stops and switches to the same subject. Sort of.
“Listen, have you heard from your dad yet?”
“No.” Now I’m the one getting cranky-face.
“Huh . . . You know, this is starting to get a little weird. I don’t know what his problem is. He used to be very reliable about getting back to people. I don’t know what to think. It’s strange for him to ignore your graduation.” She glowers with ancient annoyance. He has the power to irritate her, even years later, even from like three zillion miles away.
And I agree this time.
He hasn’t gotten in touch with my little brother, Paul, or me in years. I decided not to think about it—after failing repeatedly to get him to visit us—so I haven’t been in touch with him either. The graduation card and picture is the first letter I’d sent, since I’m still waiting for an answer from the last time I wrote four years ago, when I sent him a birthday card/long letter and never got a response.
So it’s all a giant whatever.
However, it still does make me fume.
“Well, Mom, I don’t know! Apparently he isn’t too worried about seeing his only daughter get her diploma after all! He can watch it on YouTube, I guess—if we upload it. If he even has Internet. Or a computer! Nobody has e-mail, apparently. He won’t even text—because he won’t get a cell phone! He better not pretend he’s too far out for coverage anymore. Because I believe he could have a phone, if he cared enough. So could GramMer. It’s like she is avoiding my calls too.”
Mom nods. She starts to say something, but stops and just looks sad. She can still read my thoughts. She knows my pissy tone is fake. She knows inside I’m so hurt.
Suddenly we hear Leonie open the front door. It creaks/rattles and then slams/rattles.
Mom jumps and then starts heating water in the microwave.
“Whoops! I lost track of the time. I should have had this all ready for her.” She pushed the power button just as Leonie rolls into the kitchen.
Leo looks tired to death. She flops down at the table.
She is starving, because she is Leonie.
I watch my mom take a cup, pour the almost boiling water into it, shake a bouillon packet into the cup and give it to Leo. I watch Leo get up wearily, take a long-handled spoon out of the drawer, then, moving to the tall stool by the window, stir the cup for a long time, breathing in the broth, imbibing the steam, like it counted as something to eat. Then she slurps like a starving dog. Like she would chew the feeble bouillon if she could . . . just hammin’ on it.
Wow.
I watch in silence.
“So, Leo, how’re your classes up at college?” I ask when her slurps grow quiet.
She’s going to Seattle Central up on Broadway. I give her a ride sometimes. I love Capitol Hill. It’s very festive.
“Good . . . hey, what’s a dip thong?”
“Um, it’s like two vowels sounding together, I think. I’m not sure.
Look it up. Why?”
“Dude said that spelling counted in the final. He said ‘be careful of your dip thongs.’ ”
“ ‘Dude’ being your prof? And what—you’re wondering if it’s some kind of underpants?”
“Har, you are so funny,” she retorts, her face deep in the mug for the last drops. Her voice is muffled. “If it was undies I’d know about them!”
We crack up. Leo so rocks.
Ratting out Ratskin wasn’t the only big change she made after we came home.
After suffering a lifetime of abuse—at the hands of people who were supposed to be looking out for her, for gawd’s sake—she’s decided not to date for a while; that maybe she’d just give it a rest till a nice age-appropriate guy comes along.
And she has stuck to her guns. She gets hit on about twenty-five times a day and she tells them all no thanks. And of course my ma is all in favor of this.
She looks over at me with her eyes twinkling. “How’s Teeny Skeeze doing?”
That’s our ongoing joke since junior year; Leo’s going to be CFO of my imaginary business, Teeny Skeeze, a clothing line that sells wildly inappropriate clothing to little girls so they can be all skanky and baffled by kindergarten. I used to think up horrifying new fashions and toys. But now I just report on actual products.
“Oh, Teeny Skeeze is crushing it!” I say. “We got a new shipment of three-inch heels for eight-year-olds! Can’t keep them in stock! Armageddon is right on schedule!”
We’re still tittering at our wit when I hear my brother, Paul, slam the front door. He moves very emphatically these days. He comes into the kitchen. His hair is wet and he looks flushed. He must have just finished practice.
“Hey, dude!”
“Hey, dude!”
Paul looks good; he’s gotten his growth spurt and he’s taller than me, if just barely. He’s getting cut from all the weights he’s lifting. He is at the dojo constantly. Hai!
“How was your practice?” I ask.
“Good! I’m learning a new kata.”
“Cool!” I say because I have no idea what that means, but his tone makes it sound excellent.
“Yeah. I’m working with a b. It’s awesome.”
“Like a bow and arrow?” I am clueless.
“No, like a long stick. You swing it around and then you do, like this series of uh, stances, and then you stop and . . . bow. I don’t know. That’s what I do.” He shrugs in embarrassment, because now everybody is looking at him. “I dunno.” He shuffles. Then he remembers something.
“Hey, Rye, is Beau going to come over anytime soon?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Because he was helping me with my math last week and I was like getting it, for a change. He said I could hit him up whenever, ’cuz he’s doing a ton of math for nursing school and this is like no-big-deal-math for him. But it is for me! It’s bad! And now there’s new stuff. And it’s worse!”
He cracks me up, he’s so woebegone. Paul is still so not a scholar.
I give him a little love-pop on the bicep to cheer him up.
“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll come over and help you. He needs to come talk to Mom about clinicals, and rashes and diarrhea treatment and what all—’cuz nursing’s fun!—and he gets to see these guys.” I indicate the crew before me.
Saint Teresa pipes in. “You should both come over for dinner.”
Leo jumps like she’s been poked. So food-focused.
“And eat what?” She leans forward, fascinated.
My mom glances at us and adjusts her tone. “Well, something you could have,” she tells Lee. “How about fish? Does Beau like fish? And maybe some asparagus and little new potatoes?”
Leonie jolts like twenty feet, then steadies herself on the stool.
“Oh, no! Omg! Not potatoes! I will blow up like a giant cow!”
I stop and take a good look at her after she says that. I can’t really tell because she has a sweatshirt on, but she looks pretty skinny in her hands and face.
“How’s the diet going there, Namu?” I ask her.
She pulls up short and eyeballs me suspiciously.
“What does that mean?!” she snaps.
My mom laughs.
“Don’t be mad, Lee. That was the name of this cute killer whale on TV.”
Wrong. I can’t even get a rant in about captive marine mammals before Leo implodes.
“What?! Did you just call me a whale?! Omg, Rylee! As if I don’t go through enough with those snotty stuck-up bitches at the agency! They are so mean! And now you’re busting on me too! Whatever! Thanks!” Her chin starts to quiver.
“Dude, seriously, I called you Namu because you look so skinny! I was being sarcastic, or ironic, or whatever.”
“Ohhh.” She’s all relieved. Suddenly all smiles. She feels her skinny face. “Really? You think so?”
“Yeah. How much have you lost?”
“Nine! Almost halfway!” She’s so happy.
I sort of grimace.
“Lee, I vote don’t lose any more. You look good as it is. Any more dieting and your cheekbones are gonna break through your face. Seriously, you look . . . um, great!”
She rolls her eyes. Her face clouds again.
“See, you just don’t get it, Rusty!” (Which I’m like, yuh, Leo, you’re right, I don’t!)
She gets so despairing as she explains, trying to make me see how repulsive she is. “You don’t understand! I’m just girlfriend-pretty! I want to be model-pretty! Like them!”
Paul and Mom and I look at her blankly.
“What does that even mean?” I ask cautiously.
“It means I’m HUGE!!” She wails, “I AM a whale! WAY fatter than them!” She hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m a fat, ugly . . . gross, giant, fat . . . HOG! And a fat COW! And a giant, fat HEIF—”
“Jeez, ol’ MacDonald!” I interject. “What else? A giant fat border collie?”
“Dude! Quit it! I totally am! Hideously FAT!” She stops herself from bawling and looks at me, stricken. “Oh, wait, Rust. No offense . . .” She sounds all quavery. I can see her changing gears—from mentally waddling through an obese barnyard to crawling over the broken shards of remorse.
Which makes me laugh out loud. She looks so guilty. She thinks she’s hurt my feelings.
“Leo! Ahh! Omg, you are so funny, though usually by accident! It’s cool, I forgive you.” Then I crack up again at the look on her face. “I kid! Seriously! I’m not tripping! We’re good!” I try to get her to smile. “It’s fine! You know I’m all about that bass!”
Leo looks at me and bursts into tears. She leans her head against the window frame.
“Honey, you need to have something to eat,” my mom tells her.
“An apple,” she sobs. “That’s all I can have.”
Paul brings her one in silent sympathy. She sniffles as she takes it, and then attacks it.
It’s gone. Poof.
“You could have another,” Paul urges her, tentatively.
“No, but thanks.” Her color is better suddenly. I didn’t realize she was so pale.
I lean in for the lifestyle lecture.
“Leonie, you know what? I don’t think this is good for you, this modeling. It’s making you too skinny and seriously, super grouchy.”
“Rusty, I don’t tell you what to do!” she snarls, predictably.
“Well, if I start eating apples like I’m Cookie Monster, you can.”
“No, shut up, listen—if I try hard enough, I can have this, Rust. You know? We can. Seriously, I could get totally world famous and then I can get everything for us guys.” Her gigantic, turquoise eyes are glittering maniacally in her cat-thin face.
She sees it . . . The Golden Ring. And she’s going for it. For all of us. She is so generous.
And loving. And a loony.
Paul redirects. This means he clears his throat and cracks his knuckles. We look at him.
“So, anyway, I have till Thursday for this assignment. C
an Beau come over before then? Like tomorrow or the next day? Else I’m pretty sure I’ll flunk.”
“You better not,” Mom warns him.
“I won’t, ’cuz Rylee is gonna get Beau to come over. Right, Rye?”
“Righto, bro.”
Later, when I’m putting the laundry in the van, my mom comes outside with me.
I have our old van and it’s still running great. When we got home from our road trip to San Francisco my mom said she would just keep the money I left when we first took off, and we could share the car till she found one she wanted. Last fall, at the beginning of my senior year, she started work. The first thing she got was this cute used hybrid.
It’s a green car and it’s the color green.
So my mom got the green car and I have the van, full-time. I will get my own green car as soon as I can afford it but for now I make do.
Besides, it’s good for practice, as my friends take up a lot of room.
(That’s right; me, Rylee Winters, telling you that my friends take up a lot of room. Yes, they’re large, but also there are a lot of them!! Finally, you guys. Finally I have a lot of friends!)
I put my hamper of fragrant sweats inside the van and slide the side door shut. My mom and I stand silently, gazing at each other beside the van. She smiles and rubs my coat sleeve.
“Remember to find out what’s a good night for dinner, okay? And thank Beau for helping Paul. Your brother struggles a lot with math.”
“I know! And language arts and social studies and—” I laugh, bagging on him.
“Stop it, missy! Not everyone can be a genius.” She gives me her non-fierce frown, which is the “you’re not funny” variety of her “I really mean this” frown.
(My mom has recently declared that I’m a genius. She just decided it, which cracks me up. I’ve never had my IQ tested. At this point, I don’t even care, I just like that she thinks I’m a genius.)
“And tell Beau if he needs any more books, they are here for him, okay, honey?” She smiles.
Mom is loaning Beau her nursing books so he doesn’t have to buy the same ones she has, which are the required reading for nurses’ training. She and Beau study together too. It’s very endearing. My mom, the study hall monitor.
Rusty Summer Page 2
