Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins (The Amy Maxwell Series Book 2)

by Heather Balog

  “You look ready to me,” Lexie snaps. “Except for your missing Dracula make-up.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Slut.”

  “Ha! You only call me that because no boys would ever like your ugly ass!”

  “If my ass is ugly, your face is hideous!”

  I am ignoring my daughters’ colorful use of the English language as I tote Evan down the hallway. Now, you may be wondering how I allow such horrific swearing to be tossed around so casually in the kitchen at 7:00 on a Monday morning. It’s simple. I don’t really have the time or energy to give a rat’s hiney hole. In my fifteen years of parenting, I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely must pick my battles and focus on one catastrophe at a time. I am not a magician. Trying to fix everything has only succeeded in me making unfortunate mistakes. For my sanity, I’m trying to take things one at a time. The fact that the girls are cursing is currently taking a back seat to my absolute need to get out of the house on time!

  With Evan struggling to get free from under my left arm, I rap on the door of my other son, Colt. He is the only one who has not joined this morning’s melee yet, and he’s probably the one who takes the longest to get going in the morning. Truth be told, I probably should have gotten him up about four and a half hours ago if I had any hopes of getting him out of the house on time. At age seven, Colt has decided that sleep has become very precious to him and he doesn’t want to part with it. Not sure why he couldn’t have come to that conclusion seven years ago when he would spend half the night in “awake” mode, but now it is actually pretty inconvenient for him to be a sleep lover. Ironically, on the weekends, when we can actually sleep till a decent hour, Colt is usually hovering over our bed at five am looking for someone to hook up his Playstation.

  “Colt! It’s time to get up for school, buddy!” I am trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

  About as much as he loves sleep, Colt detests school. He is quite put out that he cannot spend his day in PE or at recess. The whole learning to read and doing math thing has really screwed up his plans to cover himself in dirt and sweat all day. He is looking at a bright future as a gym teacher or professional wrestler, if he can just keep it together long enough to make it out of the public school system.

  There is no answer on the other side of his closed door. I glance down the hall and see that my own bedroom door is closed. I can only assume that Roger is now getting dressed and will not be available to tackle the daily, ‘drag Colt out of bed game’. Big shock that is. He’s never much help in the morning. Why would I expect him to be helpful on my biggest day yet?

  Dropping Evan to the floor, I instruct him to go get clothes on. I cross my fingers as he wanders off toward his bedroom. Maybe he’ll actually put his underwear on. His bottom, that is. Usually he tries out the various ways underwear can be used as an accessory. Like a hat or a vest. It makes for cute Facebook photos, but not this morning.

  I push Colt’s door open and step inside the darkened room. Carefully traversing the Lego filled terrain, I hop over to his lamp and click it on. I groan as I notice his room looks like a tornado has touched down. There are dirty clothes on his bed and clean clothes on his floor. There are at least two hundred and fifty two Jolly Rancher wrappers dotted all over the rug. I want to kill our babysitter Gigi for buying him that giant bag of Jolly Ranchers for his birthday two weeks ago. Said Jolly Ranchers are also sticking to the carpet. Based on this, I am guessing the flavors that he doesn’t like are grape and apple. As I lean down to detach one and pull up half a dozen strands of blue carpet thread, I am seriously perturbed, but I don’t have time to deal with that right now.

  You haven’t had time to deal with much of anything lately have you? I notice that my internal voice has actually started to sound suspiciously like my husband. I ignore its accusations of failed motherhood as I gently shake my third child who appears to be auditioning for the role of a taco. He is curled up like a burrito in his blankets, with just the crown of his head sticking out of the top and his bare feet poking out of the bottom.

  I smile to myself as I continue to attempt to nudge him awake. Isn’t he sweet? And then I realize; I’m probably only thinking that because he is the only one of my children who hasn’t totally aggravated the shit out of me already this morning by speaking or moving. I know in about five minutes, I will add him to the list of people I want to maim. In fact, I am getting increasingly close each second he doesn’t get out of bed and I am forced to actually look at the state of disarray that his room is in.

  “Come on, Colt,” I murmur soothingly, attempting to unwrap burrito boy.

  “No, no,” he mutters, his fist flying dangerously close to my face. I duck out of the way in time. I’m not new at this. I’m pretty sure I could actually charge to teach self-defense classes solely based upon my practice in the mornings.

  “Sorry buddy, but you have to get up.” I tug at the covers. The faint aroma of ammonia catches my nostrils and I groan. Placing my hand on the mattress directly underneath my son, I realize that Colt has wet the bed again. Unless…crap…did I ever strip the sheets and wash them after he peed the bed the night before? I can’t be sure. His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pajamas feel damp at any rate.

  “Want more sleep…” he grumbles, yanking the covers from my hand.

  “Yeah, you and me both kid,” I remark as I continue to pull the blanket off. “Come on, kiddo. You gotta get up. You’re lying in a puddle of pee.” I tug the sheets out from underneath him and toss them into a pile. I’ll have to deal with that later. I’m starting to think that should be my mantra. I’ll deal with that later…

  As I haul him to his feet I hear Roger calling out from downstairs, “Bye! I’m leaving now! Good luck!” The front door slams before I can even reply.

  Damn it! Allie’s bus will be arriving soon and from what I can hear, she’s still arguing with Lexie. I do not want to have to drive her to school again.

  The last time I drove her to school I not only fought with buses and other harried parents rushing off to other places, but scores of young drivers who had just gotten their licenses and think that the yellow lines in the road are merely suggestions that don’t apply to them.

  Let me tell you, it was a traumatizing experience for all involved. Lexie screeched the entire journey, clutching the ‘oh shit’ bar and chanting the Hail Mary. Evan had unbuckled himself during the trip and I found him in the front seat clapping and screaming “McQueen, McQueen!” He thought we were in a scene from his favorite movie. My life flashed before my eyes while I was nearly rear-ended on at least three separate occasions. I’m amazed we escaped with only a minor dent in the fender.

  So needless to say, I have no desire to pack up the entire clan and take them on a morning edition of ‘This Was Your Life’. I glance at my son who has now curled back up into a ball, sans comforter and sheets. Directly on the puddle of pee. Sighing, I realize my daughter getting out of the house is the most urgent of all my tasks at the moment. I feel like a triage nurse who constantly needs to prioritize the disasters that spill into the ER.

  Allie can’t just make life easier and leave with Roger? After all, he’s going to the same place. Oh no, God forbid you’re seen in public with your father if he’s the principal. It’s apparently worse than having a “regular” father, according to my daughter.

  “Allie! Get your butt out the door this instant!” I call out while I pull Colt into a sitting position. He flops right back down.

  “I have to finish my make-up!” she wails, voice still coming from downstairs.

  “Yeah because the boys will confuse her butt with her face if she doesn’t!” Smart-Alec Lexie chimes in.

  I hear a scraping noise, a thud, and then one of Lexie’s signature screeches.

  “My hair! Mommy! She’s pulling my hair! And it hurts!”

  “Well if you weren’t a bitch I wouldn’t have to hurt you!”

  Just then Evan wanders into the bedroom. He is proudly holding m
y toothbrush. “Look Mama! I brush my hair!”

  I nearly hit the roof. We’ve actually had to sit down on numerous occasions and discuss not using Mommy’s toothbrush for our hair. Yes, that’s a conversation that needs to be had in our house. It’s not enough that I can’t have nice things; I can’t even have personal hygiene products? I can’t even begin to tell you what he did when he discovered a box of tampons. Let’s just say we had to take the money for the plumber’s bill out of his college savings.

  “That is it! I have had it!” I scream at the top of my lungs. It is so loud it actually causes Colt to bolt upright in his bed and cover his ears.

  “What was that?” he asks, wincing in pain.

  “Mama, that’s not nice,” Evan scolds me, shaking the toothbrush in my direction. My youngest child does not quite understand that my tone indicates that I am done being nice. I detach my toothbrush from his grubby little hands, make a mental note to pick one up at the store if I can get there sometime today, and then notice that Evan has actually followed my other directions. He is completely dressed. He’s wearing a pair of green sweat pants and a red button down flannel. It’s buttoned incorrectly, but hey, it’s a start. Beggars can’t be choosers and I am about to start begging. I glance at the clock on Colt’s dresser and I know I am running really short on time.

  I snatch Colt’s clothes from the dresser where I laid them out last night and throw them at him.

  “Ouch!” he complains loudly. “The zipper hit my lip!”

  “Are you bleeding?” I ask unsympathetically.

  Colt examines his mouth for blood. “No…I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Get dressed. Oh, and go wipe yourself up with baby wipes before you put your clothes on. You reek of pee.”

  I stomp out of his room and head back downstairs, Evan trailing right behind me as I ponder the idea that we should have named him Shadow rather than Evan.

  “Let’s go, Allie,” I tell her as I hurry into the kitchen and head toward the fruit bowl on the counter. If I’m lucky I can grab a cup of coffee and choke down a banana before I need to get the rest of the circus into the clown car. “I can hear your bus down the block. It’ll be here any second.”

  “Mother! I can’t go to school without make-up!” Teenaged Drama Queen moans. “What will everyone think?”

  “They’ll think you need to get up earlier,” I reply at the same time that Lexie chirps, “They’ll think you look like a monkey’s ass.”

  I see Allie lunge at her sister and I manage to hold her back. She may be a half a foot taller than I am, but I’ve easily got twenty pounds on the kid. She really needs to eat more. Geez, I hope she’s not bulimic or something…

  “Leave her alone. Go. Now.”

  She pouts. “I’ll do my make-up and you can just drive me-”

  “I am not driving you, Allie. I have to be-”

  “Please! I’m begging…”

  “Allie, if you don’t get your pretty little butt out that front door right now, I assure you that if I have to drop you off at school, I will be blasting Turn Down For What so loud it’ll make the car vibrate.” I shove my banana at her. She needs it more than I do.

  She shrinks back, banana in hand, face pale and aghast. “You wouldn’t!”

  I bob my head up and down. “Oh, yes I would. And I will.” I know that Allie’s Achilles’ heel is being embarrassed in front of her friends. She would do anything to avoid it. Even go to school looking less than beautiful. Because that is forgivable. But your mother showing up at school rocking the car with rap and singing loudly off key, is definitely not cool.

  Sulking, she slings her backpack over her left shoulder and then slides her right arm through the other side. She stomps off toward the front door, messy bun jiggling angrily with each step she takes.

  “Bye bye beautiful,” I call out to her and am rewarded with a grunt right before the front door slams.

  I smile to myself because I know it is only drama for the audience that has assembled in the kitchen. She has a make-up case in her backpack and I am certain that she will dash to the girls’ room the second she reaches school and apply gobs of the stuff that she doesn’t need, all over her face. But we gotta have the stomping and the eye rolls and the theatrics every morning just for the sheer fact that her life is not complete without them. And it’s always in front of Lexie. It’s almost as if she is grooming her younger sister in all ways that piss me off with the most effectiveness.

  “Come on, Lexie. Go get dressed,” I instruct my preteen who is shoveling cereal into her mouth at a painfully slow pace, one eye focused on her iPad mini. “And what did I tell you about electronics at the table?”

  “Um, not to have them there,” Lexie mumbles, fruity-Os dropping out of her mouth and plunking back into the milk. There are little splatters of milk around her bowl. Little splatters that I am not going to have the chance to clean because God Damn it, I’m late.

  “So…that means…” I am quizzing her as I reach for a travel mug on the shelf.

  “Um, not to have electronics at the table?” Lexie says with confusion.

  “Exactly. So why is your iPad at the table?”

  I pour the remainder of the coffee from the pot into the mug, realizing that Roger had left me exactly a third of a cup and 90% of that includes sludge and grinds. Exasperated, I toss it into the sink. Maybe I’ll have time to stop somewhere for a cup on the way. And then I realize that is a ridiculous thought. I don’t have time to even brush my teeth this morning. I really need to work on this whole ‘getting out of the house on time’ thing.

  “You said electronics, Mom. You never said anything about the iPad,” Lexie tells me. I squelch the urge to roll my eyes and call her a moron. Because of course, that’s bad parenting. She’s lucky that she is pretty. I hope she finds a rich doctor to marry like my sister Beth did. Otherwise, I’m not quite sure I feel safe letting her out into the world on her own. She’s the type who would participate in scientific experiments to make money.

  As Lexie finishes up her cereal and then heads upstairs, abandoning her bowl on the table (presumably for the maid to clear away), Colt staggers into the kitchen looking groggy and generally unpleasant. He has serious bedhead, his clothes look like he has slept in them, and he still smells faintly of pee. He obviously did not use the baby wipes like I instructed him to.

  He slides onto a stool and lowers his head on the island. “I’m hungry,” he mumbles into the wood.

  I steal a glance at the clock. Time is flying by at an unbelievable pace. I do not have time for Colt to have the four course breakfast that he usually devours. I reach into the cabinet with the cereal and breakfast foods and retrieve a Pop Tart. Peeling off the foil, I offer it to my seven year old.

  “Here we go! Have a Pop Tart,” I tell him cheerily, hoping he will not notice it is cherry rather than strawberry. He hates cherry. Or so he claims. Today he inhales the pastry without a second thought while I head into the living room to search for my flats. Evan is sitting in front of the hall closet pulling on his Velcro sneakers. Thank heavens for small miracles.

  “Lex!” I poke my head up the stairs as I pass. “Now! We leave now!” Actually, we should have left three minutes ago. I guess I can kiss that coffee goodbye. There’s no way I’ll have time to stop now. Oh well, I should be okay. After all, I got at least three and a half hours sleep last night. That’s functional for me.

  I rummage around in the darkened hall closet and finally locate my flats. I pull off my wet socks and slip the shoes on, just as Lexie sails down the stairs looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus and Colt wanders out of the kitchen with crumbs all over his shirt.

  “What else is for breakfast?” he asks.

  “There is nothing else for breakfast,” I explain to Colt while pointing to his backpack. “Get your backpack. We are going now.”

  “What?” he wails as grabs his backpack and shoves his feet into his sneakers that were sitting underneath it. For once I am gratef
ul that he is a slob and we didn’t have to go searching for the sneakers. “But I’m still hungry!”

  “Well, lunch time is in four hours,” I merrily announce. I see Lexie gather up her hair into a messy ponytail. And it is not an intentional messy ponytail like Allie’s messy bun. It is bunched up on one side and hair is sticking out the back. There are totally neglected strands on the right side. Lexie is a hot mess. She needs to get her act together soon. She is in middle school after all.

  I make a grab for Lexie’s ponytail. “Let me fix that,” I plead as she ducks out of the way.

  Colt peers into his backpack. “But you didn’t pack me any lunch!”

  “You’re getting hot lunch now, remember?” I remind him while I open the front door.

  Colt makes a hideous face and Lexie makes a gagging noise, but I exit the house, hoping all my ducklings will trail behind me. They do, albeit reluctantly. Colt is literally dragging his feet and Lexie resembles a zombie. It’s only the third week of school and they’re already acting like they’re off to the guillotine. Evan bounds out the door with joy and enthusiasm, backpack slung over his shoulders. He has not been beaten down by the world of education yet. He’s not actually going to a real school anyway. I am dropping him off at my sister’s house and she is going to take him to preschool in the afternoon, three days a week. It’s only a temporary arrangement, I hope. I cannot imagine being beholden to Beth for a favor for an entire year.

  I unlock the car with my key fob and the kids drag themselves down the sidewalk while I lock up the house. “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to school I go,” I whistle under my breath.

  Surprise! I, Amy Maxwell, am also going back to school.

  ~Two~

  “Class, can I have your attention please?” The cheery, chubby professor claps his hands and the entire lecture hall falls silent. The students wait with baited breath for the professor’s next words.

  “Class,” he repeats. “It is my great pleasure to announce that we have a celebrity in our midst!” He sweeps his hand toward the front of the room where I am sitting, pen poised to take notes in my brand new marble notebook. “Amy Maxwell!”