I’ll be an office legend. A superstar.
“Heard,” Hamilton mumbles with a heavy sigh.
“Yes, sir?”
“First things first: Bring me the numbers for the past few months.” He waves his hand above the mess, gesturing at the stacks of paper. “Apparently my desk has eaten them.”
I stopped to pick up some cookies on the way home. It wasn’t hard to convince myself I deserved some, considering the type of day I had. Settling down on the couch and attempting to read my book once again, I manage to shovel in far too many of those sugary rounds—probably at least ten before I realize what I’m doing. Seeing the familiar face of Jess on my cellphone’s caller ID, I force the cookies behind a pillow. Why I feel guilty about eating cookies and want to hide them from Jess is a bit perplexing, but not enough so that I retrieve them.
“Hey! How are things going with Benjamin?”
Jess. She is always more interested in my love life than I am. Well, almost.
“Oh, I guess okay. I’m supposed to go out with him Friday. We talked a bit yesterday.”
“He’s not knocking down the door to take you out already?”
“Hello, that’s desperate, and he isn’t. Anyway, I wouldn’t be good company tonight. I had a very trying day.”
“Spill.”
“First of all, I had a physical at the doctor’s office, and I had to get blood drawn.”
“Who did they call to come get you?” she jokes. “Did they strap you to the table before you passed out? Did they use the smelling salts?”
“Very funny! For your information, it didn’t hurt a bit, and I wasn’t the least bit woozy afterwards.”
“That’s surprising. I wish I had seen your face when they told you they wanted your blood. That’s the kind of moment you can never have back. Once gone, it’s gone forever.”
“Ha ha, you crack me up,” I add with a shake of my head. “So, guess what happened at work today?”
Why is that such a popular phrase? Guess what… Guess who… It’s really rather silly, when you think about it, unless the person you’re speaking with has ESP.
“Let’s see… Your boss got fired.”
Perhaps Jess does have ESP. She could be reading my mind right now, which is a most terrifying thought. I try to force the cookies from my memory.
Cough if you can hear me, Jess.
Cough.
Go on—cough.
“How did you know that?” I ask, convinced that she’s not going to make any hacking noises.
“You told me last week that his days were numbered. It was just a lucky guess.”
A lucky guess! I can breathe much easier knowing that. Unless she knows I’m onto her mind reading ability and is just trying to divert my attention. That is such a clever tactic!
“That’s not all,” I explain. “I also got a promotion.”
“Really? The same day your boss got fired? That’s a strange coincidence.”
“Well, I guess it wasn’t a promotion, actually. I’m going to be doing Kyle’s job for a while. After a few months, I think I’ll definitely be up for an advancement.”
“I hope you’re right. You deserve it. If you put that in your mouth, I swear I will never kiss you again. I mean it.”
I really hope that last bit was directed at Isaiah.
As far as deserving it, though—I do believe she’s correct. I’m ready for a change of pace. If all goes well, this could turn out to be quite an exciting year. The only things I don’t want to change are Jess and Josh, and I don’t think I need to worry about that. Jess is like a steady anchor–my solid rock. And Josh balances me, like a brick tied onto the end of a balloon. I start fluttering in the wind, and he holds fast.
The rest, though… I feel the glorious day coming.
It’s my year to rumble a little thunder for a change.
Chapter Five
“Mom,” I call through the screen door. “You home?”
I know she’s here—her car is in the driveway. I’m not the kind of person who likes to go barging into places unannounced, though. I’d rather make my presence known and be invited in. Not that she would ever not invite me in. Well, she hasn’t yet, anyway.
The flowerbed that circles the front porch catches my eye with its lovely blooms. I would have a hard time guessing the number of hours she puts into her plants, but she has plenty of time for that now that she’s not working. If I remember correctly, it was last November that she decided twenty years at the same job were more than enough. She had been wanting to stay home for a long time, and Dad finally relented.
Poor Dad—I bet she’s driving him crazy. No wonder he’s working late tonight.
“Mom,” I call again. I can hear her moving around in the kitchen, banging pots and pans. As a last resort, I ring the doorbell and watch as she comes around the corner.
“Maddie!” She offers an exasperated sigh. “I thought somebody was here.”
“Somebody is here,” I retort.
She shakes her head rapidly, her blonde wavy hair swinging back and forth. “Oh, you know what I meant.”
I pull open the screen door and head into the house, which smells like a mixture of cheap rose potpourri and tomato sauce, neither of which make sense. The house usually smells like a combination of motor oil from all Dad’s contraptions and Mom’s peppermint-scented ointment that she uses for her sinuses.
“Are you making dinner?” I ask as she heads toward the kitchen. She seems to be a little blonder than usual tonight, which means she must have been to the salon recently. She’s been dying her hair now for…gosh, I can’t even think back that far.
When I was a little girl, I had light golden hair, and when Mom would take me somewhere, people would comment about the beautiful color. One morning, I was nonchalantly playing with my dolls, and Mom snuck up behind me and grabbed the left side of my head. When I turned around, she had a huge chuck of golden-blonde in her hand. I sat there, nearly in tears, while she explained that she wanted the same color I had, but Freida could never get it right. This time she was taking the hair to her, and if she still couldn’t get the color correct, she was changing beauticians.
Needless to say, I had to get my hair cut after that, too, since Mom had given me the hack job. What a sad turn of events. At the time, Hazel used to babysit me after school, and Jess begged her mom to let her cut her hair like mine. It was a great show of solidarity from my friend, and we have been inseparable ever since. My hair also grew significantly darker from that point forward, and while I can’t exactly blame it on my mother, I have my suspicions that her hair robbery destroyed the golden innocence of my youth.
“I’m making spaghetti,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I probably don’t have enough. I wish you had told me you were coming.”
“I really didn’t come for dinner. I just thought I’d drop by for a few minutes on my way home from work.”
“Oh? Well, that’s nice. Your father won’t be home for another half-hour or so.”
Rounding the corner, I witness Mom standing in front of the stove, spice jars and cans spread out around her.
“You’re making your sauce from scratch?” I’m slightly stunned as I watch her stir.
“Uh-huh. I’ve been watching that Italian lady on the food channel. You really should watch her sometime. She has lots of helpful tips, and sometimes she does specials on easy cooking—that could be right up your alley, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She lifts the wooden spoon from the pot, holds it under her nose for a moment, and then goes back to stirring. It’s a little strange, seeing Mom so busy in the kitchen. She never was what you would call a domestic diva, not that I blame her. I know what it’s like to come home from work, physically and mentally drained, and have to worry about what’s for dinner. That’s probably why I’ve never bothered to learn how to cook properly. Who has the time, really?
“Was your appointment at the clinic this week?” she asks, w
iping her hands on a towel. I notice her apron, which reads: You Want Dinner on Time? Stop Kissing the Cook. Mom in an apron—not a mental picture I could have easily conjured up before now.
“Yes, boring tests and blood work.”
“Did you ask them why you’re so skinny? Enjoy it while you’re young, because you’ll never get your body back.”
Thanks for the encouragement.
Mom is constantly chiding me for being skinny, even though I’m really more on the average side. I’m skinnier than her, but that’s about it. That’s too thin in her book.
“It’s just from eating nutritiously,” I feel the need to say. That’s mostly true, if you don’t count the cookies I bought on my way home the other day. How many did I end up eating, anyway? Eight? Twelve?
“Did you call Brittany? I know she wanted to talk to you.”
Already with Brittany? Honestly, Mom, can’t we have a conversation without talking about her?
“No, I haven’t called her.”
“Well, you’re going to call, aren’t you?”
“If I thought Lance would answer the phone, I would.”
“So you’re not calling.”
“No.”
“You’re going to have to grow up a little eventually, Maddie. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
Ha! As if I could actually think so at the moment.
“How is Dad doing? Is he still tinkering as much as ever?”
Mom stops stirring and begins fiddling with the knobs on the oven. Underneath the tomato sauce, I think I detect the scent of homemade bread. She must really be watching a lot of those cooking channels.
“Yes, of course, but don’t change the subject. Brittany’s been calling me a lot lately, and the last thing she needs is unnecessary stress.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would not calling Brittany make her life stressful? It should actually rid her of an unwanted burden, since I’m so self-absorbed.”
Mom cuts me a stern look before she opens the oven door. “Don’t talk in circles around me. She told me you practically hung up on her the other day, and she was just trying to be friendly and give you some advice about your love life.”
How do you express complete indignation when the other person in the conversation has her head in the oven?
“First of all, I did not hang up on her. Secondly, she wasn’t offering any friendly advice. The only reason she called was to be judgmental and hurl insults at me.”
“Don’t you think you might have misunderstood?” Mom asks, pulling the bread out of the oven and placing it on the stovetop. She drops her fists to her hips and stares at me, her round face slightly flushed from the heat.
Is it possible I misunderstood Brittany? Could she have been calling just to offer me friendly advice?
“You know, Maddie, I’ve always thought you should go out with that Rob who lives down the street from your parents. He’s just your type.”
Sure, except for the fact that he’s fourteen years older than me, lives in his mother’s basement, and spends his time collecting playing cards that he discusses online with other grown men who live in their parents’ basements.
No way did I misunderstand that.
“I don’t know,” I relent with a sigh. She doesn’t look pleased with my answer, but at least she turns back to her cooking.
“Well, we can’t fix what’s already done. Just try to make more of an effort next time.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, although I secretly hope there’s not a next time. If Brittany calls again, I can run some water and pretend that I’m in the middle of taking a shower. I can bang some pots and pans around and pretend that I’m in the middle of cooking dinner. Anything to avoid talking to Brittany. I don’t need any unnecessary stress, either.
Mom takes the “fancy” tablecloth out of a drawer and drapes it across the table. The cooking channels must have really gone to her head. I wonder how Dad feels about all this fuss for a weeknight meal. Surely she hasn’t been doing this every night!
She crosses to the hutch and removes some of the good china, which she doesn’t even use at Christmas. I was beginning to wonder if it was built in—one of those displays for show only, with no functionality. I would open the door and pull out a plate one day, expecting it to be quite heavy and fragile, and instead would find it was plastic with a lot of paint on the front. We would have a good laugh about her hoax, and she would ask me to keep her secret, which of course I would.
No need to worry about keeping secrets now, though, because the plates are out and on the table. Four of them, to be exact.
“You planning on eating for two?” I ask jokingly as she begins digging through the silverware drawer with a chuckle.
“No, dear, the Hubers are coming over for dinner. I’d ask you to stay, but like I said before, there just isn’t enough food.”
The Hubers—Brittany’s parents. I can just imagine the conversation at the dinner table:
“So, when’s the last time you talked to Brittany?” Mom will ask.
“I spoke with her this morning,” Mrs. Huber will say.
“Ha! I win! I spoke with her this afternoon,” Mom will chirp.
Mrs. Huber will sit there dejected while Mom heaps spaghetti onto her plate.
“Eat up, Cathy, there’s plenty of food, since Maddie didn’t stay.”
“Who’s Maddie?” Mr. Huber will ask.
“Oh, Maddie is my daughter, remember? She was at Brittany’s wedding—the completely self-absorbed bridesmaid on the end.”
“Oh, yes, I remember her,” Cathy will chime in. “Wasn’t she the one who made the terrible fuss about her dress being two sizes too big?”
“Yes, that was her. It still seems highly unlikely that the tailor would have made such a huge mistake after Brittany took the measurements in herself. If you ask me, I think she did one of those crash diets for a few weeks right before just so she’d have something to complain about.”
“That certainly sounds like her,” Cathy will say, and they all will laugh, except Dad, who of course does not agree. Why don’t you speak up, Dad? Defend me a little.
Mr. Huber will sit there and watch the exchange, while Dad rolls his eyes and dips into the spaghetti again.
Yikes. I need to get out of here, just in case they arrive while I’m still in the general vicinity. Maybe I should call Dad, have him fake a flat tire. Surely he will want to avoid this atrocity, too.
“I really couldn’t stay anyway, Mom,” I inform her, sounding a little more self-important than I anticipated. “I have a million things to do tonight. Like I said before, I just dropped by for a few minutes to say hello.”
“Well, come back when you can stay longer. You never have time for us anymore.”
Okay, I’m just going to ignore that comment.
I walk back through the living room and can’t help but notice a large stack of cookbooks on the coffee table, visual confirmation that Mom is taking this new hobby seriously. And when did Mom and Dad get a new couch? I guess I didn’t notice it when I came in. She’s purchased new drapes and wall hangings, too. Mom being home all day could send Dad into bankruptcy.
The sweet smell of blooming flowers greets me as I open the screen door. Wouldn’t it be great to have time to work in the garden? Josh and I only have a few potted plants around our house (I mean his house, of course) and those have never even been transferred into better soil. I’m much too lazy by the end of the workday to be a gardener.
Looking up, I see Dad shuffling up the front walk.
“Hi, Dad,” I say gently as he moves closer. “I was about to call you and have you fake a flat tire.”
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Hi, hon. I know, the Hubers.” He wrinkles his nose in mock disgust. “You’re not staying?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to face this one alone. Mom informed me that there simply isn’t enough food.”
“Nothing like coming h
ome from a hard day’s work to a peaceful, relaxing evening,” Dad groans softly. The lines in his face seem deeper than the last time I saw him. I wish Mom would let him take it easy. He deserves a little rest—maybe a vacation.
“Well, if you need to fake an emergency to escape, you can always come over to my house,” I inform him. The edges of his mouth turn into a slight smile.
“I just might do that. Tell Josh I said hello.”
“I will. Please give the Hubers my love.” The temptation to give him a wink overcomes me, and I drop one eyelid mischievously.
Dad wraps his arms around me in a tight hug, chuckling as he squeezes my shoulders.
“My little Maddie—ornery as ever.”
By the time I get back to the house, the spaghetti smell in the car is driving me half insane. No, Mom didn’t relent and give me a to-go box. I stopped at an Italian carry-out on the way home. Smelling the spaghetti at Mom and Dad’s made me hungry, and I don’t have time for sauce from scratch and homemade bread. Honestly, when I was finished I probably wouldn’t want to eat what I made anyway. I haven’t been watching cooking shows all day, after all.
The answering machine light is blinking when I walk through the door, showing three messages, so I hit the play button.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Mason. This is Charles seeing if you would like to order your tickets for the annual Policeman’s Ball.”
It seems to me that Charles should utilize his time by chasing criminals or rescuing people or something, but a ball could be interesting. I save the message so I can pass it to Benjamin later, if the opportunity presents itself.
“Oh, she’s not picking up,” I hear Brittany’s voice on the second message. “Obviously she’s screening her calls. Why do you think? Because she can’t find a steady man in her life, and she’s embarrassed. I could tell that the last time I talked to her.” Click.
Brittany.
That’s all I’ve got. It’s like on Seinfeld, when Jerry would lift his fist in the air, and you knew it was coming: Newman.
Brittany has become my Newman, fist in the air and everything.
Simply Mad (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 1) Page 4
