Michael turns to me with a smile. “I never thought of it that way, Kat. Thanks! Who’s your character?”
“The Boy with the Purple Socks,” I say, wrinkling up my nose. “BO-ring.”
“Maybe he’s cooler than you think,” Michael says. “Just like Ole Golly.” He smiles at me again before returning to his seat.
When he’s gone, Halle flops back like a rag doll. “This project is going to be better than I thought,” she says, offering me and Sam a lopsided grin. “Like, a lot better.”
Maybe for her, I think—and for Sam. But for me?
Not so much.
“I can’t believe Michael is my Harriet partner,” Halle says as we leave school later that afternoon. “I’m so lucky.” She hooks her arm through mine as we round Tenth Street and head down Seventh Avenue for home.
I should be happy for her, but how can I? Halle gets to play Harriet and I don’t. And the worst part? She doesn’t even care. All that matters to her is that she can hang out with Michael and call it “homework.” I would’ve given anything to play Harriet. Life is so unfair.
Halfway down the block, Halle squats down next to a hydrant to pick up a Snapple cap. “You know what Michael did when he found out we were partners?” she says, handing it to me. “He smiled.”
“That’s nice,” I say, taking the cap. It’s for my collection. I have at least fifty, stashed in an old coffee can at the back of my closet. Mom would freak if she knew I collected caps from my friends and the recycling bins at school—let alone off the sidewalk. As she says, New York City is a breeding ground for germs.
I turn the cap over and read the Real Fact out loud: “Humans share fifty percent of their DNA with bananas.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Halle says, getting to her feet. “Totally untrue.”
“How do you know?” I say. “You’re not exactly a scientist.”
“Duh. All I’m saying is, it’s highly doubtful that a human being has that much in common with a piece of fruit!”
Sometimes my best friend can be more stubborn than my three-year-old brother. “Sorry. I just meant the banana thing must be true. Otherwise, the Snapple people wouldn’t put it on a cap. It would make them look stupid. These caps don’t lie.”
“I guess.” Halle helps me scope the sidewalk for more caps. Suddenly she stops short, narrowly missing a little kid whizzing by on a red scooter. “Do you think Michael likes me?” she asks. “Be honest.”
Oh no. I’d rather go back to talking about bananas. But Halle doesn’t want to talk about bananas. She wants me to tell her that Michael likes her. But how can I do that? From what I’ve heard, he prefers Madeline Langford, who has real diamond earrings and something to put in her bra.
I decide to play it cool. “Maybe he does like you,” I say, kicking at a blob of bubble gum squished into the sidewalk. “Anything’s possible.”
Halle crosses her arms over her chest. “Thanks a lot, Kat!”
I should’ve known Halle would take my comment the wrong way. I start again. “What I meant was, it’s possible Michael likes you, but how would I know? We’re not exactly BFFs.”
Halle uncrosses her arms. “Good point.”
I’m in no big rush to get home, but I motion for Halle to hurry up. All this talk about her crush is getting on my nerves. “You won’t believe what my mom did this morning,” I say, changing the subject.
Halle scratches her head. “Used a new feather duster on the lampshades?”
“Nope.”
“Combed the fringe on the Persian rug?”
“Guess again.”
“Bleached your underwear?”
“Close.”
When I tell her about the electric toothbrush, the laces, and the hand-washing, Halle’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Are you going to tell your dad?”
I shake my head. “If he knew how bad Mom’s cleaning has gotten lately, he’d make me live uptown with him and Barbara and Henry.”
“That would stink,” Halle says.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “It kind of would.” I love my dad—don’t get me wrong. I like my stepmom too. Even my little brother is bearable when he’s not throwing a tantrum or whining for gummy worms. But home is where Mom is, even if she ruins my shoelaces and cleans the floor with an electric toothbrush. I just wish home didn’t feel so weird these days.
Halle and I continue down Seventh Avenue in silence. When we reach Thirteenth Street, Halle squints up at me, shading her eyes from the hazy September sun. “Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you notice how good Michael’s hair looked in PE? I think he’s using gel. Or maybe he’s just styling it differently. What do you think?”
I think that if Halle keeps this up, I may need to start wearing earplugs. But that’s not what I say. Instead, I promise to check out Michael’s hair tomorrow and that I’ll text her later, when I’m done with my homework. If Harriet’s taught me one thing, it’s that you don’t want those closest to you to know everything you’re thinking. It will only land you in trouble.
I’m surprised to find Mom locking the front door when I get off the elevator. “Where are we going?” I ask, eyeing her outfit. “You’re still in your cleaning clothes.”
Mom looks down at her faded overalls and touches the red bandanna covering her hair. “That’s okay. We’re just going to the supermarket.”
“We are?”
Mom nods. “I want to get steaks for dinner.”
“Do I have to go too?”
“You know I’m not thrilled about leaving you alone in the apartment,” Mom says. “Don’t give me a hard time, Kat.”
Me give her a hard time? That’s a good one. Mom should’ve gotten the steaks while I was at school. And she shouldn’t have ruined my shoelaces or made me so angry that I trashed my French quiz. Dad would have been so proud of it. “Can I put this inside first?” I ask, turning around to show Mom my backpack. “It’s heavy.”
Mom looks at me as if I’ve asked to dunk my head in a public toilet. “Before you’ve wiped it down? That backpack contains more germs than the bottom of your shoe!” She reaches into the pocket of her overalls and pulls out a packet of antibacterial wipes. “Here,” she says, thrusting the packet at me. “I’ll wait.”
Mom’s carrying wipes in her pocket now? Seriously? I know she has a thing about germs and is worried I might get sick (at least that’s what she’s been telling me lately), but this is too much. “It’s okay,” I tell her, hoisting my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I’ll leave my bag downstairs.” Mom shrugs and follows me down the hall.
“How was school?” she asks in the elevator. She digs through her purse and produces a tiny bottle of Purell. I watch as she squirts the clear, oozy liquid onto her hands and rubs them together. Her fingers are as red as lobster claws. Cracked and scaly too.
“It was fine,” I say, accepting the bottle she’s handing me, “but you’ll never guess who I got for the Harriet project. It’s so unfair, but—”
Mom grabs my arm. “I forgot something.”
“Mom…”
“No, I’d better go back upstairs. Wait for me in the lobby, Kat.”
“You’re going to wash your hands again, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. The look she gives me is so sad, it’s impossible to stay mad at her. I just wish I understood what was going on.
I get off the elevator and bring my backpack into the package room for safekeeping. Then I flop into the armchair opposite the front desk and wait. Ten minutes later, Mom is back without an apology or an excuse. We both know what took her so long, but neither of us says anything. What is there to say, really? I zip up my jacket and follow Mom out of the building.
My neighborhood buzzes with the sounds of taxi horns. Bikes whizz down Seventh Avenue and people hustle along the sidewalks, walking dogs and pushing strollers. I see a little kid hopping off the school bus, struggling under the weight of his too-heavy backpack. He smiles w
hen he sees his mom, or maybe it’s his nanny. I used to have a nanny when I was little—Sonia, who made Jamaican beef patties and sang “Hush, Baby, Hush” at naptime. I loved her the way Harriet loves Ole Golly. Sonia left when Mom lost her magazine job and decided to stay home with me. I’d hoped Mom would learn to make beef patties and sing “Hush, Baby, Hush” like Sonia, but she didn’t. She subscribed to Good Housekeeping and bought a new mop.
Mom steers me across the street and into the supermarket. A blast of arctic air greets me as we enter through the automatic doors. I’m wishing I’d worn a heavier jacket when Mom pulls out two pairs of latex gloves. She hands one pair to me.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say. “Please.”
“If you knew how much bacteria are on the handle of a shopping cart, you wouldn’t argue,” she says. “Now, put on the gloves.” Mom gives her own gloves a quick tug and stretches them over her hands.
“Can’t I use hand sanitizer?” I ask, pointing to the Purell station next to the entrance. “Or just not touch anything?”
Mom’s lips disappear in a thin, angry line. “Come on, Kat. Don’t be difficult.”
She wants me to wear latex gloves in public, and I’m the difficult one? Please. I take the gloves and follow my mom down the produce aisle, where she stops in front of a display of cantaloupes. She picks one up and sniffs it. Then she gives it a sharp thump to see if it’s ripe and puts it in the shopping cart.
“I thought we were just getting steaks,” I say.
“I did say that,” Mom admits. “But now that we’re here, we may as well pick up a few other things. This won’t take a minute.”
Now, where have I heard that one before?
I try to keep up as Mom zips through Produce, turns right at Frozen Foods, and stops in Paper and Cleaning Supplies. While she’s filling the cart with enough paper towels to wipe down the Statue of Liberty, something bright and glittery catches my eye. It’s a diamond, which is attached to an ear, which is attached to a girl. A girl who has something to put in her bra and thinks Halle’s crush has no charisma.
Crud! What is Madeline doing here?
“Deidre?” It’s Madeline’s mother calling over from Canned Goods. “Great to see you! It’s been, like, forever.”
“You too, Stacey.” Mom pushes her cart closer to Mrs. Langford. “It has been a while.”
“We missed having you on the benefit committee last spring,” Madeline’s mom says, balancing her grocery basket against her hip. “We really could have used your help.”
“Well…” Mom tugs at her bandanna.
While Mom and Mrs. Langford continue their conversation by the cranberry sauce, I notice Madeline scratching a mosquito bite on her left knee. She scowls when she catches me looking. “What are you staring at?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
Madeline points to my hands. “What’s with the rubber gloves?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “None of your business.”
“Freak.”
As I’m praying for the moms to wrap it up, I catch my mom reaching into her pocket for the antibacterial wipes. She wipes down a can of diced pineapple, places it in her cart, and reaches for another can.
“What is your mom doing?” Madeline wants to know.
“Well…” I rack my brain for a good excuse. “She read an article about an E. coli outbreak at a supermarket in Yorkville—right around the corner from my dad’s, actually—and she wants to be on the safe side. You can never be too careful, right?”
The corners of Madeline’s mouth creep up in a smirk. “Maybe,” she says, “but I don’t think you can catch E. coli from a can of pineapple.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. But using antibacterial wipes in public is crazy, E. coli or not.”
My hands clench into fists. I’m mad at Mom for embarrassing me, but I’m madder at Madeline for saying my mom is crazy. “Shut up,” I say.
“Make me,” Madeline says, lifting her chin.
Mrs. Langford comes to the rescue. “Maddy and I need to get a move on,” she says, putting a French-manicured hand on her daughter’s arm. “See you guys around.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. My humiliation is coming to an end.
Or maybe not.
“Chanel!”
Before I can say, “Please kill me now,” Madeline’s mother is welcoming Chanel Steinberg, Coco’s mom, to Canned Goods. Coco is bringing up the rear, her hand deep in a bag of trail mix.
“What a crazy coincidence,” Mrs. Langford squeals, kissing Mrs. Steinberg on the cheek. “How are you?”
While the mothers continue to talk, Coco walks up to Madeline. “What’s going on?”
I hold my breath, waiting for Madeline to make fun of my mom. She’s still wiping down cans at the other end of the aisle. Luckily, Mrs. Langford chooses that moment to appear with her basket. “The checkout line is getting longer by the minute,” she says to Madeline. “We should go.”
“Us too,” Mrs. Steinberg says, sidling up to Coco. “Come on, honey.”
Madeline’s mother turns to me with an awkward smile. “Take care of yourself, Kat.” I can tell she feels sorry for me, which makes my face burn. She gives me a little wave and runs off to join the others.
Now it’s just me and Mom.
I head down the aisle, where she’s still wiping down cans. “Mom,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Stop.”
“I’m almost done,” she says, cleaning a can of peaches in heavy syrup before placing it in her cart. “Give me a minute.”
“Mom,” I say more urgently. “Please.”
She whips her head around. “I said I’m almost done, Kat, and I mean it. Be patient.”
“Take all the time you want,” I say, heading for the exit. “I’m leaving.”
I expect Mom to run after me. To say eleven-year-olds shouldn’t cross Fourteenth Street by themselves. It’s a wide, busy street, and getting hit by a cab—or worse, the crosstown bus—is a real possibility. But she doesn’t. She picks up another can and starts wiping.
On the walk to school the next day, I’m dying to tell Halle what happened at the supermarket, but her mind is elsewhere. “Did you know that Michael is a Scorpio?” she asks, bending down to pick up a fallen leaf. “It’s the most misunderstood of all the zodiac signs.” She inspects her find and places it in her backpack. “They’re also very emotional.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “I’m a Leo, but I’m not sure what it means in terms of my personality. I’m supposed to be lucky with money, though.” I dig in my pocket and produce a crumpled dollar. “See? I found it yesterday outside my building.”
“It’s true,” Halle says, back on the move and clearly not listening to a word I’m saying. “Look at Michael. He seems cool on the outside, but there’s a lot going on under the surface. Deep stuff.”
I’m not sure how Halle came to this conclusion, but I decide to take her word for it. If she wants to think her crush is deep, that’s fine with me. I have other things to worry about—namely Mom.
When she came home from the supermarket last night, she knocked on my door and begged me to open up. She even pushed my crinkled-up French quiz under the door with a yellow sticky note on it.
Nice job, Kit-Kat! I’m so proud of you! Xox, Mom
This was a really big deal, because she dug it out of the trash. But still, I wouldn’t let her in. I put in my ear-buds and turned up the music. I didn’t speak to her at breakfast this morning, and I haven’t decided whether I’ll talk to her later, when I get home. It all depends on my mood, and how long I can hold a grudge.
At school, Jane is already banging the gong for attention when Halle and I walk in. We quickly take our seats.
“Simmer down, people!” Jane says, waving the mallet over her head. “I need all eyes on me.” She waits until the room is quiet before putting down the mallet. “I have a treat for you,” she tells us. “Olympia Rabinowitz is coming to our clas
sroom for a rap session. She’ll be here any minute.”
Halle and I exchange looks. Olympia is the school psychologist, and it’s safe to say that a rap session—some kind of hippie-dippie share-a-thon, I’m guessing—doesn’t count as a “treat.”
Michael puts up his hand. “I have a problem.”
“Yes?” Jane crosses her arms over her corduroy jumper.
“I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet.”
Jane frowns. “What does Christmas shopping have to do with Olympia’s visit to our classroom, Michael? Besides, it’s the middle of September.”
Michael takes off his Yankees cap and puts it on backward. “You said we were having a wrap session, but I have nothing to wrap.”
Jane’s eyes shoot up to the ceiling. “We’re not wrapping presents, Michael. The fifth grade will be having a rap session. Rap, as in R-A-P. You know, a discussion. A chance to share our feelings.”
Madeline, who’s been checking her hair for split ends, raises her hand. “We won’t be talking about anything personal, will we? Like periods? Because if we are, I’m not saying anything with the boys around.”
Wilson looks up from the book he’s reading, Human Anatomy and Physiology. “Menstruation is nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. “It’s a perfectly normal bodily function.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” Madeline says huffily, “but some of the boys in this class are too immature to handle it.” She turns around to give Kevin a pointed stare.
“Immature?” Kevin lets out a snort. “The men don’t care about that stuff anyway.”
“Men?” Madeline looks around the room. “I don’t see any men.”
Jane’s had enough. “We will discuss all subjects as they arise. Now, if there are no more questions—”
“Hello, hello…?” It’s Olympia Rabinowitz, here for our first rap session. Her hair is the color of orange Kool-Aid and styled in lots of skinny braids. “Thank you for allowing me into your learning space,” Olympia says, extending her arms wide. “This will be a groovy experience…for all of us.”
Kat Greene Comes Clean Page 2
