“I don’t think so,” Sam says.
“You should.” Wilson reaches into the pocket of his lab coat and pulls out a small white pad. “I’ll write you a prescription. Date of birth?”
Olympia gets up from her seat. “Not to minimize the importance of Sam’s skin condition, but let’s limit the discussion to our emotions.” She takes the stick from Wilson. “Who wants to go next?”
Before I can stop myself, I’m putting out my hand for the talking stick. Halle looks at me in shock, but I don’t care. If I don’t say this now, I never will. I take a deep breath. “How do you help someone with a problem? A problem they don’t want to talk about.”
Olympia pushes a stray orange braid out of her eyes. “Would you mind telling us more, Kat? If it’s within your comfort zone, of course.”
My problem with Mom is as far outside my comfort zone as Timbuktu, but I’ll need to be more specific if I want Olympia to help me. I try again. “Someone I love has a problem. At least, I think it’s a problem. But she—I mean, this person—won’t admit it.”
“Have you tried talking to this person about the situation?” Olympia asks. “You know, told him or her how you feel?”
“Not really,” I admit. “It’s too hard. Besides, this person doesn’t know I’m worried.”
Olympia scoots to the edge of her chair. “Talking about problems is hard, Kat. You’re absolutely right. But guess what?”
“What?”
“If you don’t talk about problems, they won’t disappear on their own. They’ll keep cropping up, again and again, until the problem gets bigger. And when that happens, it’s that much harder to find a solution. That’s why open communication is the best way forward. Does that make sense?”
It does…and it doesn’t. Yes, keeping quiet won’t make my problems with Mom go away. But what if talking about them doesn’t help either? What if I tell her how I feel and she gets upset? Or worse, what if nothing changes and she still makes me wear latex gloves at the supermarket? All that talking would have been for nothing! Besides, I don’t think Olympia realizes what I’m up against. People who clean kitchen floors with electric toothbrushes aren’t your average neat freaks. Not even close.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I finally say. “It’s a good idea, but not for me.”
“How do you know unless you try?” Michael chimes in. “You can do it, Kat. You can.”
Huh? Since when is Michael my personal cheerleader? I’m suddenly so embarrassed, my whole body feels itchy, as if I’ve caught Sam’s eczema. Halle must be as surprised as I am, because her mouth is in the shape of a giant O.
As I’m processing all this, Olympia’s eyes meet mine. “What if Michael is right, Kat? What if you can talk to this person about what’s going on? How would that feel?”
I don’t know, I want to tell her.
And I’m not sure if I’m ready to find out.
The following Monday, I find a note waiting for me when I get home from school.
Hi, Kit-Kat,
Will be home around 5:30. Make yourself
a snack. And use a plate!!!!
Love,
Mom
I make a peanut butter and banana sandwich and take it to my room, something I can’t do when Mom is home. Then I take out my phone to call Dad. I didn’t speak to him all weekend, and I miss him.
“HeWO?” It’s Henry, out of breath. He must have run for the phone. When you’re three, answering the phone is as exciting as meeting Elmo.
“How goes it, bud?”
“Kitty-Kat!”
Knowing my brother is excited to hear my voice makes me smile. “I’m seeing you on Friday,” I remind him. “To babysit. I’m sleeping over too.”
“Yay!”
When Dad asked if I’d stay with Henry while he and Barbara ran downstairs for an early dinner with neighbors, I’d said yes right away. There’d be pizza, Dad promised, and five dollars an hour. When Halle heard about the pizza, she agreed to come too. I didn’t mention the money, though. Maybe I’ll surprise her and buy us fro-yo next week on the way home from school.
“Is Dad there, Hen?” I ask.
“He’s on the compooter.”
“Computer,” I say, repeating the word correctly, the way Dad and Barbara asked me to. “Can you put him on the phone? I want to talk to him.”
“I’ll have to yell.”
“That’s okay, bud. Go ahead.”
I hear Henry take in a big breath. “Daddy!”
The minute hand on the kitchen wall clock makes a full circle before my dad gets on the phone. “Kit-Kat! Are we still on for Friday night?”
“Yeah, Dad. That’s not why I called.”
“Oh?”
“I need to talk to you about Mom,” I say.
“What’s up?” he asks.
I had planned to tell him about my idea (okay, Olympia’s idea) to talk to Mom about her problem. But now that I’m about to say it out loud, it feels wrong. I go with the first thing that pops into my brain instead. “She’s very happy for me because I got a ninety-eight on my French quiz,” I say. “Pretty good, huh?”
“C’est formidable,” Dad says, laughing. “You’re a real French scholar.”
“Merci beaucoup.” We chat for a few more minutes before I hang up and start my math homework. We’re doing positive and negative numbers this year, which I don’t understand. Dad used to help me when I was younger, but it was no use. No matter how many times he’d try to explain something to me, the concept would sail over my head like a let-go balloon. Now the math is harder, and Dad’s not around to help.
Next is English, a one-page description of our assigned Harriet the Spy characters. I chew on my pencil, hoping for something interesting to say about The Boy with the Purple Socks. I can’t think of a thing. Why does my character have to be so boring? I’d have plenty to say if I were Harriet, who spies on people and writes about them in her notebook. I mean, spying on people is fun. Last summer I caught the lady down the hall going to the garbage room in her underwear. I’m not sure if that counts as spying, though, because people who walk around in their underwear probably don’t care who sees them. Mom won’t go near the garbage room. She tips the porter extra to pick up our trash.
As I’m finishing up, I hear Mom at the door. “Where were you?” I ask, following her into the kitchen. She sets bags of Chinese takeout on the counter and goes over to the sink to wash her hands.
“I had an interview,” she says, reaching for the soap. “I think it went well.”
Hmmm, this is new. Mom hasn’t wanted to go back to work since she lost her job as a magazine editor. I remember how Dad kept bugging her to find a new one, but Mom wasn’t interested. “The magazine industry is dead,” she told my dad at dinner one night. “I might as well focus my energy on something else.” Too bad the “something else” turned out to be cleaning the apartment and worrying about germs.
Mom finishes her hand-washing routine, dries off on a clean dish towel, and slips on her rubber gloves. She wipes down the Chinese takeout containers before placing them on the table. “What kind of job did you interview for?” I ask once we’ve sat down to eat.
Mom passes me the kung pao chicken. “It wasn’t for a job,” she says. “I interviewed to be a contestant on Clean Sweep.”
I almost drop the takeout container. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I didn’t want to say anything until it was definite, but the producers liked my application and asked me to come in for a chat.”
“About what?”
“My personal cleaning style,” Mom says, reaching for the chicken. “How often I clean, which products I use…That kind of thing. Basically, they want to see if I’d be a good fit for the show.”
A good fit? Isn’t it enough that Mom wants to be on Clean Sweep in the first place? I can’t imagine there’s a line around the block for people who want to scrub toilets on TV, but you never know. “Do a lot of people audition?” I ask, curious
.
“More than you’d think,” Mom says. She spears a piece of broccoli. “The producers have to be selective in the screening process.”
“Oh.” I chew this over as I eat my chicken. I’m also wondering how many of the other contestants have a problem like Mom’s. Or maybe they just want to be on TV. “Do you think they’ll pick you?” I ask, picturing my mom in a sanitation worker’s uniform. It’s not the best image, but for twenty-five thousand dollars it’s not that bad.
Mom serves herself more chicken. “Getting chosen is a long shot, but I think there’s a good chance. I demonstrated my counter-wiping technique for the producers, and they told me I was remarkably quick and very thorough.”
I look up from my food. Mom is smiling with her whole face, not just her mouth. I guess Clean Sweep means more to her than I realized. “I hope you get picked, Mom,” I say, surprising myself by actually meaning it. “It would be cool.”
“It sure would,” Mom says, getting up to clear the table. “Very cool.”
—
Later, I crawl into bed to read Harriet the Spy under the covers. I’m so wound up about Clean Sweep—half hoping Mom will win, half worried she won’t—that I keep reading the same sentence over and over. Then I do what I couldn’t do last week. I find my laptop, open my email, and click on New.
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Hello
DATE: September 25, 9:32:24 PM EDT
FROM: [email protected]
Dear Olympia,
Thank you for your advice in rap session the other day. It was very helpful. I haven’t talked to the person about their problem yet (it’s my mom), but I will. I’m waiting until she finds out about being on TV. It’s a long story, but my mom might be on Clean Sweep. Have you seen it? It’s a game show where people clean stuff as fast as they can. The prize is $25,000 and a lifetime supply of cleaning products. I’m glad about the money, but not so glad about the cleaning products. Cleaning is kind of like my mom’s hobby, and I’m worried the show will only encourage her to do it more. Lately she can’t sit, or talk, or read, or shop—or do much of anything, really—without wanting to clean something. She says she can’t help it and that it calms her, but I find this hard to understand. I mean, there’s nothing “calming” about cleaning. It’s a lot of work!
One more thing. Okay, it’s more of a question than a thing. What will happen if my mom doesn’t win? I know she’ll be very disappointed. I will be too.
I’m sorry if this email sounds confusing and all jumbled up, but that’s how I feel right now. I wish I didn’t.
Sincerely,
Kat
I reread my email. There are other things I could have told Olympia. More important things. But I’m not ready to say them, at least not yet. I close my eyes and press Send.
I wasn’t sure she’d write back, but there’s an email from Olympia in my inbox the next morning.
To: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Hello
DATE: September 26 7:21:17 AM EDT
FROM: [email protected]
Dear Kat,
I’m glad my advice in rap session was helpful to you. And how cool that your mom might be on TV! It could be a lot of fun. At the same time, you expressed worry that your mom might not win. You said she would be very disappointed, and that you would be too.
The thing to keep in mind is that losing is always a possibility on game shows—and in life in general. But with the right attitude and proper preparation, there’s a good chance your mom could walk off with the grand prize. Maybe you have other concerns about this situation you’d like to share? For instance, you mentioned how a lifetime supply of cleaning products might encourage your mom to clean more. It sounds like your mom takes cleaning very seriously. More than a hobby, maybe.
I know you haven’t talked to her yet, but you may want to consider it. Talking always helps. In the meantime, if you ever feel like talking to me, you know where I am. See you in school!
Best wishes,
Olympia
I’d planned on telling Halle about Olympia’s email—and about Mom’s interview for Clean Sweep—during our walk to school. But now at our lockers while we’re putting our books away, I still haven’t said anything. As usual, my best friend has other things on her mind.
“Do you think Michael will ask me out?” Halle says, shoving a binder into her lock-free locker. “I’m picking up these vibes.”
“Vibes?”
“I caught him looking at me in class yesterday. Twice.”
“Well…”
The smile disappears from Halle’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?” I ask.
“You know what,” she says.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yeah, you did. You said, ‘Well…’ as in you doubt Michael will ask me out.”
I feel as if I’m watching a movie I’ve seen a billion times before. If only I could press Fast Forward. Or better yet, Stop. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Hal,” I say. “It’s just that I have no clue what Michael thinks. It’s not like he pours his heart out to me.”
“Maybe not,” Halle agrees. “But he did tell everyone in rap session that he likes me.”
Where does Halle get this stuff? Sure, Michael said he likes a girl who is nice, and cool, and funny. But he never said it was Halle. Now I’m wishing he had. At least it would get her to shut up and do something about it. Suddenly Halle grabs me by the shoulders. “I have an idea.”
Oh, no. I can see where this is going, and I don’t like it. Not one bit. “I’m not asking him out for you, if that’s what you have in mind. Forget it.”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Halle replies. “Hear me out.”
“Fine.”
Just as Halle is about to tell me the thing I probably don’t want to hear, her eyes bug out like a TV cartoon character’s. I’m surprised her tongue doesn’t flop out of her mouth too. “Look,” she whispers. “But don’t turn around.”
“How can I look without turning around?” I whisper back. “It’s impossible.”
“Then do it fast. And don’t be obvious!”
As subtly as I can, I turn around to see what Halle’s all freaked out about—and why her fingernails are now digging into my arm. It’s not as bad as I thought. Michael is having a conversation with Olympia at the other end of the hall. “What’s the big deal?” I ask, pulling away from Halle. “Olympia talks to kids all the time.” And writes them emails. And invites them to her office to talk.
“I told you,” Halle says, blowing out air. “He likes me.”
“Just because he’s talking to Olympia? He could be telling her what he had for lunch, for all you know.”
“But he’s not,” Halle says. “Open your eyes and look.”
When I look again, I see that Halle’s not making things up. Michael is smiling at her. When he catches us staring, he waves.
“See?” Halle says. “That’s why I need you to talk to him. To find out if he likes me.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself?” I ask.
Halle looks at me as if I’ve got toilet paper stuck to my head. “You can’t just go up to a boy and ask if he likes you! It’s not done that way. How do you not know this?”
I raise my eyebrows at her.
“You know something, Kat? You really are different.” Halle gives me a playful jab in the ribs. “In a good way.”
“Um, thanks?”
“So, you’ll do it?” Halle is smiling now.
“Do what?”
“Ask Michael if he likes me!”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, rubbing my sore ribs.
“Great!” Halle smiles wider. “Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know that Michael does the best arm fart? He made one before homeroom this morning and it was so realistic. You’d think he was actually farting.”
/>
“Halle?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you please stop talking about Michael? It’s making my head hurt.”
Halle gives me another playful punch. “You’re funny.”
No, I’m not, I think. I’m dead serious.
I’m packing my overnight bag for babysitting duty when I realize I haven’t told Halle about my email from Olympia—or about Mom’s decision to try out for Clean Sweep. I would have if she’d stopped talking about Michael long enough to listen.
Ever since she spotted Michael staring at her in the hall on Monday, Halle’s become this other person. Someone I hardly know. When she’s not mooning over him in class, she’s talking about him at lunch and during walks to and from school. It almost makes me glad I don’t have a crush. I think I’d drive myself nuts.
Mom brings me downstairs to wait for the car service Dad ordered for me and Halle. She wanted to bring us uptown in a cab herself, but Dad insisted we were old enough to go on our own. I’m glad he won the argument. I mean, who wants to be taken everywhere by their mother? Liberty is allowed to take the bus by herself, and so is Kevin. Then again, if I were Kevin’s mom, I wouldn’t care where he went or how he got there. I’d just be glad he was somewhere else.
“You’ve got everything you need?” Mom asks, scanning Thirteenth Street for the car. “Your cell charger? Clean underwear? A toothbrush?”
I almost make a joke about bringing the toothbrush she uses to clean the kitchen floor, but I stop myself in time. “I’m all set,” I say, grateful to spy Halle jogging toward us with her sleeping bag. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” Mom says. “Just displaying the usual motherly concern.”
Just then, the car pulls up to the curb. Mom motions for Halle to hurry and gives me a quick squeeze good-bye. “Text me when you get there,” she says. “Don’t forget.”
“I won’t, Mom. Promise.”
Mom stands back and watches as the driver pops the trunk for our bags. “Have fun!” she calls out to us. “Wear your seat belts!”
I give her one last wave before climbing into the backseat. Halle climbs in after me and cracks the window. After I barfed on the bus last year on a field trip to the Bronx Zoo, she knows better than to trust my stomach in a moving vehicle.
Kat Greene Comes Clean Page 4
