Now, as Mom is standing in front of me, wearing the necklace she loved but hasn’t worn in forever, I give her my honest opinion. “You look great, Mom. Very pretty.” It’s nice to see her out of her cleaning clothes for a change.
Mom motions for me to duck down so she can reach my cheek to kiss it. “I remember when you were small enough for me to duck down,” she says, gazing at our shared reflection in the mirror. “When did you get so tall?”
When you were sterilizing the silverware.
Or wiping down cans at the supermarket.
Or checking my sheets for bedbugs.
But I don’t say any of this. I just smile, and let my cheek be kissed.
—
After Mom has left the apartment and made sure I locked the door behind her, I microwave some leftover spaghetti and bring it to my room. I eat watching a video of a cute Siamese kitten trying to jump out of a ski boot. Eventually he gets tired and gives up. Poor cute kitty.
I remember how I begged Mom for a cat after my parents divorced. “I don’t have brothers or sisters,” I said. “I need a friend.”
“Humans aren’t meant to live with animals,” Mom told me, wrinkling up her nose. “It’s unsanitary.”
I knew better than to argue.
When I’m done eating, I go into my closet and take out the old coffee can with my Snapple cap collection inside. Not counting the one about humans sharing fifty percent of their DNA with bananas (I gave it to Halle), I’ve got fifty-three caps. Not bad, considering I’ve been collecting them for only two years. I sort through the caps until I find my favorites.
Real Fact #126: A pigeon’s feathers are heavier than its bones.
Real Fact #941: In South Korea, it is against the rules for a professional baseball player to wear cabbage leaves inside of his hat.
Real Fact #444: The Statue of Liberty wears a size 879 sandal.
Real Fact #50: Mosquitoes have 47 teeth.
I’d love to know how the Snapple people came up with the last one. I mean, how do you count a mosquito’s teeth? They’re so tiny! So tiny, there’s no way you can brush them. Mosquitos must have very bad breath, I decide. Worse than Halle’s in homeroom after an onion bagel.
I put my caps back in the coffee can and get out Harriet the Spy. I open to the part where Harriet is rolling around on the living-room floor, pretending to be an onion. Too bad The Boy with the Purple Socks doesn’t get to roll around like an onion. That could be fun.
After I’ve read for a while, my eyelids begin to feel heavy. I change into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and climb into bed. I’m drifting off to sleep when I realize that the coffee can is still next to my bed. If I don’t put it back in the closet, I could trip over it at night when I get up to pee. But my eyelids feel heavier, and heavier…
Before I know it, the morning light is streaming through my bedroom window.
I’m still in bed when I hear the noise.
Clink-clink CLANK!
Clink-clink CLANK!
I wander into the kitchen to investigate.
Mom is standing at the open refrigerator, a black garbage bag at her feet. She’s tossing out bottles of salad dressing, and other stuff too. Tubs of butter, jars of jam. Pickles, mustard, mayonnaise. “Why are you cleaning the fridge so early?” I ask. “It’s not even seven o’clock!”
Mom tries to laugh, but it sounds like she’s got a chicken bone stuck in her throat. “I’m doing a bit of spring cleaning—that’s all.” She gives me a tight smile and tugs at her bandanna.
“Spring cleaning? It’s the beginning of October, Mom.”
“I know, but it can’t hurt to get a head start. Right?”
So not right.
I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I come back, Mom is still at it. “How was the dinner with the Sweepers last night?” I ask, drying my hands on my pajamas. “Were they nice?” I get a carton of OJ from the fridge and plunk down at the breakfast bar. After Mom hands me a glass, she pulls out a stack of plates and places them in a large cardboard box. I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing?”
“The same thing I’ve been doing all morning,” Mom says, sealing the box with packing tape. “Spring cleaning.” She puts “spring” in air quotes this time.
“But that’s your wedding china!”
Mom brushes off her hands. “True. But you know the saying ‘Out with the old and in with the new’? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Tossing out the old to make way for something new. It’s very therapeutic. But don’t worry. I’m giving the good stuff to Goodwill.”
“I’m not worried about that,” I say. “I just think it’s weird that you’re giving away our stuff.”
Mom looks up from her packing. “Don’t you have homework to do?”
“I did it last night while you were out.”
“Then why don’t you help me? I could use an extra pair of hands.”
I don’t want to help Mom toss out her wedding china. It’s off-white, with tiny rosebuds around the edges. When I was little, she’d let me use it for tea parties with my stuffed animals. She made tiny sandwiches and everything.
And then I see it, in the corner of the kitchen. A cardboard box with my Snapple cap collection in it. Mom must have snuck the coffee can out of my room while I was sleeping—or maybe even a few minutes ago, when I was brushing my teeth. I knew I should have put it back in my closet! “What’s my coffee can doing in that box?” I ask.
“It’s garbage, Kat. Just an old can filled with bottle caps.”
“They’re Snapple caps,” I correct her, “and I’ve been collecting them since third grade!”
“Collecting them?” Mom stops packing. “Not off the street, I hope.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “And other places too. But I always wash them off first.”
Mom sucks in her breath. “I don’t care. Those caps are crawling with germs. You could get sick.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I say. “I used soap. And bleach.” This is not true, but what Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
“Forget it,” Mom says, picking up the box. “This is going into the trash. Now.”
I get up and pull the box away from her. “It’s my stuff, and it’s not going anywhere.”
“That’s it,” Mom says. “To your room.”
Mom may want me to go to my room, but I have other plans. I put down the box and start digging through it. My Snapple cap collection, I discover, is not the only thing Mom wants to throw away. My peace-sign rug is in there too. “You can’t be serious,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “You know I love this rug!”
Mom sighs. “You shouldn’t be so attached to possessions, Kat. They’re just things.”
“I like my things,” I say quietly.
Olympia had told me to talk to Mom. To share my feelings and try to understand how she feels. I tried that and it didn’t work. Now I can see why. It’s impossible to talk to someone who doesn’t understand how I feel. Someone who would throw out my favorite things without thinking twice.
Anger slams into me like a bumper car. How dare Mom treat my feelings as if they don’t matter. As if I don’t matter. Well, forget that. I pick up the box and march down the hall to my room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mom yells after me. She storms over and tries to pull the box out of my hands. “Give it to me, Kat. I mean it.”
“Make me!”
Mom tries again, gripping both sides of the box and tugging hard. I lose my balance and stumble backward, slamming into the wall. “You almost knocked me over!” I yell, still holding the box. “What’s wrong with you?”
Mom covers her mouth with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Kat! I don’t know what came over me. These things make me feel so uneasy.”
I’m sorry she feels that way, but trying to trash my Snapple cap collection and then almost knocking me over? That’s too much!
With the box still in my hands, I run to my room and quickly get dressed. Then I dump the c
aps into a plastic bag and toss it in my backpack, along with my laptop, my phone, and the twenty-dollar bill Mom gave me for emergencies. It’s too early to go to Halle’s, but the diner on Seventh Avenue is open twenty-four hours. I grab my backpack and head out the front door without closing it behind me. Let our neighbors see our dirty laundry.
See if I care.
Despite the early hour, the Starlight Diner is packed with hungry customers when I walk in. I take a seat at the counter and give the waitress my order: two glazed donuts and a chocolate milk shake. Mom doesn’t like me having sweets in the morning, but she’s not here to stop me.
At seven forty-five, it occurs to me that I should tell Olympia what’s going on. She might not have all the answers, but at least she can listen to me. I pull out my laptop and log in to my school email account.
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Coming clean
DATE: October 8, 7:47 AM EDT
FROM: [email protected]
Dear Olympia,
I took your advice and tried talking to my mom. It didn’t go very well. She got mad and yelled at me. This morning she tried to throw out some of my stuff, including my Snapple cap collection. I wouldn’t let her, though. I put the caps in a bag to give to Halle for safekeeping. I didn’t have time to save my favorite rug, unfortunately. It came from a flea market in Chelsea, and I’ll never find another one like it.
There’s something else I should tell you. I’m not sure how to put this, but I’ve been leaving out a lot of important information in my emails. For one thing, you guessed right when you said my mom’s cleaning is more than a hobby. It’s pretty much her full-time job. She washes her hands a lot too.
I look up from my email. Should I tell Olympia that I Googled OCD and think Mom’s got it? I could, but I don’t know that for sure. I mean, I think she’s got it, but I’m not a doctor. Instead, I sign my email and hit Send. Then I gobble up the rest of my sugary breakfast and get up to leave for the only place I want to be right now.
—
Halle’s hair is spread out like a curly brown halo when I walk into her room ten minutes later. “Hal?” I say, giving her a little poke. “You awake?”
Halle opens a sleepy eye. “Kat?” She sits up slowly. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mom let me in.” Mrs. Maklansky didn’t say a word when I showed up at her doorstep at ten after eight. She just pointed to a box of Cheerios on the kitchen counter and shuffled back to bed.
I kick off my shoes and scooch in next to Halle. I tell her about Mom’s cleaning spree and how she tried to throw my stuff in the trash. I save Mom’s box-grabbing freak-out for last.
Halle wakes up immediately. “Your Mom pushed you? I can’t believe it.”
“She didn’t do it on purpose,” I explain. “She was trying to grab the box out of my hands and I fell.”
“Still.” Halle pushes a stray curl out of her eye. “Moms aren’t supposed to do stuff like that.”
“She was mad about the Snapple caps, I guess. You know…all those ‘scary’ germs.” I roll my eyes. “They can kill you if you’re not careful.”
Halle shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You need to tell your dad what’s going on, Kat. You really do.”
“I know.” I lie back and stare up at the ceiling. It’s still dotted with the glow-in-the-dark stars I helped Halle put up when she was afraid of the dark.
Halle props herself up on her elbows. “You think your dad will be mad?”
“Mad that my mom tried to throw away my things?”
“Well, yeah, and mad that you didn’t tell him about your mom’s problem sooner.”
What Halle doesn’t say—and what we both know is true—is that Mom’s problem is getting worse. Wrestling me to the ground over an old coffee can proves it. But if I tell Dad what happened, he’ll make me live uptown with him and Barbara for sure—no questions asked. Still, I can’t pretend everything is fine forever. As Olympia said in rap session, problems don’t go away on their own.
“I’ll talk to my dad,” I promise Halle. “The next time I see him. I swear.”
“Girl Scout’s honor?”
“We’re not Girl Scouts,” I say.
“You know what I mean.” Halle bounces out of bed to get dressed. She turns around. “Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“This may not be the best time to bring this up, but did you notice how Michael was staring at me in the cafeteria on Friday? I was biting into my grilled cheese, when I looked up and saw…”
Leave it to Halle to talk about her crush in a crisis. My best friend’s got it bad.
I smile for the first time all day.
Mom is vacuuming the window blinds when I get home later that afternoon. She stops when she sees me. “Halle’s mom called to tell me where you were,” she says, trying to catch my eye. “She didn’t want me to worry.”
I shrug and head for my room. The silent treatment is the least she deserves.
There’s a letter waiting for me on my desk. I recognize the handwriting right away. It’s from Mom.
Dear Kit-Kat,
I can’t apologize enough for my disgraceful behavior this morning. I was upset and took it out on you. I am so, so sorry.
I know you’re not ready to forgive me, but maybe after you’ve had time to think things over, you could consider accepting my apology? Again, I am so sorry for how I acted and for taking your belongings. It will never happen again.
Love,
Mom
P.S. Your rug is at the dry cleaner’s. I promise to return it.
Mom is right about one thing. I don’t feel like accepting her apology. Not now, and maybe not ever. Thank goodness I left my Snapple caps with Halle. At least I know they’re safe.
I get out my laptop and see two emails in my inbox. One is from Jane, reminding us to bring in our Harriet questions on Monday. The other is from Olympia. I’m surprised she wrote back on a Sunday, when teachers have better things to do with their time.
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Coming clean
DATE: October 8 12:07:16 PM EDT
From: [email protected]
Dear Kat,
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings about your mom’s problem. I’m sorry to hear that she tried to throw out your things. This couldn’t have been easy for you.
I don’t mean to push, but again, if you ever want to come by for a chat, my door is always open.
All my best,
Olympia
“Kat?” Mom is standing at my door with a takeout menu. “I was thinking of ordering sushi for lunch. Is that okay?”
Ordering takeout—i.e., accepting food from strangers with potentially unwashed hands—is Mom’s way of saying sorry. I’m not in a forgiving mood, but resisting my favorite food is not something I’m willing to do, no matter how mad I am. “Sushi’s great,” I say, snapping my laptop shut.
Mom inches closer. “What are you working on?”
I search my mental hard drive for a little white lie. If Mom sees Olympia’s email, I’m toast. “I’m doing, uh…research. For school.”
“Oh?” Mom adjusts the strap of her overalls. “What kind of research?”
“For um…the Harriet project. I want to be prepared.”
“Good strategy.” Mom goes over to my bed and starts smoothing down my comforter. When she looks up, her eyes are sad. “I need to tell you why I was so upset this morning.”
I’m listening…
“I’m dropping out of the show.”
“What?” This is not the confession I was expecting to hear. “What happened?”
Mom leans over to plump up my pillow. “Well, in exchange for the grand prize, the winning contestant is required to appear in national advertising campaigns and TV commercials. It says so in the contract—and there’s no getting out of it. I tried.”
“Why would you want to get o
ut of it?” I ask. “Being in a commercial sounds like fun. It’s better than cleaning the house all day, that’s for sure.”
Mom frowns.
“That’s not what I meant.” I start again. “I mean, you shouldn’t quit because you’re scared. You and Dad tell me that all the time.”
“I know.” Mom brushes some lint off my comforter. “I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into. It’s a huge responsibility and I’m not ready to commit to so much.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Besides go into the kitchen to order our sushi?” Mom gets up from the bed. “I wish I knew.”
I wish I did too. The one thing that got her excited for the first time in ages is now a no-go.
“Are you sure I can’t change?” It’s the Monday after the Kissing Incident and I’m standing at Jane’s desk, begging for a new Harriet partner. My classmates are at lunch, so I don’t have to worry about anyone like Madeline and Coco listening in. Gossip is their oxygen.
“I’m sorry, Kat,” Jane says, tucking a strand of mousy-brown hair behind her ear. “It’s too late to change partners. The answer is no.”
In defeat, I look for Halle in the cafeteria. She’s at a table in the corner, hunched over a plate of tofu cheddar casserole. I feel my stomach lurch as I watch her eat. The food looks and smells like dog barf.
“You want some of this?” Halle asks. “It’s better than it looks.”
I tell her I’m not hungry and fill her in on what happened with Jane. Halle puts down her fork. “I can’t believe Jane won’t switch you,” she says. “It’s so unfair.”
“I know. But she said it’s too late to change.”
“Even though Sam kissed you?”
“I didn’t tell her that. Why would I?”
“True,” Halle says. “It just sucks—that’s all.”
Sucks is one way to put it. But you know what sucks worse? Sam’s dumb apology texts. He’s been sending them all weekend. The latest one came this morning:
Kat Greene Comes Clean Page 7
