After dinner I pull a fast one on everyone. I pretend I called my mother and that she said I can stay for the weekend. Of course Cici is delighted (sometimes it feels more natural to call her Cici and not “my mother”) that I can go to the party with her. Me too. And besides, it gives me an extra day to come up with a reason for never going home. Oh, boy, that’s going to be a beaut.
Twelve
It takes us almost two hours to dress for the party. We try on every dress in her closet. She wouldn’t dream of wearing pants to a party—I mean we really get dressed up like for a wedding or something. Naturally we end up wearing the same peasant outfits we said we were going to wear in the first place. The rest of her wardrobe is right where it fell on the floor.
At some point my grandmother comes in and suggests we tidy up a bit.
“This room looks like a cyclone hit it.” Guess who’s talking. “Don’t you dare move from here until every stitch of clothing is picked up and put away. How many times do I have to tell you …,” and so on and so on.
We work pretty fast and most of the clothes are picked up during the cyclone part of the speech, and by the time my grandmother finishes up with how God forbid some stranger should walk into the room and see such a mess (I suppose it’s the same stranger my mother’s always warning about in my own life who’ll look away in disgust at my torn underwear when I’ve been in a horrible accident), we’ve folded everything and put it away. Not only that, we’re dressed and ready to go.
We get to the party around eight and almost everyone is there. I get to meet Janet Foley of the big boobs, and of course grungy Betty and snobby Joyce are there, and some absolutely horrendous boys who are even shorter than the boys in my class, which practically makes them midgets. Nice.
We play the usual games—Spin the Bottle, Post Office, and a lights-out-free-for-all. Some joker turns the lights on unexpectedly and a creep named Ralph is caught with his hand under Janet’s sweater. She’s really too much. She doesn’t even look embarrassed. Mostly the boys hang out on one side of the room (everyone calls it a “finished basement”) yakking and combing their hair so it stands four inches high off their foreheads, and the girls giggle on the other side. Except for the people it’s exactly the same as all the parties I’ve ever gone to—a letdown.
One of the boys comes up with the bright idea that we should dance, so they put on one of those old 78 rpm records on the stereo, which is called a Victrola. It’s really funky music and you should see the gross dance they do to it. It’s called a jitterbug or sometimes a lindy, and it’s wild. Looks like the whole thing is how far the guy can throw his partner out and then as soon as she starts coming back he gives her another shove that either sends her spinning in nice circles or flying through the wall. Definitely not my bag. Everybody dies when Frank Sinatra comes on. Actually he sounds pretty good if you could just listen. But you’ve got to dance and that’s the worst. I dance with one creep and he holds me so close I think I’m going to end up behind him. It makes you feel very uncomfortable feeling so much of a boy’s body. At least it does me. The next one who asks me to dance I tell him I can’t because of my hammertoes. I don’t even know what this is, but it sounds heavy and it’s a sure turn-off.
The weirdest thing, though, is watching my own mother kissing boys, especially this guy Danny. I think she really likes him. I’m not saying he’s grotesque or anything like that, but he certainly doesn’t hold a candle to my father. Naturally my dad isn’t here because they didn’t even meet till my mother was twenty-one. It would really be great seeing them both together. But right now, if my calculations are right, he’s in this dinky little burg called Ypsilanti. Too bad.
I have to admit it sort of bothers me a teeny bit seeing how much she likes this Danny jerk.
“Hey, Victoria.” It’s my mother pulling me aside. “What do you think?”
“About the party?”
“Parties are all the same. I mean what do you think about Danny?”
“That freak? Ugh, he’s some weirdo. I mean he is the grossest, grungiest, most horrendous creep I’ve ever seen. Mr. Instant Turn-off.” And just so there’s not even a pinpoint of room for misunderstanding, I let out with a real Academy Award “Yiiiich!”
My mother’s face drops down to her knees and you can see she’s really knocked out by my reaction. I know it’s a lousy thing to do but I have to look out for my own welfare, don’t I? I mean, I am definitely not taking any chances that I’ll end up with him for a father. I mean, no way. For one thing, he thinks he’s hot stuff, and for another he’s probably a real bomb at Coney Island, and for a third, he’s much too short.
Cici couldn’t have been too crazy about him anyway because she sort of turns off after she hears my reaction. See that? I may have had a hand in my own destiny. Either that or I just blitzed some poor guy’s big night. Whatever, the party turns out to be a real downer for me. Except for the big showoffs slinging each other around in this grotesque jitterbug that they do, hardly anybody dances or anything. Just a whole load of kissing games which wouldn’t be such a drag if there was someone worth kissing. Which, of course, there isn’t. And if that isn’t bad enough, there’s this little snook, this really jerky asshole, who actually makes an “ugh” face when he has to kiss me. Can you imagine? I mean this nobody, this little acne pimple—God, sometimes I wonder why I expose myself to these silly parties. Always, every time, they turn out to be bombs. So why am I always so anxious to go?
I can’t wait for this one to end. Luckily it’s not too long because at about ten to eleven Cici pulls me over to the side and says we have to go home. We thread our way through the kissers and gropers and find our way out to the street.
“Sorry for the big rush,” Cici says.
“Forget it. You did me a favor.”
“They’re always a big letdown, aren’t they?”
“You know it!” Will you look at that? It’s incredible how much we think alike. What happened to change her so much?
On the way home she tells me the bad news. At least I think it’s bad news. She got a note from Ted saying that he has the test and for her to meet him on the corner at eleven thirty tonight. I’m beginning to get very nervous, but Cici looks cool.
The minute we get home she rushes me up to the bedroom. As soon as she closes the door I see that kooky expression come over her face. It’s sort of half grin and half trouble, something like a wink, and it means another caper. I don’t know if I’m up to a Woolworth-type adventure, but I’m certainly not going to let my own mother risk her neck alone, so like it or not I’m in it. I feed her the right question because I see she’s dying to tell me her plans.
“How are we going to get out to meet Ted?”
“It’s a snap,” she says, and we’re off and running. “First thing we do is stuff the beds to look like we’re sleeping in case my parents look in. They never do, but you know me, I like to be cautious.”
If she’s being careful, it’s going to be more horrendous than I thought.
“Then all we do is slip out of that window,” she says, pointing to the one that leads onto a porch, “and slide down that tree and that’s all there is to it.”
Maybe it’s not so horrendous. From the easy way she makes it sound she’s probably done it millions of times before. I look out of the window but I don’t see any tree. It’s very dark. I can make out the porch railing and what looks like plain emptiness past that except for a skinny stick poking up in the far corner. Oh, no!
“That thing over there isn’t the tree, is it?”
“Right.”
I don’t know why I bother to ask such a silly question when I know the answer all along. “I kind of thought it would be bigger,” I say nervously.
“It used to be when it was alive.”
No way to stop these old air vents from opening in my stomach. A dead dried-out stick that’s surely going to snap the minute I step on it. I’m probably beginning to look a little green because suddenly my
mother is very concerned.
“Hey, don’t worry. It makes it even easier to slide down without the leaves in your way. Besides it’s only two stories and most of the time you can hang on to the edge of the porch.”
Funny thing is most people think I’m pretty gutsy at home, but next to my mother I’m a scaredy cat. I’m being silly. Like I said, she’s probably done it a million times before.
“I’ll be all right,” I stammer. “It’s just—you know, the first time it’s kind of scary.”
“I understand. Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s the first for me too and I’m probably just as scared.”
“You mean you never did this before?”
“You kidding?”
“But all that business about sliding down and hanging on to the edge …”
“Just a matter of all the long and careful planning I’ve been doing …”
I’m relieved. I know for a fact that my mother is a fantastically responsible person. Once she gets involved in a project she can spend weeks just putting together the proper approach. She’s highly organized, and I’ve put myself in her hands many times in almost fourteen years, so I suppose I can take a chance again.
“… all the way home.”
“What ‘all the way home’?” I suppose I wasn’t listening.
“That’s when I worked the plan out.”
All the way home! The party was half a block away. I take another look at the tree and it’s even skinnier than before. Ah, well, I have no choice anyway. I’m certainly not going to let her meet this creep alone.
“Count me in.” The sacrifices we make for our parents.
“Great. Watch, I’ll show you how to do the beds.” And she starts rolling up a blanket. When it’s about the size of a four-year-old, she slides it under the covers, punches a spot in the pillow and says, “There!” She’s got what looks like a full-grown dwarf all squinched up in twenty-degree weather in the middle of December. The fact that it’s the end of May and seventy-five degrees could cause a credibility gap just big enough for a grandmother to fall into, but I suppose it’s no time to be picky so I just shut up and start rolling. Besides the bed is nothing compared to that tree.
Thirteen
“That’s perfect, Victoria,” my mother says, inspecting my handiwork and sounding strangely like my mother. This whole thing is so weird. Anyway, she opens the window and motions me to follow as she starts crawling out onto the porch. She whispers that it’s better if we stay low just in case her brother Steve is looking. One of his windows faces the porch too. I ask, “How far out?” and she answers, “Only about ten feet.”
It’s a warm velvety night and it feels like you’re in the country except for us squeaking our way across the porch. This is about the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life. I went to summer camps for years and we always used to sneak out at night to meet the boys, but that was different. The whole camp thing was a sort of fake, a let’s-pretend world where sneaking out was expected, even laughed at. But this is the real world and what we’re doing is no trick—it’s dishonest. We’re not just fooling around—we’re sneaking out to buy stolen property, which is illegal, so that my mother can cheat on a test, which is immoral. And if we get caught, they’re not going to just dock us from next week’s social. It could be bad news for my mother. Not only won’t she graduate but she’ll surely get kicked out of school. And maybe worse. I wish I could stop her.
My face is dripping wet just thinking about the terrible things that could happen to her. I mean, the ground seems awfully far away. And that stupid twig of a tree doesn’t help either. In fact the combinations of awfuls is making me very queasy. I wish I had some gum. I have some in my bag but that’s in the room. This is getting to be an emergency.
“Cici,” I whisper, poking her in the back lightly. “I got to have some gum. Don’t move. I’ll be back in a sec.”
“Wait,” she says, reaching into her pocket. “I’ve got some right here.” And she hands me the biggest ball of bubble gum I’ve ever seen. I pop the gum in my mouth and stuff the paper in my pocket. Just in time. It’s almost impossible to chew this enormous glob of gum but it does the trick.
“I’ll go first, then I can help you from the bottom,” Cici says. “Now remember, hang on to the porch as long as you can. Okay?” And with that my mother leaps over the railing and starts to slide down the tree as easy as pie. The tree bends dangerously back and forth, but she’s on the ground before it can break. Besides, I know it’s waiting for me before it does its snap, crackle, and plop number. I know I can easily come up with four hundred fantastic reasons for shooting back into the house, but they all fall apart when I think about my mother’s terrible predicament and that I’m probably the only person in the whole world who can help her. I don’t even know how I can do that, but I know I have to try, so I kick off my clogs and start to climb over the rickety wooden railing. A splinter cuts into my palm and a sensible voice inside my brain reminds me that I am not, after all, my mother’s keeper. But it’s too late. I’m already on the skinny outside rim of the porch and not about to risk climbing back over the rail again. Besides I think it’s my brother’s keeper anyway. Without loosening my grip on the railing, I wrap my legs around the tree branch and it starts zinging back and forth like a rubber band. I can feel it’s going to snap if I put all my weight on it, so I let my hands slide down the spokes of the railing as far as they can while I lower my legs down the tree. It’s still too high for me to jump. My mother is encouraging me from the ground in whispers.
“It’s okay, you can let go of the porch now, and just slide down. I’ll grab you before you hit the ground.”
It’s not okay because I can’t let go. My legs keep slipping down the tree, stretching my body till it feels like my arms are going to pull right out of their sockets. Still, it’s like my hands are welded to the porch. I can’t make them let go.
Suddenly there’s a wrenching sound of wood splitting and I go hurtling down the tree. In the blur I see my mother making a grab for me but I’m going too fast and too hard. In a whoosh my bare feet whack into the ground and I go sprawling. We both hold our breath and wait for lights to go on and windows to open. But nothing happens. I think I’m okay; at least I can move everything. Incredibly, the tree is in one piece, but I’m still clutching part of the railing in my hands.
“Wow, you really came flying. Are you hurt?” My mother helps me up, prying the spokes out of my hands and brushing off the twigs and dirt.
“Uh-uh. Just a splinter in my hand and some scrapes, but I made a mess of that railing. I’m really sorry.”
“Forget it. Nobody ever uses that porch anyway. Are you sure you still want to come with me?”
“Absolutely.” Anything is better than going back up that tree again.
“Okay, then let’s go. Ted’s going to be waiting on the comer. Hey, your shoes!”
Forget it. I wouldn’t go back for my feet, much less my shoes. But I don’t want her to think I’m a complete coward, so I tell her that I left my clogs because they’re too noisy.
“Good idea,” she says. “Let’s go,” and she leads the way. We tiptoe along the side of the house, silently, hunched over like cat thieves. My mother goes down the front steps to the street and I follow behind her shadow. Even from the middle of the block we can see Ted’s car (my mother calls it a “hot rod”) parked at the corner. There’s enough light from the streetlight to see that he’s really gross, especially his hair. The length isn’t so bad, but he has this big high loopy pompadour in front and then the hair laps over at the back of his head. Gorgeous.
Right away I can see he thinks he’s too cool for words. Funny thing about my mother. She’s certainly no jerk—I mean she really knows her way around and nothing seems to scare her and in most ways I feel very dependent on her, but still she sometimes seems a little naive, much too trusting. Like with this creep. I wouldn’t trust this worm no how. One look and you can see how spaced out he is.
First thing Ted says when we get up to the car is, “What’d you bring her for?” Meaning me.
“Why shouldn’t I?” my mother says, giving him sneer for sneer. “She’s a very good friend and besides I told her everything.”
“Dumb broad,” he says. Oh, I really love this guy. “Get in,” he says to my mother, motioning to the seat next to him. “You”—pointing to me—“get in the back.”
“Just a minute.” When my mother uses that tone—watch out! “Who do you think you’re pushing around, Mr. Hot Shot?” Yeah, Mom! “Why do we have to get in your stupid car anyway? Just give me the paper and I’ll give you the money. We’re not looking for a joyride, especially not with you.”
“You want the test? Get in the car.”
“What for?”
“’Cause I have to get it, that’s what for.”
“Why didn’t you bring it with you? Look, jerko, I’m not supposed to be out now. If my parents find out, they’ll kill me.”
“That’s your tough luck. You didn’t think I’d be dumb enough to risk getting caught with the goods.”
I may be wrong but I think this jerk sees too many movies. Either that or he’s got something up his sleeve.
“It’s not exactly the Hope diamond,” says my mother fairly reasonably. “It’s just a little science test that nobody but me cares about. So why don’t you just get it now and let’s get this thing over with.”
“I just finished telling you I don’t have it with me.”
“Oh, damn! Come on, Victoria, let’s go with Humphrey Bogart or whoever he is, or we’ll never get the damn thing tonight.”
And we both get in the front seat. Humphrey Bogart isn’t too happy with the arrangement. It’s obvious, now that the door is closed, that a lot of his spaced-out look and great gangster style is plain old beer. The car reeks of it.
My Mother Was Never A Kid (Victoria Martin Trilogy) Page 11
