Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  “That’s too cute, Lisa!” Michelle said. “Do you think the kids will know what they are?”

  I shrugged and waved, dismissing her concern. “Do it with CDs then. Same idea.”

  Michelle hugged me at the door and told me how excited she was to have a new friend in the neighborhood. I both envied and resented women like her. I would never presume that someone wanted to be friends until we’d had four lunches, she’d invited me to her home, and we’d engaged in at least one heated debate about unionizing migrant farm workers. Women like Michelle assumed that other people wanted them as friends, and welcomed the opportunity to sing to their kids. It must be nice to walk around feeling that way regardless of whether or not it was accurate. “Remember, a song that says Ashley to her,” she chirped before leaving.

  ™˜

  “How am I supposed to sing a song about a girl I’ve never met?” Maya asked at dinner that evening. Jason and Logan shot amused glances at one another, knowing Maya would likely get through this dilemma the way she did everything else — with aplomb.

  “Did she bring those brownies?” Jason asked. “They were good. Like fudge.”

  Logan gestured to our kitchen counter, which now looked like a bakery display case. We had cinnamon rolls, apple fritters, cake, petit fours, brownies, muffins and biscotti. “What’s the deal with this place and baked goods?”

  “They’re a suburban Trojan horse,” I explained. “They use the brownies to get in the front door so they can check out how we live. The natives will attack tomorrow.”

  Jason laughed along with Logan, but Maya was in no mood for jokes.

  “You guys, I’m serious. How am I supposed to sing a song that says … what’s her name?”

  “Ashley Brennan,” I reminded her.

  “How am I supposed to sing a song about Ashley Brennan when I’ve never even met her?!”

  I wasn’t worried that Maya would feel put on the spot or nervous about performing in front of a room full of strangers as she claimed. Like her father, Maya was charming and outgoing. Like me, she was terrified of blending into the scenery unnoticed. The combination had its risks.

  With the help of Jason, a huge Pete Townshend fan, Maya performed a turbo-charged version of “Who Are You?” I wasn’t there, but the commemorative DVD captured everything perfectly. The kids stared quizzically at the stranger in her Union Jack tank top playing air guitar as the Who played in the background, blasting its alien-landing-on-Earth intro to their signature song. Maya shook her curly hair like a madwoman as she cranked away on a guitar Logan made from Lego pieces, mouthing, “Who are you, who, who, who, who?” As Ashley Brennan moved her head to the beat of the song, the other girls saw that it was okay for them to enjoy the spoof as well. Michelle had the same effect on the mothers, who didn’t seem to know quite how to react to Maya when she first took the stage. After Michelle gave the act her seal of approval (by bursting into jumping applause in the midst of Maya’s number), the others quickly followed suit.

  The more positive feedback Maya got, the more she camped up her performance. She knelt at the edge of the stage near Ashley, begging in a raspy voice, “Well I really wanna know. I really wanna know-ow-ow.” Finally, she backed up to the far side of the stage and slid on her knees until she reached Ashley again, demanding, “Well, Ashley who the hell are you?” When she was finished, Maya stood center stage, circled her arm around wildly, then smashed the guitar into hundreds of tiny pieces.

  As Maya wiped the sweat from her brow, Ashley came to the steps of the stage and threw her arms around her neck. “OMG, Maya Taylor, who are you?” As the girls gathered around the newly anointed It Girl, Ashley announced, “You are so sitting at our lunch table.”

  Class started the following Tuesday and Maya was already the coolest girl entering the eighth grade at Los Corderos Middle School.

  Logan, on the other hand, didn’t fare quite as well at his first birthday party in Utopia.

  Chapter Three

  Logan and I were greeted at the front door by Max McDoyle’s mother, Olivia, who was dressed in a royal blue and gold queen’s gown and bejeweled tiara. She led us through the house and pointed with her scepter to the bedlam in the backyard. I felt overheated just looking at her, but Olivia seemed to be one of those women who Botoxed her armpits to keep from sweating. I could imagine her putting the final touches on her make-up as she looked into a fully lit vanity table, saying something like, “Being lovely means never having to say you’re comfortable.”

  Boys jumped in an inflated castle, tossing each other around like they were in a fight to the death. One suburban urchin made a whip out of fruit leather while another forced other guests to eat the “dragon eyes” he created by shoving black jelly beans into the centers of marshmallows. My son shot me a look as if to beg, Can we leave now?

  “It’ll be fun, Logan,” I whispered, leading him toward the party with my hand on his back. It was the same way Jason gently nudged me into the house the first time the realtor opened the door to show it.

  Max’s father was not dressed as the king of the castle, but in an extra large red Izod shirt and Bermuda shorts. A gregarious fellow, he almost looked like the rotund court jester. Jim held out his arms as he started walking toward us. “You must be the new fire captain’s boy,” he said, addressing Logan with a hearty and welcoming laugh. “Jim McDoyle. How ya doin’, sport?”

  “Wow, this is some party,” I said after introductions were made. Like the Bionic Woman, Olivia heard the praise from across the yard and quickly joined the conversation.

  “I put so much of myself into these parties,” Olivia said, glancing at her husband. “It’s so kind of you to notice.” Her head seemed in a perpetual tilt as if she were trying to show how sincere and interested she was. Her hairdresser must have a love-hate thing going with Olivia. On one hand, her auburn mane was gorgeous, but how could you ever tell if the cut was even with that floppy head of hers?

  “Is that muslin?” Logan asked of the fort’s exterior.

  “Huh?” Jim blurted.

  “Muslin,” Logan repeated, now aiming the question at Olivia.

  “Why yes it is, Logan.”

  “Is who Muslim?” Jim asked.

  “Muslin, Jim,” Olivia said, rolling her eyes. Oh, the embarrassment of one’s husband not being familiar with pattern sheeting. “Men, what are you going to do with them, right?” Returning to Logan, Olivia continued, “Go to the royal closet and get yourself a tunic.” She pointed to a foil-covered box, which contained cut pillowcases and rope-belts. “Get yourself an inflatable shield and sword too.”

  “Are the masks there?” Logan asked.

  “Masks?”

  “Face masks,” Logan explained, holding his hand over his face to illustrate.

  Olivia was a southern woman who wasn’t actually from the south. She was born and raised in Oregon, but she moved her body with the flirtatious fluidity of Scarlett O’Hara, gently flitting her hand from people’s shoulders to their arms. When she spoke to children, she placed her soft hand on their cheek. “You won’t need a mask with inflated swords, honey,” she said, laughing.

  “Gloves?” Logan asked.

  “No gloves either. Go on, you’ll be fine,” she assured him.

  Logan shrugged his shoulders and gave her a look that asked if she knew anything about fencing.

  Turning to her husband, Olivia asked, “What time will the horses be here?”

  “Horses?!” I was shocked. “What are you going to do with horses?”

  Slightly embarrassed by the overkill, Jim explained that two knights in shining armor would joust after Queen Olivia proclaimed, “Let them eat birthday cake.”

  “Wow, you guys really know how to throw a party,” I said. “I’m sorry Jason had to miss it, but he’s with Maya at Ashley Brennan’s party.”

  The original plan was for me to bring Maya to Ashley’s party and Jason to bring Logan to Max’s kingdom, but the more time they spent working on Maya’s
Who tribute act, the more invested Jason became in seeing it live.

  “Ah yes, the American Idol party,” Olivia said. “Michelle always does such a great job with her parties.” Catching a glimpse at Logan fussing at the royal clothing box, Olivia asked, “What’s he doing?” Then to him she shouted, “Honey, don’t worry about the belt, just tie it any old way.”

  In an attempt to distract her from my son’s fashion crisis, I brought the conversation back to her party. “This is really a spectacle.”

  She smiled proudly. “Max loves it, so what can you do?” Olivia delivered this sentiment as if there were no other option in life other than fulfilling every one of your child’s whims. Suddenly, Olivia’s face dropped with her memory of an earlier confrontation. “Val Monroe came by this morning and made me take down the drawbridge and moat. The nasty old crow said I was in violation of Utopia’s CC&Rs.”

  I glanced over at a crowd of rowdy boys grumbling like the starving masses waiting for the king to toss down a turkey leg from his castle window. One kid leapt at another, then put him in a headlock. Most of the swords and shields were either deflated or thrown to the ground while boys wrestled, fought and shouted. In the midst of the melee was my son standing in the perfect en garde position as he challenged Max to a duel. “Touché!” he proclaimed elegantly after lunging at his opponent.

  I smiled nervously at Olivia, hoping Logan’s situation would resolve itself quickly. “You had a drawbridge and a moat?”

  She waved with false modesty. “Nothing but some fence and a chain. And a little pulley system to make it go up and down, but Jim’s so handy, it was no trouble for him. A simple trip to Home Depot, a few nails and instant drawbridge.”

  “And the moat?” I asked.

  “Blue cellophane over a few layers of molded aluminum foil.”

  “No alligators?” I said aloud before I could catch myself.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Olivia cried, leaning in to touch my arm.

  “No moats or drawbridges allowed in Utopia?”

  “I think Val’s sour because I didn’t invite her obnoxious Kendrick to the party,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the pettiness. “He and Max haven’t been friends since fifth grade. Kids grow apart, but that doesn’t mean you have to spoil their birthday parties. Bitter, bitter, bitter.”

  “En garde!” I heard Logan bark at the befuddled birthday boy. My son stood in the perfect position to begin a duel, his right hand holding the sword, his left hovering overhead. At one of his matches, Logan would have looked gallant and skilled. Here, facing scruffy Max, a disheveled-looking boy who had just been reprimanded for shoving his sword down his brother’s pants, Logan just looked like a queen. This did not go unnoticed by the other boys, who burst into laughter as Max spat a jellybean at Logan.

  “Who’s the fag?” asked a boy I later came to know as Craig Emmens.

  It wasn’t the name calling that was most awkward. It was that horrid moment after they all walked away, and Logan was left standing there, now painfully aware that he’d made a fool of himself. A few parents stared at Logan, then resumed their conversations with each other. One father smirked, seemingly grateful that this scene had not been made at his son’s expense. I rushed over to give Logan a hug which, upon reflection, made matters worse. In the huddle of boys, one mumbled, “Mama’s boy.”

  ™˜

  Logan’s first day of school was no better. When he and Maya got home, it was clear that Logan had been hit in the face. Repeatedly. His lip was swollen and bleeding a bit, and his nose looked like it had taken a blow. “Oh my God,” I cried, rushing toward him as he entered the kitchen. “What happened to you?!” I wiped his face with a wet paper towel.

  He said nothing.

  “Logan, what happened?!”

  “I got into a fight,” he said.

  Maya snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” My eyes turned to her and demanded explanation. “He got beat up.”

  “Beaten up? By whom? Who would beat up Logan? He’s the sweetest, most gentle child.”

  “Um, Mom, I’m right here.”

  “Who would beat you up?” My eyes filled with tears. “You’re the sweetest and most gentle child.”

  “Yeah, I think you’ve pretty much cracked the case, Mom,” Maya said. “Sweet and gentle equals target for ass kicking. Can I go over to Ashley’s?”

  “Sure,” I said, secretly relieved. She threw down her pink zebra pattern backpack and disappeared. Hoping his sister’s absence would get Logan to disclose more, I asked what happened at school. “What did these kids say to you?”

  “Say? They didn’t say anything, Mom. They just jumped on me and started punching until the cafeteria lady came and pulled them off me.”

  ™˜

  “We need to teach that boy to defend himself,” Jason said behind our closed bedroom doors that night. “If someone throws the first punch, the boy needs to be able to handle himself.”

  “Jason, he said four kids jumped on him. This isn’t a Jackie Chan movie.”

  “Maybe he should start taking karate with Maya. Speaking of, where was Miss Thing during all this?”

  “She was the one who got the cafeteria lady,” I told him.

  Jason sat on the bed and buried his face in his thick hands. “Yeah, right. The cafeteria lady, how could I forget?”

  “Our son was beaten up on his first day of school and the only emotion you can muster up is embarrassment?” I asked.

  He sighed, deflated. “Nah, I’m pissed. You know, they’ve got a boxing gym in town. The kid must have some killer instinct after all those fencing lessons.”

  “You want to send our son to school with a sword?”

  “I want to send him to school acting like a normal person, Lisa! McDoyle told me Logan was leaping around that party challenging kids to duels.”

  “He didn’t leap,” I snapped. “He lunged.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve made that distinction for them. I’m sure it would’ve made all the difference in the world.”

  “What’s wrong with you?! Who cares what that Jim McDoyle thinks?”

  “He doesn’t even try to blend in, baby. He could save himself a lot of hassles if he learned to assess what’s going on before … before leaping, lunging, whatever.”

  “This is your big hope for our son?” I asked. “That he blends?”

  “If it keeps him from getting his ass kicked, then yes, I want him to blend.”

  I thought about a painting class I took in college to meet my fine arts requirement. Our professor raved about a classmate’s ability to blend color. I don’t know if everyone actually agreed, but they all nodded approvingly at the canvas as I thought it was a pity that one could no longer see where one image stopped and another began. For me, blending always meant losing individual identity for the sake of the big picture. It wasn’t at all beautiful to me. It was the terrifying prospect of disappearing. That semester I discovered a passion for creating sculpture from junkyard salvage. I could create something beautiful from garbage, while still never losing site of what each piece was originally. Blending was fine for some, but for people like Logan and me, it was a sacrifice of self.

  Jason drifted elsewhere too, certainly not remembering my painting class.

  Returning us both to the present, I told him, “I don’t want Logan to think we expect him to act like those boys.” I reached for his hand before continuing. “If we tell Logan we want him to blend, he’ll still get his ass kicked, only this time, it’ll be us doing it.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Lisa. That boy needs to learn how to fight. Once the other kids see they can’t push him around, they’ll back off. That’s how it works.”

  “Why does he have to change?” I protested. “They’re the ones with the problem.”

  “Fine,” Jason snapped. “I’ll take Logan to Dempsey’s Gym and you go to McDoyle’s house and do some little sensitivity workshop with the boys. Good luck with that.”


  Chapter Four

  September

  By the middle of the month, the house looked almost lived in. The furniture was in place, paintings hung on the walls and my favorite pieces were displayed. What looked so cute and funky in our place in San Francisco was dwarfed in our Utopian home, though. The shabby chic couch and love seats covered with multi-colored knotty silk ribbon looked like doll furniture in our cavernous family room. End tables looked like thread spools. Paintings that had been real attention-grabbers in the old place looked like postage stamps on an oversized package. The only thing that seemed to fill the new space well was the six-foot sculpture of a butler that stood on the foyer. Junky Jeeves’ head was made from a car differential with eyes I made from small medical lamps. Finding scrap metal for his eyelids was easy, but wiring the eyeballs to light up was tougher. I placed a row of screws over our butler’s eyes which gave him stern looking brows, then used a small circuit board from an old computer as his mouth. What I loved was that the outside circuits were red and the rest was white so it looked like lips surrounding teeth. I made his body from the usual car parts, compressed springboards and miscellaneous scrap metal.

  As I stood in the family room assessing its look, Logan came to my side and read my thoughts. “Our stuff doesn’t work here.”

  “We’ll make it work,” I assured him.

  Jason and Maya sat in front of our new television, which fit the room quite well since we bought it for the house. It was nearly a movie theater-size flat screen. Jason hooked up surround-sound so loud that we could feel the room shake during movies. If we ever rented Jurassic Park or Night at the Museum, we’d surely lose a few glasses.

  Logan surveyed the room and shook his head with dismay. “Nothing fits right, Mom.”

  “We’ll get some trees and more chairs and fill the space up.”

  “That’s not going to work,” he said.