Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  “Michelle, you there?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, Lisa.” And there we had it. I waited to hear, I’m sorry he can’t join. Instead she said, “I can’t seem to find my file with the registration folders in it.” What?! “Oh, here it is! Scoot on over and we’ll get him all signed up. I’ll need two checks from you. One for ten dollars made out to Girl Scouts of America, and another one for fifty made out to the troop.”

  “I … I … I’m just surprised that—”

  “I know, I know,” Michelle said. “But the troop has a lot of expenses. All those rhinestones and glitter glue add up.”

  “You’re not concerned about having a boy in the troop?”

  “Gosh, no!” Michelle said as if the notion were absurd. “It’ll be fun! The more the merrier.”

  ™˜

  I heard Jason’s voice in my mind as I walked to Michelle’s house. “The more the merrier?!” he would shout. Over and over again.

  Apparently Michelle didn’t get the memo that Girl Scouts was supposed to take the hit. I began my six-house trek looking a bit like a zombie, which, as it turned out, fit in quite well with the landscape of Utopia that time of year.

  The house next door hung ghosts on fishing wire that extended from the bedroom windows all the way to the branches of trees on the sidewalk. When I first saw the sheet-figures, I thought my neighbors were drying dress shirts, but quickly remembered that Utopia is not the sort of place where people air their laundry, even if it’s clean.

  Marni’s front lawn sported three extremely sexy witches stirring brew at a cauldron, while the house next to her had ornately decorated pumpkins sitting on graduated bales of hay. At the center was a headless scarecrow with model black crows pecking at its neck. On my side of the street was a home completely barren of Halloween decorations. I took some comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only party pooper behind the gates of Utopia. As I passed that neighbor’s the front door, smoke started shooting from the roof and an eerie male voice bellowed, “Who dares come here?” After my heart settled from the shock, I saw that the home was rigged with a microphone system and motion detector.

  When I arrived at Michelle’s house, I was relieved to see that she had a simple set of wreaths made from candy that was wrapped in harvest shades. Orange packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups snuggled beside brown Heath Bars and yellow M&M bags.

  There was something undeniably likeable about Michelle. At first I assumed it was because she appreciated Logan in a town where few others did. She responded to him the way people in San Francisco used to and, because of that, she reminded me a bit of what we left behind. As time went on, I realized it was more than her kindness to Logan, or her admiration of every one of my sculptures that failed to sell. It was that Michelle had the rare gift of taking people as they came. I never got the sense that she wanted me to be anyone other than who I already was.

  “Thank God your house isn’t a theme park,” I said as Michelle let me in.

  “Oh,” she said, a bit deflated. “I kind of like the community spirit.”

  And then I saw it: the room I hadn’t been shown the night of the first Bunco game. Michelle’s home office was a shrine to all things Girl Scout. We entered a room wallpapered with the logo of Girl Scouts of America, green silhouettes of girl’s profiles. Hanging on the walls were framed certificates, camping photos and Michelle’s first Brownie uniform with a sash adorned with patches, pins and ribbons. On her desk was a green phone that played “Make New Friends” when it rang.

  “Would you like a brownie?” she offered, pointing to a plate on her desk.

  I shook my head to decline, but before I could tease her for keeping a secret stash of goodies in her office, Michelle picked up the plate and dumped the four brownies in the trash, declaring, “Visiting hours are over, guys.”

  “You visit your brownies?” I asked.

  She nodded with satisfaction. “There are many ways to have a relationship with food other than eating it. That’s from the Answer store’s new diet book.”

  “You’re a nut,” I said lightly.

  In the corner of Michelle’s office was a film projector. When I asked what it was for, Michelle explained that her family mounted a makeshift movie screen on their roof and played The Nightmare Before Christmas every year as the kids were out trick-or-treating. “I know that probably seems really corny to you, Lisa, but when I was six my mother died. We spent every holiday barely scraping by,” Michelle said. “We never had any money for fun stuff like this.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days later, my check to the local Girl Scout troop cleared the bank and Logan attended his first meeting as an official member. Suffice it to say, Jason was less than pleased when Girl Scouts failed to deny Logan’s membership and be the fall girls.

  “What do you mean he’s a Girl Scout?” he asked when I went down to the station to break the news. I figured it would be better to catch him outside of the house in case he had another fit. Logan was finally back to his old self, and I didn’t want to risk having him overhear his father’s tirade.

  “Logan is a Girl Scout?” he said, shaking his head in his hands.

  I nodded to confirm.

  With infinite hope, Jason repeated the question as if there might have been room for miscommunication. “My gay son is a Girl Scout?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, relieved that he finally said it. Trying to lighten the mood, I replied, “You don’t have a straight one.”

  “Aw, come on, baby!” he said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  I didn’t question which this he was referring to for fear of the answer. The admission was a small victory and, for the time being, I had to take these however they came.

  “Look, this isn’t the worst thing that could happen. Other families have sons who —”

  He interrupted. “No, Lisa, other families do not have sons who are Girl Scouts. I’m teaching that boy to fight,” Jason muttered to himself, “A gay, black Girl Scout. What the hell happened to this family? We were normal back in San Francisco.”

  “It only seemed that way,” I said. He didn’t laugh. In fact, he didn’t move. I needed to break the silence, which was now approaching the one-minute mark. “Are you going to be okay with this?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered too quickly.

  “You don’t know? Jason, he’s our son, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you’re going to be okay with our son?”

  For a moment, I imagined packing up the kids and heading back to the city. We could live in a van if we had to, but we’d finally be able to feel at home. I imagined speeding out of town as a blur of Halloween lights scrolled by our car windows. Let Jason have this place if it was more important to him than us.

  I picked up my purse and stormed out of the fire station. “I am definitely not okay with you right now!”

  “Lisa!” he called after me. “Lisa, come back.” His voice was strained, but he never left his office, stopping himself at the doorway and sighing.

  When I reached the parking lot, I realized that dramatic exits work well in movies, but rarely go as smoothly in real life.

  “Shit!” I said as I looked down and saw that I was not holding my purse, but rather a canvas bag filled with medical supplies.

  I tiptoed back toward Jason’s office, hoping he was somewhere else in the station so I could stealthily grab my purse and go. Instead I heard a male voice that was not Jason’s.

  “This helped me a lot,” he said.

  What helped who a lot? I wondered as I stood beside the open door.

  “PFLAG?” Jason asked after I heard the sound of a book dropping on his desk.

  “Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. I heard you talking to the missus and … my brother was gay.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, followed by a sparse reply from Jason. “Was?”

  “Y
eah,” said the man. God, men certainly aren’t a chatty lot, are they?

  “No more?” Jason asked. What?! Is my once-sane husband actually thinking of gay rehab for our son, ’cause I don’t think there’s a referral list in that PFLAG book.

  “He died. Killed himself when he was seventeen.”

  Silence fell like fog.

  “Man, that’s tough. Sorry, Chuck,” Jason finally said.

  “Know who’s sorriest?” Chuck asked. Jason must have gestured for him to continue. “My dad.”

  I heard Jason’s seat cushion exhale as he sat down on it.

  “A boy’s gotta know his old man’s behind him no matter what.”

  “Wow,” Jason said, still absorbing what he’d heard.

  “More common than you think,” said Chuck. “Read the book.”

  In the moments that followed — that time when women would embrace and sob in this revelation — there was stillness in the room.

  As I waited to hear Chuck close the conversation, I heard footsteps coming toward the door. Shit, that was it! They’re done. I panicked as I looked down the hall for a place to duck. I leaned into a doorway and the men exited and began walking in the opposite direction from where I crouched. As soon as they turned the corner, I’d be free to run in and grab my purse and make a quick escape.

  “Well, whatcha doin’ there, Mrs. Taylor?” twanged another firefighter I will, forevermore, simply refer to as Gomer.

  Jason’s head whipped around to catch me hiding, clutching a bag, looking like an inept cat burglar who almost got away with the first aid kit. “Lisa? I thought you left,” he said, rushing toward me without a trace of anger. Chuck and Gomer left us alone, and Jason grabbed my hand and pulled me back into his office.

  “No, I had to come back,” I said, holding the bag. “I forgot something.”

  He looked at me intently. “Baby, I’m okay with it.”

  ™˜

  “I’m so glad you made it after all,” Barb said, greeting me at her door.

  Thankfully the filter between my brain and my mouth was working properly that night, or I may have disclosed that the only reason I agreed to come to another Bunco game was because Michelle begged. I don’t kid myself into believing it was my charming company they were after. They needed a twelfth player again this month.

  Olivia and Val were matched as partners, which meant a pearl-yanking, ribbon-unraveling brawl could break out at any moment. Surprisingly, the two were in agreement on the pressing issue of the season — kids who didn’t live in Utopia trick-or-treating in the development. Both Val and Olivia agreed that it was a problem. How to solve it was an entirely different matter.

  “The gates are locked, Olivia,” Val said, rolling her eyes to seek support from Marni and me. “That’s the whole point of a gated community. That half-wit security guard lets them in because they’re kids and they look harmless enough in their little bunny get-ups and whatnot.”

  Marni was not about to ally herself with Mean and Meaner. “And you think they’re a danger because —”

  Val raised her perfectly shaped eyebrow and replied, “I didn’t say they were dangerous, but this is not where they live. They should trick-or-treat in their own neighborhood.”

  “Exactly,” said Olivia. “They only come here because we’ve got better candy.”

  “It’s taking advantage,” Val concluded for her. Could we possibly be witnessing a healing of the bitch rift over the issue of taking candy from babies?

  Val said, “I don’t think that security guard is going to do a blessed thing to keep those people out. Whose side do you think he’s on? Do you think he lives in Utopia, or out there with them?”

  “They bring their whole families,” Olivia said with disgust. “It’s like an invasion.”

  Deadpan, Marni offered, “You should come to the door with pepper spray. If they’re not from Utopia —” She gestured shooting them, then stood as she mimicked little kids holding their hands up to their faces and squealing. As Marni lifted her hands to her face and started squirming about, her sweater lifted, revealing an inch of her skin. I peeked at her back to see if I could make out the words beneath the little yellow chick. “Chick Posse,” it read. Chick Posse, like the lesbian bar back home?

  Marni was a closet lesbian, a suburban femme with the attitude of a big city dyke. If I liked her before, I loved her now that I knew her secret. It would be so much easier for Logan to live here with the beautiful and cool Marni sitting on the Utopian float at the Gay Pride Parade. Okay, maybe someday there might be a parade. A mom can dream.

  Val shifted in her seat and gave us an expression that said she was not amused by Marni’s suggestion that we assault the local kids with pepper spray. “I don’t think we need to take it that far, but I for one plan to stay home and answer the door personally. I’m not leaving out another basket this year. When we came home last time, every piece of candy was gone. They’re just greedy.” She scrunched her face as if she was discussing a vermin infestation. Why did she assume it was kids from outside the gates who stole her candy? Utopia has a much higher per-capita ratio of spoiled, entitled little candy-grabbers than greater Los Corderos.

  Val changed the subject altogether. “Blake tells me that you had some sort of sorority function at your house last week. Is Jaime in for the weekend?”

  “Jaime’s in Paris this semester,” Marni replied, not addressing the sorority event. That sly devil. Marni was probably hosting a victory party for her softball team or the lesbian rights task force meeting.

  Continuing with her inquisition, Val pressed. “So, who were the girls? More production assistants?”

  Olivia turned to me and filled me in. “Marni’s very hush-hush about her films, but I don’t suppose I need to tell you about the ways of artists, right?” It appeared that Olivia had gotten past any hard feelings she had over my complaint about her shit-throwing hellion.

  “Bunco!” shouted Barb Fields at Table Three.

  Marni stood up, which was my cue that we needed to switch tables. “Ladies, as always, it’s a pleasure leaving.” God, she was so butch.

  Marni smoothed her skirt and pushed her blond bob behind her ears. Her French manicured hands lifted her margarita glass to take to the next table. God, she was so femme too.

  Women really could have it all these days.

  As we arrived at our new table, Michelle was brimming with excitement to introduce me to Cara, who looked at me reverently. “Your son is incredible,” Cara said, her eyes slightly glazed. “Michelle told me that at Girl Scouts last week, Spencer was in tears because she couldn’t figure out how to use the loom to make a hat for my mother who had a stroke. Logan took her aside and told her that the gift was her effort, not the final product. What kind of boy talks this way?!” A gay one. “Then, Logan did the hat with her — stitch by stitch — and showed Taylor how to add black spots onto the red cap so it looks like a strawberry. He even made a little green tuft for the top. It is the most darling thing. When my mother saw it, she smiled for the first time in a month. I’m telling you, that boy of yours is special.” She removed her phone from her purse and started clicking buttons. Proudly, she held out the screen to me to show the image of a woman in a wheelchair who wore a crooked smile and a strawberry cap.

  ™˜

  On Friday morning, Marni and I both rushed to the curb, rolling our trash bins, frantically hoping to beat the collection truck to our front doors. I had trouble getting to sleep the night before, finally nodding off around two. That morning, my alarm was the sound of the garbage truck chugging down our street. I bolted upright, threw on my terrycloth bathrobe and ran for the bins.

  My sexy neighbor came out with tousled hair and a sated smile. It appeared that she haphazardly threw on a pair of soft pink Victoria’s Secret cotton pajama pants and a matching camisole, but didn’t have time to locate slippers.

  As we both reached the curb with our trash bins, I waved eagerly. “Looks like we both overslept,” I
shouted, hoping to start a conversation.

  “Yeah,” she returned, friendly enough, but not matching my enthusiasm.

  “I’m putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Do you want to stop in for a quick cup?”

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m crazy busy today,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said, trying not to show my disappointment. This was the third time I had invited Marni over, and the third time she was too busy. Never once did she ask for a rain check, or return the invitation.

  For the rest of the day, I sketched ideas for my next sculpture series, pieces made from expired license plates that tie in with the states they’re from. My first would be the Statue of Liberty made from rolled New York plates followed by a Space Needle made from Washington tags. After weeks of inhaling fumes stinking up my guest room, I decided to rage against the machine and return to the open garage to work. By the end of September, I’d collected three CC&R violation citations and had two new ones for October. I began thinking about ways I could incorporate them in future pieces. Shellacking them to toilet seat covers and hanging them as wreaths seemed too obvious.

  Soon it was time to head to school to help with the Girl Scout meeting. I told Michelle I’d finally help out, but truth be told, I wanted to stick around to see how the girls reacted to their newest member.

  Rumors of Logan’s popularity were not exaggerated. The girls all seemed quite thrilled to have him in their ranks. Ashley, Bianca and Maya were quick to co-opt Logan into their group, giving him an appliqué for his denim jacket that simply read “Scout.” The three girls gave him their jackets and identical patches so he could sew them on, and they could all go to school matching.

  Logan was not merely a seamstress to them, though. Reciprocity was the Girl Scout way. When the inevitable happened, and Max McDoyle cornered Logan in the boys’ bathroom and called him “Froot Loops,” Maya walked right in and demanded that he back off. She signaled for the other girls, who walked in and cornered Max against the sink.