Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  I placed my hand on hers in forgiveness that I felt for the first time.

  “Lisa, I deserve everything that’s happening to me.”

  “Val, having a gay child is not a punishment,” I said.

  “I know that,” she said, regaining her composure. Then she burst into laughter and said, “Having a husband who liked to be beaten and pissed on sure makes a statement about me though, doesn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Clearly Beast has some issues.”

  “Who?” Val asked.

  Shit. “I mean Blake.”

  “Did you just call him … Beast?” Val asked. I grimaced and nodded.

  “Well, I think that’s a very fitting little nickname.”

  “Val, when did you …” I trailed off, not quite sure how to broach the subject.

  “When did I become such a bitch?” she asked. I shrugged as if to say I didn’t know. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. In fact, I see Bianca’s therapist on my own, and she asked me when was the last time I remember being truly happy.”

  “When was it?”

  “At Bianca’s tenth birthday party. Right after we moved to Utopia. We were one of the first families to move in, and I remember thinking that I could really have an impact on what became of this community. I threw this amazing princess party. Really, Lisa, it was outrageous. We had Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Belle, Diana, even Fiona. Every princess who ever mattered was there. I was elated at how the party turned out. The kids had such a good time; parents seemed impressed. It was perfect.” She struggled to finish. “As soon as I realized it was perfect, all my happiness sank with an undeniable feeling that I was throwing myself solely into my children because I had given up on ever accomplishing something myself.”

  “Val, raising four kids is an accomplishment,” I reminded her.

  She nodded a concession and wiped a tear from her eye. “Micromanaging their overscheduled, hypercompetitive lives isn’t, though. It’s just an admission that my only possibility for success is through them. I’ve been using these kids as my own personal do-over.”

  “All this in a month of therapy?” I said.

  “I’ve always been an overachiever,” she sniffed. “Sometimes I sneak in a double session. And I joined a therapy group in Los Lobos.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I’m also in a twelve-step group.”

  “They have a twelve-step group for bitches?” I asked.

  She smiled. “It’s for spouses of convicted felons.”

  “Ala-Con? So is this, like, step four or something?” I asked.

  “Sort of. I’m supposed to apologize to all of the people I’ve hurt.”

  Wow, she must be very busy.

  “As you can imagine, I’m pretty busy these days,” Val said with self-deprecation.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Like you didn’t already think it,” Val busted me. “The next step is figuring out what I am passionate about. I’m going to sign up for a few classes at Shasta Valley College and see what sparks my interest. I’ve always loved art.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted.

  Val stood to leave and thanked me for being there when her kids needed a friend. “I owe you big time.”

  “Consider us even,” I said and meant it.

  “No, I owe you and I’m going to make good on that debt, Lisa. Tell me what I can do to begin to make it up to you.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “You know Michelle signed me up as the Cookie Mom, right?” Val nodded to confirm. “Who knew that was such a huge job?! Anyway, I am desperate for some help from someone with great organizational skills.”

  Val smiled, which made her so much prettier than when she growled. “I’m in.”

  The following week I went to Val’s house to drop off the cookie order forms so we could sort them and get the correct number of cookies to each Girl Scout. I was already a week late and no one rode my ass harder about it than Logan.

  I walked into Val’s surprisingly quirky entryway and followed her toward the kitchen. I sat at the table and reached for the pitcher of lemonade to pour myself a glass. “Cara’s still hanging her flag with the four-leaf-clover,” I said, knowing Val had bigger things to deal with these days. “Are you going to fine her?”

  Val smiled sheepishly. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Uh … Cara’s running a drug cartel and that’s not really a clover on her flag,” I joked.

  Val laughed. “There is no CC&Rs Enforcement Committee.”

  “What?!”

  “The Committee doesn’t really exist,” she said.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t exist? Who am I getting all of those code violation notices from?”

  “When we first moved here, I really wanted this community to be something special,” she explained. “I started pointing out to people when their grass was too long, or their curtains were the wrong color, or their dog was too fat. Pretty soon people just assumed I had some sort of official role in enforcing the codes.”

  “And you did nothing to correct them,” I said, filling in the rest of the story.

  “Not only didn’t I correct them, I went out and made letterhead for this committee and started issuing citations,” Val said, with some awareness of how galling her actions were. “You were the first person who ever ignored my notices. Everyone else just made the changes.”

  “What about Ellie and Stacey? Are they in on this?” I asked.

  Val burst into laughter. “They don’t even know, Lisa. You’re the only one I’ve ever told. Even Blake thinks my committee is real.”

  As my fingers touched the cold handle to refill my drink, something shiny caught my eye. I turned to look and there it was. My silverware clock hung on Val’s wall, the light from outside bouncing a wink at me.

  ™˜

  When I arrived at Kate’s studio, she said she had big news for me. She grabbed my shoulders maternally and smiled with pride. “Remember when I told you that I was doing that exclusive with Dateline?”

  I nodded my head, laughing. “I can’t believe you agreed to that.”

  “I’m showing eight new paintings in July and I haven’t pissed anyone off in a long time,” she told me. “This will be good exposure.” Even if I didn’t necessarily agree with her tactics, I admired her drive.

  “Kate, there is such a thing as bad publicity, you know?”

  “Lisa, I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “That lovely Amy came out with her film crew last week to do the piece,” Kate began. “She asked if I minded if she brought along her boyfriend, who’s a big fan of mine. Naturally, I told her that I’m a fan of anyone who’s a fan of mine.” Her intensity in delivery grew.

  “Okay.”

  “Guess who her boyfriend is.”

  “Jerry Springer?”

  “Not even close. Guess again.”

  “I don’t know, who?”

  “François Dumesnil,” she said, knowing that the name needed no further explanation. I dropped to my bench. “François Dumesnil is dating Amy from Dateline? Why? He’s one of the most influential art dealers in the world. What does a sophisticated man like that see in Amy Voight?”

  “Dear,” Kate said as if I were a fool. “She has a huge rack. Didn’t you notice them?”

  “Wow, okay, so François Dumesnil came out to your studio with Amy, and …” I said, pausing for her to continue.

  “And,” she said, “he went crazy for my sculptures.”

  “Your sculptures?” I asked. “When did you start sculpting?”

  She gave me a look of playful impatience. “Oh dear, you really are slow on the uptake today. They were your sculptures. He loves them, Lisa. He wants to represent you!” Dumbfounded, I shook my head, begging her to fill in the rest. “You’ve been discovered.”

  “Here? I’ve been discovered here? In a barn in the middl
e of nowhere? Oh my God!” I finally shouted, jumping like a child. “You’re serious? François Dumesnil. Oh my God, this is huge, Kate!”

  “I couldn’t be prouder of you. Congratulations, dear. You’re the next big thing.”

  One Year Later …

  My art show was everything François promised it would be. Hundreds of friends attended the reception at an old warehouse François converted into a gallery. I loved seeing Michelle and the girls from Utopia dressed in silver sequins sneaking a cigarette out on the loading dock.

  Jason sidled up to me at the reception and whispered, “I just heard a reporter call you an overnight sensation.” I gave him a kiss, drinking in every moment of this night.

  “I love you, baby.”

  I smiled. “I love you, too.”

  The next day we were out of our formalwear and ready to hit the road. Val was the first to arrive at my house, pulling up in her black SUV which now sported a PFLAG bumper sticker on the back. “She’s always early,” I said, pulling back the curtains.

  “She’s always prepared, Mom,” Logan corrected me as he rolled his suitcase out onto the doorstep. I grabbed my backpack, wondering how I ever got suckered into spending the weekend camping with a bunch of Girl Scouts. “Have you got everything?” he asked. “Sleeping bags, tent, lantern, moisturizers?”

  “Ready?” Jason asked as he helped Maya bring her bag outside.

  “I think I’ve got everything I need,” said Maya as she grabbed her cell phone and iPod.

  Logan grabbed both items from his sister and tossed them back into the house. “Michelle said no technology,” he scolded.

  I locked the door just as Michelle arrived. Her daughters poured out of her car, a chorus of excitement. Bianca hopped out of her mother’s car and joined the girls on the sidewalk, shuffling bags and consulting checklists.

  Michelle was like a newly engaged woman constantly displaying her engagement ring, but her gem was the “Leader of the Year” jacket Girl Scouts gave her at their annual awards ceremony. She found any excuse to turn her back to us as she helped the girls get situated.

  ™˜

  After driving a few miles, our caravan pulled over to the side of the road. “Ready, buddy?” Jason asked Logan.

  “Ready.”

  The two hopped out of the car, opened the trunk and removed their bags. “How much stuff did you bring, Logan? We’re staying for two days.”

  Logan laughed and shrugged.

  Kisses were exchanged, then my two guys walked away, passing the coral gate of Los Corderos Rosas. As I looked back at the two heading up the pebble road, I saw Jorge and Finn appear on the front porch. “Hi, Li-li!” Jorge shouted in his sheepskin vest and leather collar. “Don’t you worry about your boys. We’ll take good care of them.”

  Logan and Jason turned back to our car and waved. Jason puckered his lips and winked at me. “See you Sunday, baby! Have fun camping.”

  Finn wrapped his arm around Jorge’s waist as they waited for Logan and Jason to reach them. “They’re going to love it here,” Jorge shouted to me. “The spa is beyond!”

  As Jason passed the pink sheep sign by the front door, he gave it a little tap on the head. I could no longer hear what the guys were saying, but Jason laughed and gave Logan a playful shove. They opened the front door and went inside.

  “Okay,” I said to Michelle at the wheel. “Let’s hit the road.”

  Sneak Peek!

  Read the opening chapter of Jennifer Coburn’s

  upcoming release

  Field of Schemes

  Field of Schemes

  Chapter One

  “Let go!” the sculpted brunette demanded as she tugged the sleeve of the soccer jersey stretched between us.

  Staring at her with steely determination, I wrapped my fist tighter around the other sleeve and yanked back. “You let go!” I replied with volume that surprised even me. Softening a bit, I tried to approach the situation rationally. “I understand you want the jersey, but I picked it up first.” Shrugging ever so slightly, I added, “Fair is fair.”

  “If you had it first, it would be in your hands right now,” she growled through perfectly veneered teeth. She narrowed her eyes with pure unadulterated hatred for me. At first glance, this woman wearing Lilly Pulitzer ribbon-trimmed capri pants epitomized the well-maintained suburban soccer mom. Her chocolate brown hair was perfectly highlighted with subtle auburn undertones pulled back by a puffy headband wrapped in the same ribbon that trimmed her pants. Her nails were slick with a fresh manicure, clean square tips dangling beneath a diamond tennis bracelet. When she opened her mouth, though, it was clear that there was no love in her game. “Let go, I said,” she barked.

  “No. The shirt is mine! It is in my hands!” I reminded her. It was clear she was not going to politely back down from our tug-of-war over the black-and-white German National team jersey, the last one on the table at Soccer Post.

  “It’s in your hand, singular,” she snapped, “and in mine. If you’d taken full possession of it, you’d have both hands on it.”

  Was this true? Was there some sort of two-hand rule?!

  Like synchronized swimmers, we each placed a second hand on the jersey.

  This was crazy. Perhaps the store had another jersey in the back, I thought. At the very least, they could special order another one for this psychotic mother, and I could take mine home for Rachel today. This woman probably didn’t need the jersey right away like I did.

  At the very moment I opened my mouth to suggest we ask for an inventory check, Psycho Mom gave the shirt a little tug to assert her dominance. Her muscles flexed impressively, the sinewy biceps and forearms of a woman with free time. Since I was bound to lose the battle of the brawn, I tried to appeal to her better nature. “Look, this jersey is very important to my daughter,” I said softly, aware of a few customers staring at the two moms caught between the taut German National Team jersey. “She’s had a rough year and I want to—”

  Yanking the jersey again, the mother snapped, “Not my problem. Now hand over the jersey and—”

  “And what?” I demanded. A woman stopped and stared, alarmed, tapping her husband on the shoulder before he hurried off to get help. “And no one gets hurt? Are you threatening me over a soccer jersey?” Then, I had a glimmer of sanity. It was just a black and white striped polyester soccer jersey. Without the German team emblem, and player number on the back, it could’ve passed for a prison uniform, which is exactly what I’d be wearing if I made a habit of getting into retail brawls with other soccer moms. I decided to let go of the overpriced jersey, drop the fight and walk out of the Soccer Post with my dignity intact. Well, maybe half my dignity.

  As I had resolved to forfeit this petty battle, the insane soccer mom did something I never expected. She pulled the jersey with full force, causing me to fly toward her and lose my balance. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, only that somewhere on our way down the floor, the two of us knocked over the clearance rack, and a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Mia Hamm. As we landed, I noticed two things. One, Mia was still smiling, even though she was on her back with her eyes completely covered by men’s shorts. And two, neither Psycho Mom nor I had let go of the now-torn jersey. “Look what you did!” she shouted as we lay on the store’s Astroturf flooring.

  The clerk rushed over to us, nervously asking what happened. “She attacked me,” said Psycho Mom as she pointed at me. “She wanted my jersey, so she jumped on me and started going nuts.” At this point, at least a half dozen sets of eyes were on me, waiting for an explanation. A three-foot goalkeeper with a military buzz cut and goalkeeper jersey shook his head as if to say he thought now, in his entire five years, he’d seen it all.

  “That’s simply not true!” I defended. As I stood up, I realized that neither Psycho Mom nor I had loosened our grip of the jersey. I defended myself against her bogus charges. “I was holding the jersey when she came out of nowhere demanding that I give it to her.”

&nb
sp; The teen clerk looked at the two of us, then glanced at the small goalkeeper, and joined him in shaming head shaking. “Ladies, I’ve got plenty of German team jerseys in the back. It’s not like this was the last one, y’know?” The clerk shook his head again. “Why don’t I run back and get another one? What size?”

  In unison, Pyscho Soccer Mom and I mumbled, “Small.”

  I never thought I’d be one of those parents who became overly invested in their children’s lives, yet here I was with half of a torn jersey in my right hand and a clump of another mother’s hair in my left fist. (I swear it was an accident. I needed to grab something as I tried to regain my balance.)

  I’ve always been appalled when I heard news reports about Little League and hockey parents’ fights. I cried when I read about the mother who shot a cheerleader so her daughter would have a better chance of making the squad. Then there was that French dad who drugged his daughter’s tennis rival. When I say drugged, I don’t mean that young Fifi started seeing butterflies and lollipops dancing on a rainbow. I mean the poor kid took a swig of her Evian and dropped dead. It was truly ghastly, yet here I was having my very own fight with another soccer mom over a jersey. This crazy bitch even bit me after we landed on the floor! Now she brushed her hands against each other as if the whole experience had sullied her.

  “Yeah, uh, listen ladies,” the clerk said. “Someone’s gonna have to pay for this ripped jersey here.”

  Our words toppled each other’s again. “Not me.” For someone so completely unlike me, this Psycho Mom certainly was reading from the same script as I was.

  “Why don’t you ladies split it?” he suggested.

  “Looks like they’ve already done that, dude,” a spectator couldn’t resist injecting.

  “Who won?” the little goalkeeper asked.

  “It was a tie,” said the staring mother. “Nice example you’re setting, ladies.”

  “Mind your own business!” Psycho Mom snapped back.

  The clerk placing a new jersey in her hands had a sedative effect on Psycho Soccer Mom. While she was hardly friendly, I no longer feared for my safety. “Why don’t we just split the cost of the torn one and call it even?” I offered.