by Mari Mancusi
My social life is still rather dismal, but I’m getting by. I don’t know if Starr said anything to Stuart and Sophie or what, but they’ve invited me back into their little lunch circle, so at least I have people to sit with now. And they’re cool. Funny, smart. Interesting. Not into fashion conversations. Sure, Stuart can be bitingly sarcastic and bitter at times, but Sophie usually puts him in his place pretty quickly. It’s cute. They’re just friends, but they act like an old married couple sometimes.
At first, the Ashleys think it’s fun to torture me, and make fun of me, my new friends, my lack of social standing at Sacred Mary’s. But when I don’t get riled up at their bullying, they get bored quickly, and eventually find new targets to torment. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be prom queen or homecoming queen or Christmas queen or any sort of high school royalty now, but I don’t mind so much. I’ve realized there’s a lot more to life than just high school.
I’m in my room studying for an English test one Friday afternoon, when my mom enters my bedroom. No knock, of course.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, sitting on the corner of the bed.
I raise an eyebrow suspiciously. Sweetie? To what do I owe that term of endearment?
“How’s the homework going?” she asks.
“Fine.” FYI, I’m still only speaking to my jailers in one-word sentences. They hate it, which makes it all the more satisfying.
My mother sighs and runs a hand through her shiny black hair. She’s still beautiful from her modeling days, but her mouth is now lined from too much frowning and a few silver hairs weave through the black strands. She’d probably say she got them from having to deal with me.
“That’s good,” she says at last. “Because we’re going out.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Out? But I’m grounded.” Shoot, that was four words. Monosyllabic talking is a lot harder than it sounds.
“Not this afternoon,” she says, rising from the bed. “We’re going shopping.”
I’d probably fall over in shock if I wasn’t already sitting down. My mother wants to take me shopping? Has she been replaced by one of the pod people? Become a Stepford Wife?
Too bizarre.
But I am not one to look a get-out-of-groundation-free gift horse in the mouth, even if it is just going shopping with an Evil One, so I slip on my shoes and jump into her car.
We drive to the mall and spend an hour or so wandering through the shops. At first I’m totally dragging my feet, wondering why the heck we’re here, but after a bit, I loosen up and start to grudgingly enjoy myself. After all, I haven’t seen civilization for two weeks, besides school, which, of course, doesn’t count. The lights, the music, the racks and racks of clothing are enough to make me almost giddy with freedom.
“That looks adorable,” my mother says as I exit the dressing room wearing a pink sweater set. “I’d like to buy that for you.”
I’m not quite sure that pink sweater sets fit in with my new image—I see myself more as a Hot Topic kind of chick now—but my mother looks so pleased, I decide to cut her some slack.
We make our purchases (she buys herself some boring old Ann Taylor something or other) and then head to the food court for a snack. My mother again surprises me by getting a hamburger and fries. She hardly ever eats red meat, and I’ve never seen her order anything fried. But hey, if she’s going to do it, I might as well, too. I get mine with extra onions.
“So,” my mother says, after a few bites of burger. She picks up her napkin and pats her thin lips. “I heard about the little nickname you have for your dad and me.”
I almost choke on my burger. Man, Ashley, did you have to tell them everything?
I should have stayed grounded in my room. There’s always a cost for freedom.
“The Evil Ones,” my mother says, forming each word slowly and carefully. Then she sighs, her expression rueful and hurt. “Do you really think that we’re evil, Dawn?”
I hang my head and concentrate on shoveling fries into my mouth. What am I supposed to say? Yes, I think you’re evil and you’ve ruined my life? That would definitely officially signal the end of Take Your Daughter to the Mall day.
“It’s just a joke,” I mutter. “It wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”
“I wonder.” My mother has another bite of burger. It’s so weird to see the Queen of Lettuce chowing on fast food. “Dawn, I know we’ve pushed you. Maybe too hard at times, but we’ve always had your best interests in mind.”
I snort. Yeah, right. What’s best for me is to be able to see the boy I love and not have her judge him on his family’s social standing.
All of a sudden, I’m so ready for this shopping trip and forced mother-daughter bonding to be over. What does she think? She can win me back by plying me with clothes and food? Make me think she’s cool? This is bigger than a burger. Bigger than a new outfit even.
“It’s fine, Mom. Whatever,” I say, pushing my tray away. I’m no longer hungry. “I won’t call you A Vile Evil One of Broken Dreams anymore, I promise.”
My mother’s face falls and for a moment I feel bad. But still, what am I supposed to say? “I know you have a better idea of how I should live my life than I do, so let me stop and listen to you without question and follow you like a dumb sheep”?
I don’t think so.
“It’s funny, Dawn,” she says at last. “I see a lot of me in you. Especially lately.”
Yeah, right. I am nothing like her. Nothing. She’s a beautiful, successful model who married the rich guy and lived happily ever after in a sleepy New England town. I am, well, not. Not beautiful. Not successful. Not a model. And certainly not interested in rich guys or sleepy New England towns.
My mother picks a crumb from her burger and rolls it around on the pads of her fingertips. Wow. She’s fidgeting. My mother never fidgets.
“When I was your age,” she begins in a slow voice, “I was living in New Jersey with my parents, going to public school like any fifteen-year-old. But I was so bored. I wanted something bigger. Better. So I fell in with this biker gang two towns away. I started hanging out with them—smoking, drinking. Met a guy who seemed so dangerous and cool….”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m trying not to be interested, but man, this is juicy stuff. My perfect, elegant mother has a past. Who’d a thunk it? I figured she slid out of the womb perfect—never even giving Grandma labor pains—then glided through life on a silver cloud, picking up modeling gigs on the way and then later that rich husband of hers. I so cannot picture her as a drunk biker chick with a bad-boy boyfriend. It boggles the mind, let me tell you.
My mom pauses, pressing a hand to the side of her face and I wonder what she’s implying with the gesture. “Let’s just say … he, um, wasn’t as cool as I thought, but was more dangerous than I imagined.”
Ouch.
“You think we control your life too much,” Mom continues. “Well, my parents were the opposite. They didn’t get involved at all. I could be flunking out of school or be getting straight A’s, it didn’t matter. As the youngest of ten children, I wasn’t even a blip on your grandpa and grandma’s radar. They couldn’t wait to get me out of the house so they could buy that RV and hit the road. And they certainly didn’t want to waste good gas money on a college fund.
“So I ran away to New York to become a model.” She shakes her head. “If you want to talk about shady characters, look no further than the modeling business. The agent I worked with was a crook. He stole all my earnings and left the country. I had no money to pay rent. Not even enough for a few packets of Ramen noodles. I called my parents to ask if I could have a small loan.” She grimaces. “They had moved away without telling me. No forwarding address either.”
Wow. That’s so harsh! I try to imagine my mother, homeless and starving on the streets of New York, but I can’t. For a moment, I wonder if she’s making it all up. To give me one of those Lessons with a capital “L.” But after another glance at her red blotchy face, I r
ealize she’s not. The story she’s telling me is real, and it still upsets her to this day.
Plus it kinda solves the mystery of why I’ve never met Grandma and Grandpa on mom’s side….
“Why’d you never tell me any of this?” I ask.
My mother shrugs. “I wanted to be a good role model. I wanted you to look up to me.” She clears her throat. “And anyway, that part of my life is over. I don’t like looking back on it.”
I nod slowly. This has got to be the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with my mother. Probably weirder than the time she tried to give me the old sex talk before giving up, red-faced, and handing me the “Birds and the Bees and Me” book to read myself after I asked if she and Dad still did it and when. (Hey, I was a curious child!)
“So, Dawn, I guess what I’m saying is, I’m sorry if I’ve erred on the side of caring too much for you. Pushing you too hard to achieve. But I only do it because I love you so much. Because I want you to have a better life than I had. Any head start possible for a blissful, happy future without hardship.
“I got lucky,” she says, brushing an actual tear from her eye. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mom cry before. It freaks me out a little. “I met your father. He showed me the meaning of love. Of respect. Of caring. And I want you to have that, too.”
Okay. We’re encroaching on “ew” territory here. Ix-nay on the “how much I love your dad” eech-spay, please.
“At your age, a dangerous boy from the wrong side of the tracks probably seems very appealing,” Mom goes on. “But when you get older, Dawn, you’ll learn that looks and personality only go so far. Men will try to charm you, but you need to look to the future. Can they provide for you? Offer you the lifestyle you deserve?”
Aha! Didn’t I tell you she’d be sneaking in that Lesson with a capital “L”? We’ve come full circle now and she honestly believes she can exploit her miserable teen years to lecture me about mine.
I’m so not having this.
“Mom, I’m fifteen,” I argue. “I’m not ready to ‘settle down,’ as you put it. I just want to date people.” Of course, when I say “people” I mean “person,” and by “person” I really mean Sean. But that’s TMI for her at this point. I’ve got to be somewhat diplomatic here.
My mom stares at me for a minute, and I get the uncomfortable sensation an antelope must get right before it’s pounced on by a lion. Like I’ve walked right into her trap.
“All right,” she says, a little too cheerfully, especially after her big sob story. Where’d those tears go?
“All right?” I ask.
“Yes. All right. If you honestly think you’re ready to date, then I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Really?” I stare at her, mouth open. She doesn’t have a problem with me dating? I’m allowed to date? There’s got to be some kind of catch here. She’s looking way too smug.
I wait, still the antelope. Then the lion pounces.
“Really,” she agrees. “In fact, I think you should start dating right away. So tomorrow night I’ve set you up on a date with Brent Baker.” She smiles sweetly, completely innocent, but I see triumph in her eyes. This was her plan all along! I knew she must have some ulterior motive. Miss Feel-Bad-For-Me-and-My-Terrible-Childhood. She was baiting me, and I, like some dumb lobster, crawled right into the trap.
Nice one, Dawn.
I screw up my face. “Ew,” I say. “When I said I wanted to date people, I meant people, not moronic losers with superiority complexes.”
“Dawn, you shouldn’t talk that way,” Mom scolds. “Besides, didn’t you just say you weren’t ready to settle down?” she asks, giving me a pointed look as she throws my words back in my face. Gotta give her props, she’s planned this one well. “So why not date a few people? See who you like.”
“I already know who I like. I like Sean. I detest Brent. In fact, I think Brent is hideous.”
“But you and he have been friends since your country-club playpen days,” my mother says, looking extremely disappointed. “And he’s such a nice boy. Going to Yale next year, studying to be a lawyer.”
“Yeah, but—”
“One date, Dawn. That’s all I ask. If you don’t like him, you never have to see him again. But go with an open mind. Maybe you’ll actually have fun.”
“Uh, yeah. Probably as much fun as having my nose hairs plucked out one by one, I’m sure.”
My mother frowns for a moment, then recovers. “Well, I’m certainly not going to force you to go, but I’d think you’d want to take advantage of getting out of the house for a night….”
Man, she’s thought of everything.
Suddenly, I see the total advantage of going on this date. Specifically, they’ll have to give me back my cell phone—in case of emergency, you know. And if I have my cell phone, I can call Sean. Sure, I can’t call Sean while Brent’s right next to me, but Smarmy Little Rich Boy can’t come into the ladies’ room.
I take a deep breath. “Okay, Mom. I’ll do it. One date.”
My mom claps her hands together. She thinks she’s won. Heh. Little does she know.
“Great, darling,” she says. “You won’t be sorry. Now let’s go find you something to wear.”
Chapter Nineteen
The doorbell rings promptly at six P.M. I can hear my parents rush to the door to greet the guy they’ve pimped me out to. Brent Baker the Third. Aka Golden Boy. Aka King Moron.
Reluctantly, I head downstairs.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Miller,” he says in his best Eddie Haskell from Leave it to Beaver voice. He looks up and sees me. “Dawn, you’re looking very beautiful tonight. Not that,” he adds, flashing a cheesy grin to The Evil Ones, “you don’t always look lovely, of course.”
Yeah, you look like your typical slimy self as well, I want to say, but hold my tongue. Must play along. I have a higher purpose here.
The way my parents are staring adoringly at Brent makes my stomach turn. How can they be so fooled by his obvious pandering? He’s so cheesy I feel the sudden urge for crackers.
“Hi, Brent,” I say. “What’s up?”
My mother shoots me a look. Evidently “what’s up” isn’t proper date convo. But whatever. Like I give a care. The only reason I agreed to this was so I can phone Sean. So any dreams she may have of a white wedding and a Vera Wang dress and fancy ivory invitations with bows that say “The Millers and the Bakers invite you to join them for a joyous event” can be tossed out the window now.
“Ooh, Richard, we should get the camera,” my mom suggests.
Even Brent looks uncomfortable at that suggestion. Heh. “Actually, we have to get going,” he says. “Reservations at the club for seven-thirty. And you know how Johan hates when people are late for their reservations.” He winks at my dad.
Ew. We’re going to the country club? I freaking hate that place. It’s so snobby and formal and pretentious. The food sucks, too. All gourmet, with these tiny miniscule portions. Give me a burger and fries any day of the week.
“Oh we know that, all right,” Dad agrees, slapping Brent on the back. Gross. “Okay, you kids go have fun now. Dawn, just give us a call if you’re going to be out past eleven.”
Wow. He’s even going to let me break curfew, all in the name of Brent Baker the Third. What do they see in this guy? Just ‘cause he comes from a wealthy family doesn’t mean he’s God’s Gift to Teens. I mean, I’d have had to sell my soul to the devil before Mr. Curfew allowed me to stay out late. Though I guess, in a way, that’s exactly what I’ve done.
“Okay,” I say, throwing him a big smile. “Can I have my phone then? I mean,” I say in my most casual voice, “in case I have to call, you know.”
“Oh yeah, your phone. Good idea.” Dad walks over to the closet and pulls my precious cell from a top-shelf box. Aha, that’s where he stashed it. I’ve been looking everywhere. “Here you go.”
Yes! My plan worked. I feel major elation as my fingers wrap around the receiver, its plast
ic frame more precious to me than gold.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, stuffing the phone in my purse and opening the front door. Don’t want to stick around in case he changes his mind. Besides, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can speak to Sean. He’s going to be so psyched when he hears from me.
We head outside and into Brent’s Mercedes. He opens the door for me, and I slip into the leather seat. It is a very nice car, I grudgingly admit. Too bad its driver is such a tool.
“Cool wheels,” I say as Brent gets in the driver’s seat. I have a feeling I’m going to have a hard time coming up with conversation tonight.
“Yeah. It’s all right,” Brent agrees. “It’s just the SL500. I mean, I wanted to get the SL65, but the old man had the nerve to tell me it was too expensive. Puh-leze, right? I mean, we all know the stingy bastard could afford it.”
Aww. He had to give up his dreams and settle for the hundred-thousand-dollar car instead of the two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Sad story. Breaks my heart, really.
Brett prattles on, though. “So I said to him, ‘Dad, the SL65 has twin-turbocharged V-12 engines. I mean, talk about massive power. This old thing only has a V-8.’ And he says to me, ‘Well, Brent, do you really need twin-turbocharged V-12 to get to school?’ And I say, ‘Dad, with the time it takes me to do my hair every morning, a car with twin-turbocharged V-12 engines would definitely come in handy. I get to school on time. I learn more. I get into Yale. I mean really, the thing is an investment in my future.’ So he says, ‘How about we get you the SL500 and then we bring it down to the dealership and we get it modified to be faster?’ And so we did and we souped it up with a—”
Wow. I didn’t realize it was physically possible to be so bored. Brent continues his Mercedes monologue all the way to the club. And I nod and say, “uh-huh,” in a few choice places. This guy doesn’t need a live date. He’d do perfectly fine with a blow-up doll.
We enter the club and the maitre d’ seats us at a candlelit window table. Several of our parents’ friends approach to say hi, looking more than delighted to see the two of us together. I catch a glimpse of Ashley #2 sitting at a table across the room. When she sees me with her beloved Brent, she gives me a dirty look and whispers something to her parents. Heh. Well, at least some good has come out of the otherwise lame-o date.
