I hear Mom’s car in the driveway. My mind races between two equal and opposite impulses: scream at her for letting me drop ballet-tap in first grade, setting me on a lifetime course of clumsiness and yo-yo dieting, or cry that she was right about the school. I don’t belong there.
Both are equally appalling, so I stay put, keep the door shut, and think about … my favorite animal. Turtles are quiet and stay mostly in one place. They even hibernate.
I hear Mom puttering around the house. I know she wants me to come out and talk. Since that day I announced I’d move in with Dad if she didn’t let me go to this school, we’ve had sort of an armed truce. She was mad as hell I’d used Dad to get what I wanted. But after she got over that, Mom was okay about the whole thing. She took me to buy leotards and got me a train pass. (She also insists on driving me to the train every single morning because she assumes I’ll be raped and murdered—not necessarily in that order—if I take the bus. Guess I should be grateful, since it does give me an extra thirty minutes’ sleep every morning.) Lately, she’s almost seemed excited about my going to this school. Maybe she’s actually interested in hearing about my first day. Maybe she isn’t rooting for me to fail.
Yeah, and maybe I’ll quit school and head straight for American Ballet Theatre.
I open the door and head for the kitchen.
“We’re out of Healthy Choice,” she announces tragically. She has that Find a Husband After 35 book. It’s open to a section called Packaging: Create Your Best Look.
My day was fine, thank you. And yours?
“Oh, well, I wasn’t that hungry anyway. Should I make a salad?”
Mom wrinkles her nose. “No onions.”
When I was a young fatgirl, we used to cook dinner together and talk. Mom was good at talking then. She was great at bad news. When I was picked last for P.E. or picked on during recess, we got along. It’s good news she’s terrible at.
“So, how was school?”
Again, I have this amazing urge to tell her. It was terrible. You were soooo right. But it wouldn’t be worth the I told you so’s. Besides, I’m not even sure how I feel yet.
“It was funnnnn,” I say instead. “Everyone there’s really colorful and talented.”
“That’s great. Maybe you’ll learn some things.”
This bugs me. Then I wonder why. Why? I wanted to go to learn things, right? “Yeah, I hope so. That’s why I went.”
“I know, hon. You’re always so…” She takes a bite.
“So what?” I say.
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” She forks another bite.
“You didn’t.”
She pushes her plate away. “Caitlin, I don’t have time to argue. Would you mind clearing the table? I have to finish getting dressed. I have a date.”
I glance at her plate, then at the clock. Almost eight. Weird. Mom always makes sure guys buy her dinner. I don’t say anything. It will be way better having her out of the house while I’m making whatever noises go with my favorite animal.
“Fine. No prob.”
I finish my salad and start to clear the table. I eat the salad Mom left. After this act of piggery, my cell phone starts playing “March of the Toreadors.” Caller ID reveals it’s Peyton. I pick up the phone. I have to keep up with my friends in case performing arts school doesn’t work out.
“Dude!” I easily slip back into my old persona. Who says I can’t act?
“Is it terrible? Are you ready to come back to us where you belong?”
“It’s great,” I say, then realize she means living with Dad. “I mean, a lot better than I expected. Thing One and Thing Two have … um … junior peewee cheerleading four days a week, and with this new school, I hardly see them.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re having such a great time. We’re destitute without you.”
“Desolate, Peyton. You’re desolate. Destitute means you’re broke.”
“Yah, like that’s possible. Anyway, there’s this new girl on the squad, and she thinks she’s all that, sticking out her boobs and trying to be in charge.” She keeps going, but I’m thumbing through Mom’s Find a Husband After 35 book.
Packaging: Create Your Best Look.
Advertising: Promote Your Personal Brand.
“So are there any cute guys there at least?” Peyton asks.
“Um, a few.” I think of Sean Griffin’s incredible eyes. “Well, at least one.”
“That’s good. I thought that guy at Wendy’s might be the best player available. Such a loser. You’re so sweet to be nice to people like that.”
I laugh. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean him.”
“Saw Nick today.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So nothing. He has a new car. A Beemer.”
“Wow.” I get a flash of memory. Nick behind the wheel of his old Mustang. I’m next to him, his arm around me. Not fat, not lonely. It was so easy being his girlfriend.
Except when it wasn’t.
“So, is it a convertible?”
“Yeah, a roadster. They’re like fifty thousand dollars, aren’t they?”
I want to ask Peyton if there’s some other girl, riding shotgun in that car. But instead, I tip Mom’s salad plate into the sink and say, “So, what’s your favorite animal?”
The second I get off the phone, the doorbell rings. Mom yells at me to get it.
I open the door to the toadiest-looking guy I’ve ever seen (and considering I live in Miami, where people go to die, that is saying a lot). This cannot possibly be Mom’s date. He’s wearing sandals with socks. I can see the outline of his undershirt through his shirt, and he’s bald but he’s combed hairs over the spot, as if no one will notice that way.
“You must be Katie,” the Fashion Don’t says.
“Caitlin, yes.”
He sticks out his hand. “I’m Dr. Arnold Mikloshevsky.”
Arnold? He’s kidding, right? I mean, I know there’s Arnold Schwarzenegger, but no mere mortal can get away with that name. Definitely not this guy.
Omigod! I sound like my mother. Maybe this guy has a beautiful soul.
Nah, Mom wouldn’t date someone with a beautiful soul. He must have money.
I take his hand. It’s damp. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Arnold.”
“Arnold.” Ah-nohd. “Mom will be out any second.” But I’m thinking life as we know it has ceased. My mother, shallowest puddle in the rainstorm, is actually dating someone … clammy.
He looks me up and down. Well, down anyway. His eyes stop at my chest, and I realize I’m still wearing my leotard. “So you’re a dancer?”
Still looking. Come on, guy. You’re short, but you’re not that short.
“Um, not exactly.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Mom!”
“I’ll be right there!” she sings.
A sudden, horrific thought occurs to me. Oh. My. God. She didn’t want onions because she’s planning to kiss this guy.
“So, what kind of doctor are you?”
“Podiatrist.”
“Podiatrist. That’s…?” Rear ends?
“The foot. Conditions of the foot. Calluses, fungi, bone spurs.” He looks down. “But a young thing like you wouldn’t have to worry about any of that.”
“I’ll see what’s taking Mom.”
But that’s when she shows up.
It sounds clichéd to say that my jaw drops when she walks in. But my jaw does, literally, drop. She has on a pink-and-white-checked fake Chanel suit with a skirt which, while short, would cover her underwear—even if she bent over. She has her hair and makeup all done like a flight attendant at the Dallas airport, instead of like an exotic dancer. In fact, her whole ensemble is classic, conservative, and … well, classy. Her nails are French-manicured and not one bit of her glitters.
Packaging, indeed …
She holds out her hand to Dr. Toe-Jam. “Shall we?”
“Valerie, I had no idea…”
“Yes?” She looks at him, like, Adore me!
“When you mentioned your daughter, I pictured a little girl, not such a lovely young woman.”
Annoyance flickers across her face, just like anytime someone compliments me. But this particular time, I’m right with her. I’m as grossed out as she is, but for different reasons. Is she actually going to let him touch her?
“You must have been a child bride,” he continues.
That helps. “Oh, well, that’s true. I was married when I was only twenty.”
“Which explains why you two look like sisters.”
“Hmmm, which of us is the prettier sister?”
I make my escape. “It was great meeting you, Dr. Mikloshevsky.” I look at Mom like, Are you sure about this? “I have a ton of homework.”
And then I go to my room and sing until my lungs hurt.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Chasing My Tail
Date: August 20
Time: 5:10 p.m.
Listening 2: “Vesti la giubba” (sad clown aria from Pagliacci)
Feeling: Seriously bummed
Weight: 110 lbs. (Cookies! Cookies!)
1st week’s almost over. Picture the next 3 days being pretty much like the 1st. People here aren’t like @ Key Biscayne, but the laws of the jungle still apply. Every1 hangs w/their own kind. At Key, that meant lions w/lions and gazelles w/gazelles. Here, it’s more like hyenas w/hyenas and warthogs w/warthogs. Every1’s funny and different and special ....... except me. I’m standard issue ............. like a yellow Lab. Or a mutt.
Speaking of dogs............ I spent hours prepping for My Favorite Animal, based on this little dog our neighbors used 2 have. Silky. I *was* that dog, prancing around in my jeweled collar, chasing my own tail. Then I got 2 class.
1st off, hardly any1 chose anything as boring as a dog. Gigi (I HATE HER!) was a sea anemone, and Gus scored BIG by doing a baby kangaroo, fighting its way up 2 its mother’s nipple. The only other person who did a dog—Misty—was waaay more creative than me. She pretended her dog had on 1 of those cone collars they put on pets 2 keep them from chewing their stitches or whatever. Then she played a dog w/a compulsion 2 scratch ....... and got a standing O.
So, of course, I had 2 follow her.
I was chasing my tail, all right. I think I even saw Miss Davis yawn
.