I hear Mom’s key in the lock, and for the first time in—ohhhhh, my whole life maybe, I run to see her. I want to tell her Gigi’s theory, so she can dump this loser. “Hey, Mom.”
She’s dressed like her old self today—must have been a non-Arnold lunch. Denim micro-mini, pink platform sandals, and two toe-rings.
“Hi, Caitlin. I’m in sort of a hurry.” She looks toward her bedroom.
“Date with Arnold?”
“Yes, I need to get ready. He’ll be here any—”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Arnold takes you out on weekdays, but never Fridays. He calls at weird times. He never buys you dinner.” I’m talking faster now, picturing Gigi and her mom in the towel department. “Do you think maybe—”
“He’s married, Caitlin.” She’s looking at her watch. “That’s why we can’t go out weekends. He has to be with his wife.”
“But … you know he’s married.”
“Of course. I’m not stupid. I know the warning signs. I read Dear Abby.”
My mouth is so wide open I can feel air hitting my tonsils, my uvula, my lymph glands. “But … so how come you’re still dating him?”
“Every man since your father was afraid of commitment. They had to concentrate on their careers or take care of a sick mother, or they were just too much man for any one woman. Arnold doesn’t have those hang-ups. He’s already made a commitment.”
“Yeah. To someone else.”
“Not really. If he was committed to her, he wouldn’t be seeing me.”
“But…” Her reasoning is a tennis ball being whacked back and forth.
“I’m not getting any younger, Caitlin. I want a husband before I’m old and fat. It hasn’t worked with single men. Maybe this will be better.”
“But…” I still don’t feel capable of more than the one word.
“Don’t you want the same things everyone else around here has? Your father sure isn’t providing them.” She looks at the door again. “Besides, he’s really a sweet man.”
Okay. Now I have words. “He’s a scumbag who’s cheating on his wife.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know what it’s like. Sometimes you can be really lonely, even when you’re married to someone.” She picks up her purse, a black one with little dogs all over it. “Look, I need to get ready. He’s coming soon.” She starts toward her bedroom.
“But Mom…” I’m about to say she obviously hasn’t read the same Dear Abby columns I’ve read, the ones that say married guys will just go back to their wives. Or the ones that say mothers should set a good example for their daughters, for that matter.
“Yes?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” I can’t say that stuff to her. It would be like calling her a slut. But I can’t believe that. I’d rather believe she’s just stupid, like Brianna Owens in the luggage rack of the bus. Maybe sluts are really just stupid girls who want love. “Just wondered if you went shopping.”
“There’s some Healthy Choice in the fridge.” She starts to leave the room.
I say, “Can I take the car? I want to buy some salad stuff.”
“Sure.” She fumbles in her purse, then tosses me the keys. “That’s a good idea. It looks like you’ve put on some weight since you started this new school.”
I take the keys and drive myself to KFC. I can’t believe she’s dating someone who is married. On purpose. It’s just so … wrong. On the way there, I see Nick’s car at the French bakery again. I think about going in. Would it really be so bad? He’s in counseling. But I remember what my therapist said. She said once a vase is broken, you can’t fix it, not really, and that’s what it’s like with relationships too. So I ride on.
Opera_Grrrl’s Online Journal
Subject: Bart Simpson
Date: September 16
Time: 6:15 p.m.
Listening 2: Cast recording of Hairspray
Feeling: Confused
Weight: 117 lbs.
I’ve given myself one of those assignments Bart Simpson gets at school, where his teacher makes him write something 50 times so he won’t do it again. Here goes:
I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick. I will not think of Nick.
Doesn’t work for Bart either.