MRS. MUELLER OPENS THE DOOR. She has long straight hair like Sarabeth’s, but it is reddish and her skin is not nearly as pale.
“Who do we have here?” she says.
I clutch Marnie’s vintage purse to my chest. All I want to do is leave.
“Jackie O?”
I nod. Never have I been less in the mood for a party.
Mrs. Mueller whoops. “Sarabeth, you’ve got to see this! Jacqueline Kennedy is here!”
I glance over my shoulder, but Marnie is already backing out of the driveway. There is nowhere to go but in.
“Well?” Mrs. Mueller says, striking a pose in the foyer. She flips her hair over one shoulder. “Who am I?”
Tinted aviators, black turtleneck, flared jeans. I have no idea.
“Come on,” she insists. “American feminist? Political activist? Founder of Ms. magazine?”
I shake my head.
“Take Your Daughter to Work Day?… Surely you’ve participated.”
“God, Mother,” Sarabeth says, stepping into the hallway. “Don’t accost her. No one under the age of forty knows who Gloria Steinem is.” Sarabeth grabs my arm. “I’m sorry. She gets carried away.”
I nod.
“You look great, Anna. Wait until everyone sees you. They’re all in the basement.” Sarabeth leads me through the hall and down the stairs. “I’m Amelia Earhart, by the way. I found this bomber jacket on eBay, and the goggles—would you believe a garage sale? Three bucks.”
Sarabeth is in hostess mode, chatting away, but I haven’t said a word. Not one. My throat has that tight, clogged feeling, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I open my mouth.
“Hey, guys,” Sarabeth says, leaping from the last step onto the carpet, “look who I found! Jackie Kennedy!”
It’s quiet down here. Everyone is sitting on the two plaid couches against the wall.
“Hey, Medusa,” Sarabeth says, “how would you like to turn Jackie Kennedy to stone?”
Shawna snorts, which is her signature greeting. Otherwise I would not have known who she was. Her whole face is covered in green and gray paint. She has black circles under her eyes and bloodred lipstick. A dozen rubber snakes have been woven into her hair. She’s wearing a bedsheet toga. Rope belt. Gaudy gold bracelets and gold flip-flops. Even her feet have been painted green. For someone who didn’t want to come to this party, she sure has gone to a lot of trouble.
“And this is the Moon Goddess of Wicca…” Sarabeth says, gesturing to Chloe, who is wearing a flowy white nightgown. “And the Moon Goddess of Wicca…” She gestures to Nicole, who is also wearing a flowy white nightgown.
Of course. Of course they’re both moon goddesses. I’d love to snort like Shawna, but I don’t have the energy.
“And Emily Dickinson,” Sarabeth says, pointing to Reese, who is wearing a plain black dress with a frilly collar. “Doesn’t she look authentic?”
I nod, vaguely remembering a picture from our seventh-grade poetry book.
Reese jerks her chin at me. “Did you know Emily Dickinson wore nothing but white after her father’s death?”
I shake my head.
I have mastered the art of silence. This happens sometimes, after I’ve gotten emotional. I go into mental hibernation. Not deliberately. My brain just powers down for a while, until it can recharge. Because dealing with my mother takes all the voltage I’ve got.
Here in Sarabeth’s basement, I don’t care what anyone thinks, so I don’t even try to snap out of it.
“Are you going to wear those sunglasses all night?” Shawna is sneering at me with bloodred lips.
I shrug. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll wear these sunglasses for the rest of the year. For the rest of my life.
“Okay,” Sarabeth says, clapping her hands together. “I’m hungry. Are you guys hungry?”
Everyone shrugs.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Back in a jiff!” Sarabeth races up the basement stairs.
With our hostess gone, everyone is quiet again, until the two moon goddesses start going at it.
“I thought you were coming as the Crone Goddess,” Nicole says.
And Chloe says, “Why’d you think that?”
“Um, because you told me? Quote, ‘I am going to Sarabeth’s party as the Crone Goddess,’ unquote?”
Chloe shrugs. “I couldn’t get the look right.”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“Spray your hair white? Draw on some wrinkles? Carry a cane? You couldn’t pull that off?”
“No,” Chloe says. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” Nicole says.
“I couldn’t find a cane.”
“How could you not find a cane? You live in the woods. Grab a stick.”
These two could keep going forever. They argue as if they care about the subject, but really I think they just like arguing.
“Who gives a shit?” Shawna finally says. Nicole and Chloe both stop and stare at her.
“Well, that’s rude,” Nicole says.
“Yeah, and it’s superpolite to have inane arguments in front of people at a party.”
“Vittles!” Mrs. Mueller calls from the top of the stairs, saving us. She and Sarabeth are on their way down with food. “Get your vittles here!”
“Mom,” Sarabeth says. “Vittles?”
“What’s wrong with vittles? Vittles are snack foods.”
“You’re dorking out.”
“Oh no!” Mrs. Mueller rolls her eyes as she lowers a tray onto the coffee table. “A dorky mother!”
“Ignore her,” Sarabeth says, putting down a bottle of Coke and a bowl of chips. “She’s trying to be cool.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Mueller deadpans. “I’m trying to be cool. And hip. And hep. A hepcat.”
“Mom,” Sarabeth moans. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“What’s that?” Mrs. Mueller grabs Sarabeth and tickles her under the arms. “You want me to stay? You want me to hang out in the basement all night? So we can talk about boys and bras and feelings?”
At first Sarabeth shrieks and tries to pull away, but after a minute she’s laughing and tickling her mom back. They’re having one of those mother-daughter moments. Or what I imagine a mother-daughter moment might be. I personally have never had a tickle fight with my mother. Watching Sarabeth and her mom, you can tell that they bug each other and love each other at the same time. They tease, but there’s humor behind it.
Watching them makes my stomach hurt.
I have to go to the bathroom.
* * *
When I come back there’s music playing—a mix Sarabeth has made for tonight. “I Am Woman” and “Girl on Fire.” “Beautiful” and “Stronger” and “Roar.” All this female empowerment has shut everyone up. Or it’s the Cool Ranch Doritos and M&M’s they’re shoving into their mouths.
I am relieved about the music. Now I don’t have to talk. I can just sit on the couch and stuff my face.
At some point, “Crazy Dreams” comes on. And suddenly, out of nowhere, Shawna starts to sing. And her voice is clear and sweet. It is the total opposite of her personality and snake hair. For a moment, I am so surprised I don’t know what to do with the food in my mouth, so I spit it into my hand.
I glance over at Sarabeth and she’s smiling. Now she’s standing up on the coffee table and starting to Irish step, which is weird because this song is not remotely Irish, but somehow it works.
Chloe and Nicole stand up and start floating around the basement in their flowy nightgowns. And now Reese joins in, but she’s not singing or dancing; she’s beatboxing. Tongue clicks and throat taps, bass and drums.
I watch in silence this group that has materialized. A Greek monster, an aviator, a poet, and two Wiccans. And I want to cry. Because I love this cheesy song, and they do, too. And I want to be a part of it.
I used to sing all the time. When we had the chorus elective in fifth and sixth grades, I had solos in all the concerts, not because I had such a great voice, but because I had what Mr. Potter called “chutzpah.” I didn’t worry about what anyone thought. I just loved how the music felt coming out of my mouth.
I want to feel that way again. I want to sing into my hairbrush, drum on my dashboard, shake the walls of Sarabeth’s basement with my fearless dance moves.
But I can’t. If I open my mouth, the floodgates will open. And nobody likes a crybaby.