I’m surprised to find Mom locking the front door when I get off the elevator. “Where are we going?” I ask, eyeing her outfit. “You’re still in your cleaning clothes.”
Mom looks down at her faded overalls and touches the red bandanna covering her hair. “That’s okay. We’re just going to the supermarket.”
“We are?”
Mom nods. “I want to get steaks for dinner.”
“Do I have to go too?”
“You know I’m not thrilled about leaving you alone in the apartment,” Mom says. “Don’t give me a hard time, Kat.”
Me give her a hard time? That’s a good one. Mom should’ve gotten the steaks while I was at school. And she shouldn’t have ruined my shoelaces or made me so angry that I trashed my French quiz. Dad would have been so proud of it. “Can I put this inside first?” I ask, turning around to show Mom my backpack. “It’s heavy.”
Mom looks at me as if I’ve asked to dunk my head in a public toilet. “Before you’ve wiped it down? That backpack contains more germs than the bottom of your shoe!” She reaches into the pocket of her overalls and pulls out a packet of antibacterial wipes. “Here,” she says, thrusting the packet at me. “I’ll wait.”
Mom’s carrying wipes in her pocket now? Seriously? I know she has a thing about germs and is worried I might get sick (at least that’s what she’s been telling me lately), but this is too much. “It’s okay,” I tell her, hoisting my backpack higher on my shoulder. “I’ll leave my bag downstairs.” Mom shrugs and follows me down the hall.
“How was school?” she asks in the elevator. She digs through her purse and produces a tiny bottle of Purell. I watch as she squirts the clear, oozy liquid onto her hands and rubs them together. Her fingers are as red as lobster claws. Cracked and scaly too.
“It was fine,” I say, accepting the bottle she’s handing me, “but you’ll never guess who I got for the Harriet project. It’s so unfair, but—”
Mom grabs my arm. “I forgot something.”
“Mom…”
“No, I’d better go back upstairs. Wait for me in the lobby, Kat.”
“You’re going to wash your hands again, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. The look she gives me is so sad, it’s impossible to stay mad at her. I just wish I understood what was going on.
I get off the elevator and bring my backpack into the package room for safekeeping. Then I flop into the armchair opposite the front desk and wait. Ten minutes later, Mom is back without an apology or an excuse. We both know what took her so long, but neither of us says anything. What is there to say, really? I zip up my jacket and follow Mom out of the building.
My neighborhood buzzes with the sounds of taxi horns. Bikes whizz down Seventh Avenue and people hustle along the sidewalks, walking dogs and pushing strollers. I see a little kid hopping off the school bus, struggling under the weight of his too-heavy backpack. He smiles when he sees his mom, or maybe it’s his nanny. I used to have a nanny when I was little—Sonia, who made Jamaican beef patties and sang “Hush, Baby, Hush” at naptime. I loved her the way Harriet loves Ole Golly. Sonia left when Mom lost her magazine job and decided to stay home with me. I’d hoped Mom would learn to make beef patties and sing “Hush, Baby, Hush” like Sonia, but she didn’t. She subscribed to Good Housekeeping and bought a new mop.
Mom steers me across the street and into the supermarket. A blast of arctic air greets me as we enter through the automatic doors. I’m wishing I’d worn a heavier jacket when Mom pulls out two pairs of latex gloves. She hands one pair to me.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say. “Please.”
“If you knew how much bacteria are on the handle of a shopping cart, you wouldn’t argue,” she says. “Now, put on the gloves.” Mom gives her own gloves a quick tug and stretches them over her hands.
“Can’t I use hand sanitizer?” I ask, pointing to the Purell station next to the entrance. “Or just not touch anything?”
Mom’s lips disappear in a thin, angry line. “Come on, Kat. Don’t be difficult.”
She wants me to wear latex gloves in public, and I’m the difficult one? Please. I take the gloves and follow my mom down the produce aisle, where she stops in front of a display of cantaloupes. She picks one up and sniffs it. Then she gives it a sharp thump to see if it’s ripe and puts it in the shopping cart.
“I thought we were just getting steaks,” I say.
“I did say that,” Mom admits. “But now that we’re here, we may as well pick up a few other things. This won’t take a minute.”
Now, where have I heard that one before?
I try to keep up as Mom zips through Produce, turns right at Frozen Foods, and stops in Paper and Cleaning Supplies. While she’s filling the cart with enough paper towels to wipe down the Statue of Liberty, something bright and glittery catches my eye. It’s a diamond, which is attached to an ear, which is attached to a girl. A girl who has something to put in her bra and thinks Halle’s crush has no charisma.
Crud! What is Madeline doing here?
“Deidre?” It’s Madeline’s mother calling over from Canned Goods. “Great to see you! It’s been, like, forever.”
“You too, Stacey.” Mom pushes her cart closer to Mrs. Langford. “It has been a while.”
“We missed having you on the benefit committee last spring,” Madeline’s mom says, balancing her grocery basket against her hip. “We really could have used your help.”
“Well…” Mom tugs at her bandanna.
While Mom and Mrs. Langford continue their conversation by the cranberry sauce, I notice Madeline scratching a mosquito bite on her left knee. She scowls when she catches me looking. “What are you staring at?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
Madeline points to my hands. “What’s with the rubber gloves?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “None of your business.”
“Freak.”
As I’m praying for the moms to wrap it up, I catch my mom reaching into her pocket for the antibacterial wipes. She wipes down a can of diced pineapple, places it in her cart, and reaches for another can.
“What is your mom doing?” Madeline wants to know.
“Well…” I rack my brain for a good excuse. “She read an article about an E. coli outbreak at a supermarket in Yorkville—right around the corner from my dad’s, actually—and she wants to be on the safe side. You can never be too careful, right?”
The corners of Madeline’s mouth creep up in a smirk. “Maybe,” she says, “but I don’t think you can catch E. coli from a can of pineapple.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t. But using antibacterial wipes in public is crazy, E. coli or not.”
My hands clench into fists. I’m mad at Mom for embarrassing me, but I’m madder at Madeline for saying my mom is crazy. “Shut up,” I say.
“Make me,” Madeline says, lifting her chin.
Mrs. Langford comes to the rescue. “Maddy and I need to get a move on,” she says, putting a French-manicured hand on her daughter’s arm. “See you guys around.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. My humiliation is coming to an end.
Or maybe not.
“Chanel!”
Before I can say, “Please kill me now,” Madeline’s mother is welcoming Chanel Steinberg, Coco’s mom, to Canned Goods. Coco is bringing up the rear, her hand deep in a bag of trail mix.
“What a crazy coincidence,” Mrs. Langford squeals, kissing Mrs. Steinberg on the cheek. “How are you?”
While the mothers continue to talk, Coco walks up to Madeline. “What’s going on?”
I hold my breath, waiting for Madeline to make fun of my mom. She’s still wiping down cans at the other end of the aisle. Luckily, Mrs. Langford chooses that moment to appear with her basket. “The checkout line is getting longer by the minute,” she says to Madeline. “We should go.”
“Us too,” Mrs. Steinberg says, sidling up to Coco. “Come on, honey.”
Madeline’s mother turns to me with an awkward smile. “Take care of yourself, Kat.” I can tell she feels sorry for me, which makes my face burn. She gives me a little wave and runs off to join the others.
Now it’s just me and Mom.
I head down the aisle, where she’s still wiping down cans. “Mom,” I say, touching her shoulder. “Stop.”
“I’m almost done,” she says, cleaning a can of peaches in heavy syrup before placing it in her cart. “Give me a minute.”
“Mom,” I say more urgently. “Please.”
She whips her head around. “I said I’m almost done, Kat, and I mean it. Be patient.”
“Take all the time you want,” I say, heading for the exit. “I’m leaving.”
I expect Mom to run after me. To say eleven-year-olds shouldn’t cross Fourteenth Street by themselves. It’s a wide, busy street, and getting hit by a cab—or worse, the crosstown bus—is a real possibility. But she doesn’t. She picks up another can and starts wiping.