On the way home from the meeting, Mom and I went by Stop ’n Save. Mom likes to do her big food shopping on weeknights because the store usually isn’t as crowded as it is on weekends. She lets me push the cart now that I’ve learned not to bump into the backs of people’s legs (people really don’t like that) or knock over the display of spaghetti sauce (it only happened once).
I followed her into the produce section.
“You’re having corn on the cob without me?” I said, hopping onto the cart’s underbar and rolling up to the fresh sweet corn, this week’s manager’s special, according to the sign.
“Sure looks that way,” she said, dropping a few ears into the cart.
“That’s cold, Mom.”
Corn on the cob was our absolute fave. There’s nothing better than fresh, sweet corn on the cob off the grill.
“Maybe we’ll have some with dinner after you’re back on Sunday.”
“Maybe?”
She smiled. “I can’t guarantee there’ll be any left.” She pointed up the aisle. “Grab a couple baskets of strawberries. Just make sure the label says organic. Sometimes they inadvertently mix in toxic ones.”
Toxic. That’s what Mom calls fresh fruits and vegetables that aren’t organic.
“Why were you texting during the meeting?” I asked. I was still standing on the cart’s underbar.
“You saw that?”
“Yeah, I saw. You were texting.”
Mom’s never the person who texts when someone’s talking. She doesn’t even like it when people tweet out what she’s saying at a workshop or meeting. She likes to be able to see people’s eyes. She likes everyone to be present.
“I was putting out a fire at school,” Mom said. “I told Coach Acevedo ahead of time I would be using my phone. I didn’t want him to think I was being rude.”
I pressed my chest to the cart handle, kicked out my feet, and jumped off. I air-dribbled like Iverson to the strawberries, grabbed a couple nontoxic cartons, and stacked them next to the corn on the cob that had no chance of making it to Sunday.
“There was another reason why I was texting,” Mom said. “That’s what we need to talk about.”
“I don’t like the way that sounds.”
She pulled a plastic bag from the dispenser. “It has to do with your father.”
“I told you I didn’t like the way that sounded.”
“Honey, I—”
“Do we have to talk about it here?”
“You leave for the Showdown tomorrow, Rip. When else are we going to?”
“How about never?”
She pointed to the fruit behind me. “Nectarines, peaches, or plums?”
“Peaches,” I said. “No, make that plums.”
“I didn’t want to bring it up until I knew for absolute certain.” She stepped around the cart to the red plums. “Your father won’t be getting to the Showdown until Saturday morning.”
“I bet he doesn’t even show.”
“He’ll show.” She nodded to the red onions. “Will you grab a four-pound bag? That’s the bigger bag.”
“I still don’t think he’s my real father.”
“We’re not having that conversation,” she said firmly. “You know how much—”
“He looks nothing like me,” I said anyway. I flipped the mesh bag of onions into the cart. “I bet if he took one of those paternity—”
She cut me off. “I said, we’re not having that conversation. Even though your father and I weren’t together all that long, we—”
“Long enough.” I held my arms out wide.
“Yes, long enough. And there was no one else. That’s how I know he’s your father. There hasn’t been anyone else either.”
“You’ve been with Dana.”
“Well, Dana and I don’t exactly have the necessary equipment.”
I covered my ears. “Overshare!”
“You brought it up.” She placed her hands atop mine on the handle. “Rip, you’re not making this any easier for me right now. Let me just say this.”
“Say what?”
She paused. “When your father gets there Saturday morning, he’s going to be the third chaperone.”
“No he’s not!” I tried sliding my hands out from under hers, but she held my fingers.
“He is, Rip. It’s the only—”
“He’s not!”
“Coach Acevedo wasn’t able to secure a third chaperone. This was the only solution.”
“Only?” I slammed my foot into the display behind me. “This is so not fair!”
She squeezed my fingers. “Honey, your father is saving the Showdown for the team.”
“How can you do this to me?” I kicked the display again.
“Without your father, Clifton United can’t go.”