Only my extra-sensitive mother could truly determine whether I’d passed the deskunkification test. I rode home quickly, hoping the wind generated at top speeds would aid the airing-out process. When I got there, I headed straight for the home office, otherwise known as the Techno Dojo. I knew my mother would be poring over property listings and buy/sell spreadsheets like she always does after a busy weekend of showing houses. I’d barely stepped into the room before she looked up with an alarmed expression.
“What happened to you?”
She shot up from her chair and headed right to me for inspection.
“What do you mean, what happened to me?” I replied coolly.
“Those aren’t your clothes,” she said, intimidating me with her eyes. “Why aren’t you wearing your own clothes?”
I’d given so much thought to how I smelled that I hadn’t considered how I looked.
“Um” was all I said.
“I’m going to ask this only one more time,” Mom said sternly. “Why aren’t you wearing your own clothes?”
“Um” was all I said again.
When my mom stresses out, she strains all the muscles and tendons in her neck. They looked stretched to the limit, like they could give way at any second, launching her head straight across the room. I knew I’d better come up with a satisfactory answer—and fast.
“Whose. Clothes. Are. They.”
“Hope’s!” I replied. “They’re Hope’s.”
She held my gaze and wouldn’t let go. Sara has nothing on my mother. Mom has a way of looking at me so intensely that I feel like I’m lying even when I’m telling the truth.
“Why are you wearing Hope’s clothes?”
“I’m wearing Hope’s clothes because…”
I looked down at the shirt in question. It was a souvenir from the Museum of Modern Art gift shop. Inspiration struck. And by inspiration, I mean a lie. Because if I told my mom the truth about the skunk, she’d force me to go through another round of decontamination. There’s not enough tomato juice in the world to meet my mom’s hygienic standards. I just wasn’t up to getting hosed down with Lysol, bathed in bleach, and rolled in potpourri.
“We were working on an art project together. Hope’s really creative and crafty, and, well, you know I’m not really any of those things, so I thought it might be fun to give painting a try.…”
About halfway through this bogus answer, my mom started to relax. Unlike my sister, who is a frequent truth stretcher, I don’t have a history of fabrications undermining my credibility. Mom believed me because I wasn’t a liar. Which made me feel pretty terrible about lying to begin with.
“You got paint on the new clothes I just bought you,” my mom said knowingly. “And you were afraid to tell me the truth because you thought I’d get upset.”
I nodded. It was so much easier when she supplied the lies for me.
She sighed and smiled.
“I think it’s wonderful that you’re exploring your artistic side,” my mother said. “Next time you want to get creative, wear one of those grungy concert T-shirts you found in Bethany’s closet.”
Much to my mother’s dismay, those “grungy” T-shirts were my new favorite articles of clothing. But I wasn’t about to press my luck by balking at her suggestion.
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
Mom lifted her face, and I lowered mine so she could affectionately nuzzle the top of my head. I’d hate it if she ever did it in front of any of my friends, but it’s nice when it’s just the two of us. It always makes me feel like a kid again, but in a good way. You know. Safe. Taken care of. But my moment of peace came to an end when Mom took a subtle but unmistakable sniff of my hair.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“Hmm,” she murmured vaguely.
“What is it?”
“Make sure you wash up extra well in the shower,” she said. “You smell like…”
A SKUNKY TOMATO PUNCH BOWL?
She wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes as if trying to place it.
“Something chemical?” she asked.
“Something chemical,” I repeated.
“Paint thinner?” she asked.
I don’t know how SKUNK + TOMATO JUICE + TROPICAL GETAWAY SHOWER GEL = PAINT THINNER, but I’d take that crazy equation over the simple truth. And I decided right then that’s what I’d tell anyone who asked.
“Paint thinner,” I replied. “Yes! Because thinning paint is an important part of painting! Which is what Hope and I were doing today! Painting! Hope and I thinned plenty of paint while we were painting!”
My mother studied me carefully. Her message was clear: “I’ve got my eye on you.” She won’t need to look too carefully, though, because I’m the worst liar. Seriously. As Sara so clearly demonstrated, I’m one big tell. In a perfect world, my honesty would be a virtue. And while Pineville Junior High might have been “a perfect world” for my sister, Bethany, it will never, ever be one for me.