Leave It to Claire (27 page)

I roll my eyes at her obvious attempt to keep me from that carnival. They’ve finally gotten all the booths rebuilt and found
a date to reschedule. A week and a half before Thanksgiving. It’s a little colder than it would have been last month, but
that’s okay. We can wear jackets. We’ve also added a chili booth and apple cider. It works. There’s always a way to make something
fit.

“Nice try.”

She gives a huff.

“Look, let’s not go through this again. I’m going to help out at this carnival and that’s that. You are going to shine like
Venus in the night sky with or without me there.”

“Sure. Everyone will be asking me if I can talk to you about getting them published.”

I have to laugh at this. It’s hard enough for me to get my own next contract. Even with a hotshot agent. Yet, every so often,
a new writer asks me if I can get them “in” with my publisher. Do they really think I can just talk to the right people and
boom, here’s a contract for the new author? Oh, and while you’re cashing that million-dollar advance check, how about heading
down to the Reality Check Detective Agency and getting a clue!

“All you have to do is tell them they’ll have to ask me.”

“Oh, sure. Then I’m a snob who doesn’t want to talk.”

“Well, Ari. You
are
a snob who doesn’t want to talk. Aren’t all cheerleaders?” I give her a wink-wink.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s so stereotypical.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just trying to get you to lighten up.”

“By accusing me of being stuck-up?”

Oh, brother. This conversation is going absolutely nowhere. “Did you remember to put your duffel bag in the van?”

“Yes. Are they coming to the carnival?” “They” refers to Rick, Darcy, and the boys, who started their weekend with Dad last
night while Ari stayed to do last-minute preparations for the carnival.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to talk to your dad.” And by “I didn’t have a chance,” I mean I hung up on him the one
time he’s tried to call since the counseling session.

“Don’t worry about it. If they don’t come, I’ll drive you over to his house for the rest of the weekend as soon as the carnival
is over.”

We arrive at the school amid a flurry of mid-afternoon arrivals. I’m wearing jeans. And ladies, my shirt is tucked in. Yeah,
baby! I’m not ready for the Levi’s. I’m not getting a pair of 501s until I fit into a 29/30 short. But I’m getting there.

My net weight loss is finally up to fifteen pounds. So my size 12 jeans are looking nice. Not too tight. Not loose by any
stretch of the imagination, but definitely better than the 16s I was wearing before I started walking and watching the sugar
and fast food. I’d love to be in a 10 by Christmas. But again, I have to consider holiday candy and cookies. Summer sausage
and cheese. I mean, there’s a month of that stuff coming up. What, I’m supposed to just sit there while everyone else is munching
on goodies? Well, okay. I guess I know the answer to that.

Mrs. Lincoln greets me with a toothy smile. Ari’s cheerleading coach is wearing shorts and her legs are tanned. It’s fifty
degrees out. I just don’t think I need to comment further about that. Except to say she is wearing a sweatshirt, too. And
a beanie with a Chiefs logo across her forehead.

There’s an exhibition football game this evening and Ari is cheering. It’s a fund-raiser between the faculty and the football
players.

Within thirty seconds of our arrival at the check-in booth, the masses sense her presence and suddenly Ari disappears amid
a crowd of admirers. Yeah. She really needs to worry that I’m going to upstage her. I plaster a smile and try not to stare
at Mrs. Lincoln’s tanning-boothed legs.

“Any new books coming out?” Mrs. Lincoln asks. I know this woman couldn’t care less if I have a new book coming out or not.
It’s the common question anyone asks when they don’t have a clue how to start conversation with me.

Still, I smile, trying to be conscious of the fact that this woman spends every Friday and Saturday night at the lounge connected
to the local Mexican restaurant. She hangs all over any man who will show her a little attention and, I suspect, make her
feel like she’s still prom queen. My heart aches a little for her. “Not for a few months,” I reply. “Where do I take the brownies?”

“Oh, gosh. Sorry. Just take them over to that booth. You’ll share with Darcy.”

I nearly drop the platter. “Darcy… who?”

Her face goes blank. “Um. Darcy Frank. Ari mentioned you wanted to share the booth?”

“She did, huh?” So Ari is either (a) trying to heal the rift between her stepmother and me, or (b) getting me back for offering
to help. “I wasn’t aware that Darcy was even planning to be here. I thought the mothers of cheerleaders were supposed to do
this.”

Mrs. Lincoln gives an airy laugh. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”

“That’s fine, then.” I mean, what else can I say, really? Shall I throw a temper tantrum? I could, but I won’t. “I’ll just
go get set up.”

I set the individually wrapped brownies on the booth. There are already a few other baked goods on the counter. I assumed
they were dropped off by mothers manning different booths. As I start arranging things in an appealing, tasteful manner, a
tantalizing aroma wafts over to me from the next booth.

Man. No one told me they were selling bratwurst. I can feel my jeans getting tighter with every sniff, and I feel the urge
to untuck my shirt and let it hang over my hips.

My stomach responds to the scent and suddenly I feel the tug of gravity, pulling me toward that booth.

Before I make it that far, I see Darcy coming toward me. My appetite leaves as nerves replace hunger in my gut. She gives
me a tentative smile and sets a platter of… oh, dear Lord, is that fudge? With walnuts. “You brought candy to a bake
sale?”

“I thought with the holidays, people might be in the mood to get a head start.”

She’s a genius. I’m sooo ready. I give a nonchalant shrug and nod. “Good idea.”

Tension is thick between us—thicker than the saturated air. I’m so relieved to see Linda pop up to our booth that I grab her
in a tight hug.

“Mmmm,” she says, eyeing the brownies, cookies, pies, and cakes and zeroing in on the fudge. “If I didn’t have a wedding gown
to fit into in a mere two and a half weeks, I’d buy up a little bit of everything.”

“Be strong, my friend,” I say, knowing full well she could eat the entire booth and not gain an ounce with that fourteen-year-old-boy
metabolism of hers.

“Do you have all the wedding plans finished, then?” Darcy’s small voice pipes in. I suspect, more than anything, she just
wants to remind us she’s present.

Linda turns an affectionate smile on the younger woman. “Almost. I just need a singer to croon a sappy love song, and I’m
all set.”

“How about Greg?” I say, a little faster than I wish I had. Greg. Like we’re some super couple and I can just speak for him.

“Greg… There’s a good idea,” Linda agrees with a nod. She turns to Darcy. Pod Girl gives a chirpy giggle and I have a
sneaky feeling Linda gave her a “look” that sings, “Claire and Greg, sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

Linda laughs. “I’ll catch you two later. I’m manning the dunk tank. Can you believe we’re having a dunk tank in this weather?
How busy do you think I’m likely to be?” She turns to leave, then steps back. “Okay, wait. I have to have some of that fudge,
dress or no dress. But don’t let me come back for more.”

I feel a little hung out to dry when she leaves, mainly because now I have no choice but to face Darcy. Someone has been thoughtful
enough to provide chairs for us to sit on behind the booth, so we sit. Darcy nearly blinds me with a bright smile. “When Ari
told me you wanted me to come, I almost couldn’t believe it.”

Wow. I can’t believe it either. When I get my hands on Ari I’m going to wring her scrawny little neck.

Darcy gives a little gasp, and I can tell by the look on her face she’s figured it out. “You didn’t ask for me, did you?”

I shake my head.

“Why would she lie?”

“I guess she wants us to talk it out.” Or quite possibly she just did it for sport.

“She knows what happened?”

Irritation slams me. What kind of mother does she think I am? “Of course not. But she does know we aren’t really talking.
I don’t have anything against you, Darcy. So don’t take this personally. I have things I just need to work out. And right
now… you and Rick go together…”

She nods in understanding. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, I don’t want you to leave. It was sweet of you to come in the first place. Let’s just try to act normal for the rest
of the evening and we’ll get through this.”

Turns out, Darcy and I are quite the team. Our booth sells out fairly early. By seven, though, snow flurries are flying around
in a hint of early winter. It won’t last. It probably won’t even dust the ground, but somehow it makes me feel good. “Hey,
Darcy. Let’s go get a bratwurst and some apple cider.”

“Really?”

I nod. “We can watch the rest of the exhibition game.”

Her eyes brighten in the glow of the generator-controlled lights. “That sounds like so much fun. Let’s do it.”

We each buy a juicy barbecued brat, then make our way to the cider counter just as the players begin filtering in from the
field. We look at each other. Darcy wrinkles her nose in a cute, disappointed frown.

Darcy Frank, I miss you. And I’m fully aware that the very fact that I miss her, given the circumstances, is just… wrong.

“Oh, well. I guess we missed it.” I take a bite of my brat. then wash it down with cider. Hmm. When did they get so greasy?

I pull out my cell. “Let me call Ari and get her up here so she can ride home with you.”

She nods. “Sure.”

Her voice mail answers. I flip my phone shut. “She must have forgotten to turn it back on after the game. Do you want to walk
down to the football field with me?”

She nods, taking another bite of her brat. We start the walk across the damp ground. We’re quiet at first. I mean, we agreed
to get through tonight, right? Our future friendship is sort of in limbo. And what is there to talk about, really?
“Oh, did you hear Rick apologized? What a toad-sucker.”
See? I can’t talk about the stuff that’s really going on. Still . . .

“Listen, Darce. We don’t have to let this come between us, do we? What if we just forget about that dumb counseling session?
I have to work this out on my own.”

“Oh, Claire. The counselor has really helped Rick deal with some things. If you’d only give it a chance…”

Utter lack of understanding. This is what I get for holding out the white flag. “I have given it a chance. And it didn’t work
for me. Maybe it worked for Rick because he had deeper issues.”

She chews her lip. I know she’s holding in her opinion. And I’m not going to pry. I don’t give a flip what Barbie thinks about
it. Well, I care a little. “All right, what do you want to say?” I blurt.

“That was really hard for Rick. I just thought if he finally apologized it might help you deal with it.”

If she’s saying what it seems like she’s saying, I think I’m going to barf. It means that whole session was a lie. “Are you
telling me you made him apologize to me?”

“Come on. No one makes Rick do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

Well, she’s right about that. No one can make him do what he doesn’t want to do and no one can make him stop doing something
he wants to do. But that’s not the point here. And she knows that. I can tell by the quiver in her voice that she’s hiding
something. “But you are the one who suggested it?”

“Oh, all right, Claire, if you’re going to pin me down. Then yes, I told him it would be a gesture of goodwill. And that you
needed to hear him apologize for closure.”

How did she know? How does she always know the right thing to do? My breath leaves me in a cloud as I give a sigh. “If you
had to tell him to do it, it wasn’t real.”

She stops walking and stares at me. In the lights glowing above the football field, I see anger. “You’re too hard to please,
Claire. You want everyone else to do the giving, but you’re not willing to budge. I might have suggested to my husband that
he apologize for the pain he caused, but no one could have faked those sobs. You left and he cried for another half hour.
And you know what? Those tears weren’t for him. They were for you.” With that, Darcy whips her five-foot two-inch frame around
and leaves me standing there in the cold.

“I just bet they were for me,” I mutter into the night. I stomp toward the abandoned field. Only a few stragglers remain.
Mostly kids, goofing off. I spot Trish.

“Hey, Trish. Have you seen Ari?”

She looks a little nervous, which instantly raises my suspicions. I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but when
a kid says “uh” in response to a direct question, there’s no getting around it. Someone is doing something they’re not supposed
to be doing. And by “someone” I mean my precocious daughter. “All right. Spill it. Now.”

“She’ll kill me, Ms. Everett.” Like that’s supposed to induce sympathy.

“Spill it.”

“She’s by the bleachers.”

“Thank you.” My gut clenches as I conjure up all the stuff she could be doing “by the bleachers.” Drugs, drinking, smoking… the possibilities.

I think about calling out so she can stop whatever she’s doing, thereby relieving me of the necessity of confronting yet another
issue. But I’m starting to get mad enough at the thought of her doing any of those things that I want to catch her red-handed.

I walk around the side of the bleachers. I’m tempted to close my eyes. Hear no evil, see no evil, stay sane another day. But
I keep them open and face my daughter’s truth. I stop short. A wave of dizziness washes over me. There, at the end of the
risers, I see my cheerleader daughter, leaned back against the bleachers in what has to be the most uncomfortable position
in the history of make-out sessions. Patrick is practically on top of her. I see red. As if things aren’t bad enough, now
I catch my daughter being groped in public by the preacher’s son.