Playing Nice (6 page)

"Do you have a date yet?" my mom asks as we walk into Hobby Lobby. "Please tell me it's not Sam Higgins again." She rolls her eyes. Along with asking me out in a text, Sam broke my parents' three cardinal rules of dances. 1) Be on time. 2) Bring a corsage. 3) Don't smell like your father's cow farm.

I have few more secret rules. 4) Don't wear boots. 5) Hair gel is meant to be used in small amounts. 6) All undershirts must have sleeves. 7) No camouflage, flannel, jersey, or pink shirts. And finally, and this is the most important, 8) Slow dance.

When I'm slow dancing, I like to pretend we're in some romantic movie, like
Dirty Dancing
or
Step Up
, and we're doing something dangerous and sexy. Plus, I get to press myself against a boy and lately that's all I want to do. I blame it on my hormones and lack of sexual encounters. Plus, it's safe. Everyone in town expects kids to slow dance. It's a completely acceptable activity.

"Sarah and I are going stag," I say.

My mom stifles a laugh. "If one of you doesn't get a boyfriend soon, this town is going to think I have a lesbian for a daughter."

"
Mom
." I look around to see if any of the old ladies perusing the store at nine in the morning heard her. I can't believe she just said
lesbian
on a Saturday in Hobby Lobby.

"I'm just saying: my daughter is beautiful and smart and deserves the best boyfriend Minster has to offer." Mom smiles at me and tucks my hair behind my ears. "Maybe if you pull your hair back and show off those gorgeous cheekbones, a boy will notice you."

I force a laugh; really, the comment stings. Sometimes when my mom thinks she's being funny or kind, she's really hurting me. But I know she means well and only wants me to be the best person I can be, so I swallow the lump in my throat and leave my hair behind my ears.

"So, what've you come up with?" she asks as we grab a cart at the front of the store.

I take the piece of paper with my dance decoration ideas out of my purse. It looks more like an architect's blueprint. Last week, I went to the gym and copied down all the dimensions I'd be working with. I almost made a diorama, like the ones you build in elementary school out of an old shoebox, but I thought that might be taking it too far.

"The theme I've come up with is, 'Two is Better than One'," I say as we push down the first aisle. It's crowded with different spools of yarn arranged by color.

My mom walks over to the pink section and picks up a magenta-colored spool. "Um-hmm," she says, closed mouth. "This color is pretty, don't you think?"

A rock drops in my gut.
Oh crap
. "It is pretty. I love magenta."

Mom puts it back and walks farther down the aisle, running her hand over the different yarns, not saying a word. I follow behind her, my mind racing with what to say.

"The theme has a double meaning. Two people are better than one, and the second amendment allows people to bear arms." I look at her, hoping for eye contact.

It doesn't happen. My mom rubs a fuzzy aqua spool against her cheek.

"Um-hmm," Another closed mouth response, her eyes on the yarn. "This feels great on the skin. Maybe I'll buy it for Mrs. Schneider. She's a great knitter. You know those wool socks I wear all winter? She made those."

This is worse than I ever could have imagined. Mom's talking to me about Mrs. Schneider, a mean old lady from church who smells like mothballs and foot cream. I start to fidget, wringing my hands, as my stomach flip-flops over and over.

"I figured we could decorate the gym in fake trees and leaves with Cupid hiding in the branches." My heart pounds as my mom places the blue yarn in our basket. I clutch my sketch, a physical representation of all the hours I've spent thinking about this dance, of the seventeen pieces of white paper I covered in different theme ideas until they turned black with words.

"I think I'll ask her to make you a sweater. Blue is a great color on you. Would you like that?" My mom still won't look away from the yarn. Yarn that I'm sure is pokey and uncomfortable when made into a sweater that will make me sweat in the dead of winter. A sweater that will constantly remind me of this moment, and how awful my mother's icy answers felt.

"That would be nice," I say. I take a deep breath, one that pushes all the oxygen I can suck out of the air into the deepest part of my lungs. And then I ask the question I know I have to. "What do you think of my idea?"

My voice curls up on the ends with extra sugar, as I hope against hope that my mom will hear my plea.

She pushes the cart down the aisle, moving away.

"I think it's fine, dear."

Fine
.

The world's worst word. It doesn't mean what the dictionary says. Fine should be a synonym for good, but it's good's ugly, pimple-faced younger brother who smells like B.O. and could never get a girlfriend. Fine is terrible. I close my eyes and stuff my drawing back in my purse, weeks and weeks of work crushed with one word.
Fine
.

We walk in silence for a minute, rounding the corner into the colored cardboard aisle. The green and brown paper practically screams at me, broadcasting what could have been. All the fake leaves and trees that would have been designed for the dance are going to stay in Hobby Lobby for someone else to buy.

I swallow my disappointment, a rock slowly choking its way down my throat, and ask the question I know my mom wants to hear. "What would you do?"

She stops the cart and finally looks at me. Her eyes are twinkling. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. She's gone into senior class president mode. She had the same sparkle when she remodeled our kitchen, like she could barely contain her joy as she bashed down the walls of my grandma's house.

"Do you really want to know?" she asks, voice in full-blown Disney character mode.

I nod, even though I want to cry. I remind myself that her idea is going to be good. My mom would never want me to fail, so it's probably best I do whatever she says.

"If I were in charge, I'd use the theme, 'Shot Through the Heart'." Mom's eyes get big as she expands on the idea. "I would hang red heart bull's-eyes all over the gym and have little Cupids holding shotguns."

"What about the fake trees?" I ask, hoping one of my ideas will survive.

"Marty, no one thinks a forest is romantic." My mom starts loading the cart with red and pink cardboard. "You want to be remembered, right?"

I nod again, moving my head without thinking.
Smile and don't move. Smile and don't move
.

"I do," I say.

"'Shot Through the Heart,'" Mom repeats. "It's going to be great."

***

We get in line to pay, our cart full of all the things my mom has picked out that will make the Hot Shot Dance a night to remember. Pink and red paint, big sheets of white paper on which to write out her theme: "Shot Through the Heart". Glitter and glue and sequins to make the gym come alive.

I push the cart up to the cashier, trying my best to be excited about what's in the bin.

"We forgot the glue gun," my mom says. "Run and grab one, please."

I walk back down the yarn aisle, taking my time.
The dance will be great
, I remind myself. And my mom means well. She really does. She has a knack for these things; she can't help it if her creative mind takes over.

A black spool of yarn with silver specks intertwined in the thread catches my attention. It reminds me of something Lil would like. It's weird that even though I don't know her, I feel as though I do. Maybe it's because she wears who she is right on her skin and in her words.

Lil didn't speak a word to me in English yesterday. She didn't even look in my direction.

"You can't have your seat back, Jock Strap," is all she said when Alex walked down the row toward her. He didn't respond, just smiled at me and went to his new seat. Lil stared forward and picked at her nails for the rest of class. By the end, she had stacked a huge pile of black polish in one corner of her desk. She didn't even throw it out when she left.

Just looking at the yarn makes a bubble of frustration rise in my stomach. Not at Lil. At myself. It makes me want to tear off my skin and crawl into someone else's. Someone like Lil, who says what she wants, who can sleep with any boy and not care and smoke cigarette after cigarette out in the open for the whole town to see. Who can say
you smell like virgin
and
I want to get laid
and '
Shot Through the Heart' is a terrible theme because no one cares about Bon Jovi anymore!

I take a breath. And then another. And another. Once my blood pressure eases back to normal, I put the yarn down, grab the glue gun, and find my mom at the front of the store. She's talking to Mrs. Rogers, Pippa's mom, when I walk up behind them.

"Did she honestly think changing her daughter's last name would make a difference? We all know she's back," Mrs. Rogers whispers.

My mom leans in closer. "Poor Marty had to show the girl around school." She shakes her head. "I just hope she stays far away from us."

Lil?
I hold my breath, wishing I were invisible so they would keep talking; but at that moment, my mom turns and finds me standing there, glue gun pointed directly at the two of them.

"Found it." I shrug and smile.

"Marty." My mom tucks my hair behind my ears and smiles. "We were just talking about you."

"Hi, Mrs. Rogers," I say.

"Your mom was telling me how spectacular the Hot Shot Dance is going to be. It was always my favorite when I was in high school." Mrs. Rogers grabs a basket and hooks it over her arm. I grit my teeth, squeezing my jaw so tight I feel like enamel might chip off.

"I'm excited," I squeak out.

"It was good to see you, Marilyn," my mom says as she ushers me toward the door.

"You too."

They eye each other for a second before Mrs. Rogers takes out her cell and turns toward the scrapbooking aisle.

"What about the glue gun?" I ask.

My mom places it on one of the cashier stations. "We'll get it some other time."

Back in my room, I sit on my bed next to the Hobby Lobby bag full of decorations and rub the ear of the gray stuffed rabbit my grandma gave me when I was a baby.

We never named animals on the farm when I was younger. Harder to eat a burger when you'd named the cow Sally
, Grandma would say. So I never named him.

I replay my mom's conversation with Mrs. Rogers over and over, trying to understand what they meant. Did Lil change her last name? And they said
back
, which means Lil's been here before?

But every few seconds, out of the corner of my eye, I'll see the pink and red cardboard sticking out of the top of the bag and start singing, Bon Jovi's song "You Give Love a Bad Name". Then I picture Jon Bon Jovi's gigantic blonde-highlighted 80's hair and the way he dresses like an eighteen year old when he's really, like, eighty, and I get distracted. When my brain gets too clouded over, I decide maybe I need to write some words down and get them out of my mind.

When I'm done, I pull my dance design out of my purse and tear it into scraps of paper so tiny it can never be put back together. I throw them into the garbage and flop back down on my bed.

I'm staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I put on my ceiling in junior high when my computer dings with an email.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

I can practically smell u thru this computer.

I look around my room, bubbly nerves shooting through me. The email address is one I've never seen before. I check my armpits. They don't smell. I put on two layers of deodorant today and vanilla perfume.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

I don't mean 2 b rude, but who is this?

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Why do u always say things u don't really mean? Of course, ur being rude. I just sent u a weird email. While we r on this topic, what person under the age of 30 uses email?

I gape at the response, my stomach twisting in all sorts of contorted positions, tangled partly with anger and partly with intrigue: who could possibly email me like this? I want to type back that email is underappreciated by young people. If I can't live in a time when actual letter writing is cool, at least I still have email. Plus, how else is my future husband going to send me love letters? I'm sure not saving text messages from him to show my kids. Then it clicks. Only one person makes me feel this way.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Lil?? How did u get my email?

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Ms. Everley thought I might need it. Ur coming to a party with me tonight, Pollyanna.

A party?
I sit back in my seat and stare at the email. The clock ticks on my nightstand; my favorite DVD,
West Side Story
, leans against it. My Saturday night plans. I love when Tony and Maria sing 'Somewhere'. It always makes me cry. Romeo and Juliet put to song. Could there be anything better?

Two days ago, I would have said no. Now, I don't know the answer. I look at my no-name rabbit and the patch of material I've worn down to the stuffing. Why do I always rub in the same place? Because it's safe? Because my fingers automatically go there? It's worn so thin almost nothing is left, yet the rest of him is fluffy, practically new. My computer dings again; another email.