The Mrs. Degree (Accidentally in Love 2)

Penelope: Asking me not to argue is like asking Skipper not to wear her pony costume to the grocery store.

Me: SHE DID NOT.

Penelope: She did. You should have seen the look on my brother’s face when your daughter went galloping out of the house and climbed into his car.

Me: My daughter. Do you have any idea how much I love the sound of those two words? I swear, I’ll never get used to them.

Penelope: LOL. It’s the little things in life.

And I won’t take it for granted.

Penelope: So what next?

Me: You keep thinking over what we discussed, and when you’re ready, we can discuss it again.

Me: And I hate to have to say this, but we’re going to have to see each other soon. I KNOW, I know—shitty of me to bring it up given that you just told me you feel guilty about it, but yesterday made me feel a certain kind of way.

Penelope: What did you have in mind?

Me: I don’t know—something we can do as a family?

Penelope: Hmm. Well. Actually, I do have something in mind if you’re willing to come back to town next week…

And that’s how I found myself on the Tilt-A-Whirl one week later, spinning around and around, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap so fewer people recognize me—but there are a shit ton of people at this Family Fun Fest, and most of them are staring.

I’m going to barf.

Why the hell am I on this ride?

I hate the Tilt-A-Whirl.

The last time I was on it, I was probably twelve and threw up on Becky Albright’s new white sneakers.

“We’re going to have to go on something slow after this one. I need to settle my stomach.”

Skipper pulls at my shirt sleeve. “You need a Sprite. Mom always gives me clear soda when my tummy hurts.” Her hair whips in the air, the pony mane atop her head is topped off by a crown, glittering and sparkling for the occasion as it catches the sun.

“I’m fine, kiddo.” I just need everyone to stop talking to me until we’re off this godforsaken ride. Not sure if I’ll be able to walk straight or if I’ll be a tippy canoe, cockeyed as if I were hungover.

It’s happened to me before.

I cannot do twirly, swirly rides.

Desperate to make eye contact with the young guy operating this ride, hoping that I can telepathically make him stop the ride before it’s over, I inhale deeply in and out. In and out.

In and… “Oh shit.”

“Jack, are you going to puke?”

“Don’t say puke,” I moan, clutching the side of the ride. “Wasn’t this supposed to be tame? This is worse than the wheel of torture.”

“What’s the wheel of torture?”

I manage to wave a hand precariously through the air. “That Ferris wheel thing in California with Mickey’s giant face on it.”

Skipper giggles, clutching the metal bar keeping us from flying off the ride and into the spinning core.

Stop, I pray silently. Please don’t.

My own child is out to get me even though she doesn’t know she’s my child.

“Whose idea was this?” I groan.

“Yours.” Penelope laughs, looking all kinds of adorable in her bright yellow skirt and sneakers, boobs looking incredible in a white ribbed tee shirt. “You said you wanted something we could do as a family.”

Sunshine.

She smells good, too. I know because I took a whiff.

I flew in yesterday for the carnival in town, a fundraiser for a new youth student center the city is hoping to raise money for, an entire city block blocked off for rides, food, and fun.

This ride?

Not fun.

“You need bubbles, Jack,” Skipper says again, eyeballing me suspiciously, hair whipping around.

Soda. Bubbles.

A quiet bench in the shade where I can breathe into a paper bag…

“Jack, you don’t look so good. We can have them stop the ride?”

I nod. Pathetic, I know, but here we are.

“We can’t just make them stop the ride, Skip, but I appreciate you.”

Skipper pats me on the arm sympathetically. “Mom, we need to get Jack a soda.”

I glance up miserably. “How come neither of you are sick?” I can’t be the only one who wants to throw up over the side of the teacup.

Penelope shrugs. Or at least that’s what I think she’s doing. It’s hard to tell when there are four of her spinning in front of me. “I don’t know, babe. We just don’t.”

Is she yelling, or is it just me?

Finally, the speed of the ride decelerates.

Slows.

Cups stop turning, the attendant operating the ride making eye contact and walking over and THANK GOD it’s to release us first, and why are there suddenly four of him?

I wobble, trying to stand.

Skipper takes my elbow to guide me as if I were drunk at a frat house and need to be led to the door. “Here, Jack, this way.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Here, take my hand and follow me. We’ll grab you something quick to ease your stomach.” There’s a popcorn and hot dog stand not fifty feet away, and she hands over five bucks in exchange for a big gulp.