Odd Mom Out

I like him.

More than I should.

Chapter Nine

The next morning, I wake up before six and my first thought is, It’s Friday, thank God. And then my next thought is, It’s Friday, and oh God, I hardly got anything done this week and the dinner with the Freedom Bike group is on Tuesday.

I’m still lying in bed, haven’t even been awake three minutes, and I already feel stressed.

Have to run.

I change into shorts and running shoes and leave the house before Eva’s even awake.

I’m just going down the street, a fast mile or two around the neighborhood just to clear my head.

I slept like crap last night. Couldn’t sleep properly, not with all the crazy dreams. The dreams were so real and vivid, too. Bellevue villas, beautiful moms laughing about the poor slobs on the B team, interspersed with my gorgeous mystery man, who is apparently either married to, or dating, Miss America.

I don’t understand any of the dreams, much less what my subconscious is trying to tell me.

Do I want a villa in Bellevue?

Am I longing to be on the A team?

Am I really that hung up on this mystery man who was dining with a beautiful brunette and drives a Land Rover?

No, no, and maybe, I think as I head back home, where I discover Eva’s awake and eating breakfast at the counter. She has the note I left her in front of her and the cereal box.

“You didn’t call me,” I say, wiping my damp brow on a hand towel from the powder bath.

“I didn’t need to,” Eva answers, reading the cereal box. “You said you’d be back by seven, and you were.”

“I just don’t want you scared—”

“I’m not a baby, Mom. We talked about this.”

“Right.” I start the coffee and turn to the refrigerator. “Am I making you lunch, or do you want hot lunch?”

“Hate hot lunch,” she sings, scooping more Special K with Berries into her mouth. Special K isn’t supposed to be her cereal, it’s mine, but she likes it better than any of the cereals I buy her.

“Right again.”

With the morning paper on the counter, I scan the headlines while making Eva’s lunch.

“Can we go to Barnes and Noble this weekend?” Eva asks while I bag the sandwich, which comes closer to jamming two sandwich halves into one snug plastic bag.

“Sure.” There are some CDs I’ve been wanting to pick up. It’d be a good chance to get them. “Is there something special you want to buy?”

“They have a book on hold for me. I wanted to pick it up and then look around for a while.”

“What book did you order?”

She shrugs. “Just a kid thing.”

My eyes narrow. Eva never reads kid things. “Is it something for school?”

“Kind of.” She smiles vaguely and shrugs. “But don’t worry. I’ve got my own money. I’m using my allowance.”

I wasn’t worried, and she doesn’t ask for that much, so I wouldn’t have minded buying the book for her.

What exactly is she buying, and what is she not telling me?

Lunch that day is spent at my desk. I eat my salad while trying to do three things at once to make up for the fact that I haven’t gotten nearly enough done this week.

A year after starting my own company, I can almost laugh at some of my mistaken assumptions, which included the thought that I’d have more control over my schedule by being my own boss, along with the assumption that by forming my own company and having my staff come here to work from my studio office, I’d be able to devote more time to Eva. The truth is, I’m even busier now than when I was a vice president for Keller & Klein.

Our Friday half days start at one, but today it’s already quiet, as Chris has gone to the gym—he’s religious about it. Allie’s meeting a friend for lunch, and Robert’s doing something, I just don’t know what.

The phone rings, but I ignore it. We have two phone lines in the studio, an office line and a personal line that also rings in the house. Susan answers the studio line, as I hate being distracted when I’m in the middle of drawing, brainstorming, or problem solving, but I’m the only one who answers the personal line.

“Marta, it’s your line,” Susan says from the photocopier behind me.

“I know.”

“You’re not going to answer?”

I stare harder at the computer screen, trying to finish proofing the copy so we can get the brochure order in with the printer today. “Nope.”

Susan, whose arms are now full of copies to collate, comes up behind me and glances at the number. “That’s the Points Elementary School office.”

I look at her. “Are you sure?”

“I know that number well.”

Drat. If it’s Eva’s school, I’ve got to pick up. “Marta speaking,” I say, trying to find the spot where I was just proofing.

“Marta Zinsser?”

“Yes,” I answer, scrolling down and beginning the next paragraph. Each of our print materials gets proofed by three sets of eyes to try to avoid mistakes, yet the last print job we did for the Château St. Michelle winery brochure had a glaring error that everybody missed, so now we’re doing the expensive job again, gratis.

“It’s Mrs. Dunlop from Points Elementary. I’m just calling to verify the contact info for all our new room mothers—”

“Room mothers?” I interrupt even as I place the cursor in the spot I was reading. I’m not a room mother. I just volunteered to pitch in now and then.

“The room parents are encouraged to have a meeting the second or third week of school, and your head room mom, Taylor Young, will be contacting you sometime today or tomorrow about scheduling that meeting.” She takes a breath. “So this is the correct number to reach you by phone?”

“It’s my home and work number.”

“Do you have a cell number?”

I giv

e it to Mrs. Dunlop even as I try not to panic. I’m not a real room mom. Taylor’s the room mom. I’m just helping serve punch at a class party.

Aren’t I?

“Any questions?” she asks brightly.

“Um, yes. Just one. If Taylor Young is the head room mom, what am I?”

“You’re the first assistant head room mom—”

“First assistant?”

“The next in command, after Taylor. But it’s unlikely that anything will happen to Taylor. Knock on wood.” She pauses, and I hear the distinct sound of knuckles rapping a desk.

“Knock on wood,” I echo fervently.

“Fantastic. Now don’t forget that I’m here, a resource if you ever need me, and look for that e-mail from Taylor. I imagine it’ll be arriving before the end of the day. Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Zinsser—”

“Ms.,” I correct automatically, thinking that this is a disaster in the making.

I do want to help in Eva’s class, and I anticipated contributing. Cupcakes, yes. Rice Krispies Treats, yes again. Holiday art project for sure.

But first assistant head room mom?

First assistant to Taylor Young?

Oh, this makes me nervous. This makes me think of bad things, hurt feelings, and lots of Advil.

On the bright side, Eva’s going to be thrilled.

I don’t get Taylor’s e-mail until late that night, as Eva and I head to Seattle to take my parents to pizza and a movie. Unfortunately, we’re not even halfway through the movie before we have to go, since Mom wouldn’t be quiet. She kept talking to the screen, having her own dialogue with Harrison Ford as though she and Harrison were starring in the film together.

With people practically screaming at Mom to shut up, we hauled her out of the theater and out into the lobby.

Dad’s grim as we exit through the front doors. I’m shaken. Eva’s undisturbed.

She takes my mom’s arm. “Poor Grandma,” she says, patting her back. “Those people were so mean, weren’t they?”

Dad and I walk behind Eva and Mom. Dad’s pale, almost ash toned. “I didn’t think this would work,” he says tightly. “I told you she wouldn’t do well in a theater.”