“What day are votes cast?” Grandmère wanted to know.
“Monday.” I narrowed my eyes at her. I’d wanted to throw her off the Michael scent, but now I wasn’t so sure this had been such a good idea. She seemed WAY too into the election thing. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” Grandmère leaned over, scooped up all the snail faxes, and dropped them into the ornate gilt trash can by her desk. “Shall we proceed with your lesson for the day, Amelia? I believe a little brushing up on our public speaking techniques might be in order, given the circumstances.”
Seriously. Is it not enough I am burdened with a psychotic best friend? Must my grandmother be losing her mind AT THE EXACT SAME TIME????
Tuesday, September 8, the loft
So as if this day hasn’t been long enough, when I got home just now, it was to find utter chaos reigning. Mom was bouncing a screaming Rocky in her arms, tearfully singing “My Sharona” to him, while Mr. G sat at the kitchen table, yelling into the phone.
I could tell right away something was wrong. Rocky hates “My Sharona.” Not that I would expect a woman who took her three-month-old to a protest rally where someone ended up throwing a trash can through a Starbucks window would remember which songs he likes and doesn’t like. But the “M-m-m-my” part actually makes him spit up, if you accompany it with jiggling, as my mom was doing, and she seemed oblivious to the white stuff all over her shoulder.
“What’s going on, Mom?” I asked.
Boy, did I get an earful.
“My mother,” Mom shouted, above Rocky’s screams. “She’s threatening to come here, with Papaw. Because she hasn’t seen the baby.”
“Um,” I said. “Okay. And that’s bad because…”
My mom just looked at me with her eyes all wide and crazy.
“Because she’s my MOTHER,” she shouted. “I do not want her coming here.”
“I see,” I said, as if this made sense. “So you’re—”
“Going there,” my mom finished, as Rocky’s screaming hit new decibels.
“No,” Mr. G was saying into the phone. “Two seats. Just two seats. The third person is an infant.”
“Mom,” I said, reaching out and taking Rocky from her, careful to avoid the spit-up still spewing from his mouth like lava from freaking Krakatoa. “Do you really think that’s such a good idea? Rocky’s a bit young for his first plane ride. I mean, all that recycled air. Someone with Ebola or something could sneeze and next thing you know, the whole plane could come down with it. And what about the farm? Didn’t you hear about all those schoo
l kids who got E. coli from that petting zoo in Jersey?”
“If it will keep my parents from coming here,” Mom said, “I’m willing to risk it. Do you have any idea what kind of minibar bill they racked up the time your father put them up at the SoHo Grand?”
“Okay,” I said, between verses of “Independent Woman,” which always has a soothing effect on Rocky. He is much more into R & B than rock. “So when are we going?”
“Not you,” Mom said. “Just Frank and me. And Rocky, of course. You can’t go. You have school. Frank’s taking a vacation day.”
I knew it had sounded too good to be true. Not the potential risks to my little brother’s health but, you know, that I might get to escape to Indiana, instead of facing election hell back at school and the potential breakup with my boyfriend.
Which reminded me.
“Um, Mom,” I said, as I followed her into Rocky’s room, where she’d apparently been engaged in putting away his clean laundry before Mamaw’s blow fell. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure.” Although my mom didn’t exactly sound like she was much in the mood to talk. “What?”
“Uh…” Well, she HAD told me once that I could talk to her about ANYTHING. “How old were you the first time you had sex?”
I fully expected her to say “I was in college,” but I guess she was so busy trying to cram all of Rocky’s MY MOMMY IS MAD AS HELL AND SHE VOTES onesies into his tiny dresser, that she didn’t think about what she was saying beforehand. She just went, “Oh, God, Mia, I don’t know. I must have been, what, about fifteen?”
And then it was like she realized what she’d just said and she sucked in her breath really fast and looked at me all wide-eyed and went, “NOT THAT I’M PROUD OF IT!!!”
Because she must have remembered at the same time I did that I am fifteen.
The next thing I knew, she was blathering a mile a minute.