She says all the snotty little warlords (and -ladies) of high school are in for such a comeuppance when they graduate and find their little reign of terror is over. She says she hated high school when she attended, and anyone who doesn’t is very lucky.
She’s cool. And I believe she’s right.
Thank you, Ms. Spinetti.
I will always remember you, even when I’m like fifty and senile.
So in my quest for my career, I thought about being a journalist but then it seems like they are always either getting fired or murdered, so then I think, Or not.
I still haven’t decided what I’ll major in.
Not nursing. That is for sure. I get nauseated and horrified. Too much blood! This I know.
Even though I have no reaction to the sight of blood on the track when I’m skating. We skate, we fall down and slide and skin our arms and legs in a truly grisly manner, in spite of our pads, and I do not get the least bit distraught.
But still—not nursing.
Then I think, Well, I love the night sky; maybe I’ll be an astronomer. I’ll look out and back into deep space/time and figure out why the sun is about to explode or stop exploding or whatever crap they try to terrify us with every few weeks. Then I’ll predict apocalypses and raptures and such! I’ll post them and save us all so much aggravation!
Seriously, there’s a guy on Broadway who has a telescope and he shows people stuff like Saturn and its rings of colliding snowballs, or Mars, shining red, in “opposition,” when we can see it from Earth every two years. Once he showed me Io, one of the Galilean moons of Jupiter, as it “transited” across Jupiter’s face, pulling its little round shadow behind it like a wakeboard. It rocked!
When you look at the distant stars you are looking back in time. The light you see is so old that the star that made that twinkle could be dead by the time you see its light!
Check it out—that light, that is just now entering your eye, is at the end of a journey it has been making (at 186,282 miles a second—the speed of light) for billions of years/miles from when/where it began. The light left its star before our species—maybe even our star—had formed . . . then traveled all that time and space . . . to you.
I swear, it totally shivers my timbers.
However, I’ve heard astronomy as a profession is crazy competitive, and since I’m not likely to get into a big-name school, maybe I’ll just disappear. Learn to live off the land, go off the grid. I’ll vanish, never to be seen again, or only occasionally, like Bigfoot.
They’ll just find wiry clumps of indefinable (not to mention unmanageable) red hairs on tree branches from time to time, and they’ll know I’m still out there, gazing at stars and sewing with sticks.
Just me and ol’ Bigfoot—and his family, my new crew: the Bigfeet.
I’m not getting any writing done. I shut down the computer and climb gingerly into bed.
When I get home from school the next day Beau’s mom is in the living room.
I totally love Gina. She is really smart and she loves Beau like a mother grizzly and I think she rules. But the stuff she is doing to help us is kind of . . . well, frankly . . . it’s just gawd-awful.
It’s been gradual. It all started out okay: she painted Beau’s room, sort of gray-blue, which is cool and he liked it. Then she painted the bathroom because she had leftover paint. So that was cool, because the walls were a little mildewed and kind of disturbing. So far so good.
But next she decides to make us curtains, which is not necessary. I mean, I sew, remember?
But, moms, right?
So we just shrugged and let ’er go.
And, oh my goodness, did she ever.
She has all these “over-orders” from her interior designing biz, so she has made us different curtains in every room, which is fine, but the different fabrics are all so ornate, it looks like we live with Aladdin. Or rented the I Dream of Jeannie bottle.
I tell Beau I’m Jasmine, so he can choose if he wants to be Aladdin or Jafar.
He rolls his eyes and sighs.
Today I come in and she has this really thick gold fringe that you put on sofas or something, and she’s sewn it on this hunter green velvet valance that she is now hanging over one window’s green velvet drapes. It’s so fancy!
(Now I fear we live in Tara, the plantation in Gone with the Wind.... Dammit, Scarlett! I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies!)
I rotate and stand gaping. She hears me and turns on the stepladder.
“Oh, hi, honey! You’re home before Beau! What do you think—do you like it?”
“Um . . . yeah?” What am I gonna say? It’d be too mean to bag on her, in her happy place.
“Yeah! I just have all these roll ends lying around, so this way you have curtains and I have more space in my house!” She giggles like a teenager. She’s so tickled!
I laugh a little. Seriously, I couldn’t care less. (But it is sort of hideous—just saying.)
The door opens and Beau rolls in. He has a bunch of crap with him for graduation.
“Hey, Mom. I thought I saw the car when I went by.” Our driveway is so tiny she parks down the block.
Beau looks around at the different curtains. There are two big ones at the end of the living room that are the same but each of the other ones are made of different fabric. He starts to say something and then stops. Then he starts to say something again, and stops.
It’s very endearing. Also hilarious. I stifle my snickers.
“So . . . wow . . . Mom . . . you’ve been . . . busy.” He looks helpless. “This is certainly a lot of . . . stuff.”
He looks woefully around at the room of many colors. His mom nods energetically.
“It’s going to be much more private, which is good.” She gestures to the windows. “I didn’t like the idea of people just being able to look in here whenever you guys were home.”
“Yeah, but see, we had the blinds, so they couldn’t.”
“You can see through those blinds though, Beau. It was like a shadow play. This is much better.”
Beau opens his mouth to probably comment on something about the taste level of what looks like Peewee’s Psycho Playhouse but then he catches my eye and stops.
“It’s beautiful, Mom, thanks for all your hard work. No one will ever know we’re in here now!”
“Good . . . because now I want to talk to you about your party.” She climbs down the stepladder.
As Foghorn Leghorn might put it, Beau’s suspiration is audible as I leave the room. I limp upstairs, still grinning under my breath. My sore leg hurts a little.
I get a text as I enter my room and throw my bag on the bed. It’s from Bathsheba. My skate buddy, aka Bashy.
Bathsheba Goldberg. Her real name. Well, her actual first name is in Hebrew, so Bathsheba is the English version. She is my Rat Pack mentor and she is awesome.
Her text says: Im a call u!!! Before I’m done reading it my phone rings.
“Goo-friend! Whadaya doing?” She’s doing this horrible Rosie O’Donnell impression, which she’s been doing for about a week, since the coach told her she looks a little like a young Rosie O.
(If Rosie had blue hair like Marge Simpson, styled straight up like Goku from Dragon Ball Z.)
I laugh out loud.
“Baz, why did you text that you were going to call me, instead of just calling me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get interrupted! So listen, you got a minute? How about this: Helen A. Hand Truck. How good is that, huh?! Whadaya think?”
“Hmm . . . not bad. Not bad at all.”
“Also Ivana Blocker, but that might be taken by now.”
“That’s a good one too.”
We are thinking up my league name for when I’m officially a RCRG (Rat City Roller Girl).
Bathsheba is Bashy Bayou, which rocks! It makes me laugh still, even though I’ve heard it announced like a thousand times by now.
She’s a bumper. They’re the ones wh
o cut holes. They bust down the defense.
I’ll be a blocker. They keep the bumpers from doing their thing. And defend the jammers, the little ones that must get through. It’s a lot of wild screaming and echoing whistles and buzzers and speedy sprawling spills.
We scored when we started having our bouts in the Key Arena. The RCRG have The Key pretty much to ourselves now, ever since the Sonics went south. Oh, well. GO, Seahawks!
“So, Rusty, whadaya think . . . which one?”
“Dude, I think I like the Helen one best.”
“Helen A. Hand Truck! Yeah! It’s awesome! I about busted a gut thinking it up.”
“From laughing?” I ask, laughing myself.
“No! From thinking so hard.”
I start to explain that probably the correct usage of “busting a gut” implies “by laughter” and one does not usually bust one’s gut merely by thinking, unless it’s seriously funny.
But then I don’t.
I’m trying not to be such a huge know-it-all all the time. I get so I even annoy myself.
“Listen,” I say instead, “I need you to help me run interference at Beau’s party, so you have to get here early. Can you promise to be here by like seven?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No prob. It’s fine, I’m there. But why are you guys so afraid of his mom?”
“No, see, that’s the deal—we’re not afraid; it’s that we like her so much. We don’t want her to get laughed at when she is here with the party peeps, by saying some random mom thing, and then seeing people getting wasted and start to worry and say more stuff . . . you know.”
“So?” Bashy’s voice is leading.
“So what?” I’m not sure what she’s implying.
“Exactly! So what!! Why do you care if anyone busts on her? She will still be awesome and the same, they’ll go home. They’re not her kids so who cares?”
“Yeah, no, see, Beau. He cares. A lot. He is very protective of her, even though he bags on her more than anyone.”
“Omg, that is so illogical and sweet! I love Beau! He is so adorable!”
“Totally, but see the other thing is he wants to have fun turning eighteen. He doesn’t want to babysit his ma. He wants to do stuff that moms shouldn’t necessarily see.”
“Well, just do whatever where she won’t be looking. Sneak off.”
“Yeah . . . no. He’s just worried. He doesn’t even have a list of ‘very bad birthday plans,’ he just wants to relax and party. So that’s where we come in. You and I are going to chaperone Gina, and Matt, Beau’s stepdaddy. They are going to love you! You are going to be hilarious, and I am going to tell them all about how you are my skate mentor and then you can show them that really messed-up bruise on your leg and distract them. Then we’ll show ’em mine and the next thing we know it will be like ten o’clock, time for old folks to go home, and we’ll be all ‘would you look at the time!’ and escort them out, and then we can bring in the dancing bears and rodeo clowns!”
The boat horn blasting from Mount Saint Bashy can be properly described as “busting one’s gut.”
Beau’s big day is May twenty-eighth, but his party is the following Saturday night, chosen for maximum sleepover-ability.
If that’s not a word, it should be. It’s certainly a concept. I don’t want anyone driving.
I know, I know—everyone tells me I’m:
1) A Worrywart. 2) A Wuss. 3) Bossy. 4) Omg, SO Preachy. 5) All of the Above.
Still, know what?
I don’t care. The stakes are too high! I want my friends alive!
Friends don’t let friends drink and drive! Regardless of the amount of fun they get made of . . .
Bright and early Saturday morning Gina comes over. I’m already up when I hear her knock and let her in.
She’s immediately back on the stepladder, putting up crepe streamers in our school colors, since it’s only a few weeks till graduation. She’s good to go because she has been up for hours. I watch as the streamers spiral loopily across the ceiling, Gina humming cheerfully, while she creates her merry Mobius birthday banners.
Beau’s still in bed, but when he hears his mom he comes crashing down, all squinchy-faced with sleep and rocking a nearly lethal case of bed head.
“MOM! IT’S BARELY NINE A.M.! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!” He’s trying to screech at her from the stairwell but starts hacking instead as she bangs a tack into a streamer.
Gina jumps like ten feet. She’s in midair in the middle of the living room so I reach out to steady the stepladder. She turns to look at Beau.
He has a very vile demeanor. He puts his hands out like “chill!”
“STOP! It’s ALL GOOD! You have done ENOUGH! Just have some coffee and relax! Jeez!”
He stomps back upstairs. Gina looks at me. I shrug.
“Want some coffee?” I ask her. “It’s fresh.”
She gets down from the ladder and comes with me to the kitchen.
“Man! He is such a stinker! I thought we would be better by now—but no!” Gina’s irritated too.
I can feel for them both. They could use a chill pill—one apiece. I try to help.
“Nah, you guys are good; he just stayed up till like three this morning.”
“Again? Why?! What is the point of staying up all night?” She’s looking at me, all cross and baffled.
“Um . . . because he can?” I offer. “I dunno. Because he wasn’t tired?”
I stay up late too. No big. I think it’s because we’re still in our teens. I’ve heard you start to need to go to bed early when you get hella old. I begin to ask her if she feels that’s true but then I stop because I’m pretty sure it would come out wrong. I pour her some coffee instead. She sighs loudly.
“All I know is everything I do for him is awful! I’m so embarrassing, apparently, I should just be shoved out on an ice floe! Fine! I didn’t understand it was such a drag to have a mom! Whatever! Sorrrryy!!”
I pull a chair out from the table for her to sit on and she flops down. I smile a little, but only inside—outside I keep a straight face, because she is so miffed. She sounds like a kid herself—actually, she sounds just like Beau. Plus she folds her arms the same way Beau does when he’s mad.
I can tell her feelings are hurt so I try to take the edge off.
“No, Gina, it’s cool. You know your boy; he’s always tripping about something. I think maybe he just likes to fend for himself more, you know, make more choices . . . solo?”
She scowls. Takes a deep breath and tries to calm down.
“Yes . . . I do know . . . I can completely see what I’m doing, but it’s like I can’t stop myself! I just get so worried, and then I feel so awful over what a hard time he’s had, and how much fending for himself he has already done, without me even knowing about some of it—and then I think, Hey, I can still do things for him, and then, when I do, I realize he’s just humoring me, but it’s exactly like I’m addicted! Omg, I need help! I’m addicted to mothering and can’t stop!”
I laugh out loud this time, because she says it in this joking, self-deprecating way that is so cute, but I know she means it.
She cracks me up. She’s such a butt-in-ski . . . but so nice.
Just like my mom. It’s a mom thing, bless their lil’ hearts! They seriously cannot help it.
The first to arrive that evening is Bathsheba. She pounds on my bedroom door at like six thirty, and then—bam—it flies open. I’m sitting spellbound in front of the computer, fixated on the cave drawings in southwestern France. The ones from that Werner Herzog 3-D movie.
Just amazing. Even though this is ancient Cro-Magnon art, not Neanderthal, they’re still good research for my story.
I barely look up, I’m so used to Bashy breaking into my room. She hovers over my shoulder.
“Hey! What are you lookin’ at?” Her breath stirs my hair. She belches. I elbow her away. She pushes off my elbow and leans in so she can see the screen from her angle.
“Cave drawings, dude.
The last word in prehistoric cool,” I tell her.
“Dude, if they’re that hella old they’d be the first word, wouldn’t they? Ha HA!”
She punches my shoulder to punctuate her wit, which makes me accidentally click on some sad side-screen ad. We watch briefly, our faces wrinkling prematurely in horror, as a depressing barrage of bad stop-action animation ages a woman’s face super rapidly, then Botox steams out the wrinkles just as fast, delighting her till she does a tango with the Botox syringe—before it starts over and she wrinkles up again. The ad is aimed at my mom, apparently trying to depress her enough to get Botox injected into her brain or whatever they’re pitching.
“So stupid . . . my mom is super young by cave-art standards,” I say as the little jitterbugging Botox ad concludes and I grow absorbed again.
“Jeez,” says Bathsheba, as she basically falls backwards onto my bed. “Just shoot me if my face starts to morph outta control like that, okay? I mean . . . whoa.”
“Dude, absolutely,” I promise, nodding, as I reenter the caves. “With like a bear tranquilizer . . . especially if your face starts spazzing out that abruptly. Yeah, that would be just horrifying.” I’m muttering vaguely, because I’m becoming lost again, gazing raptly at the Panel of the Horses, which you should google because it is awesome.
But Baz ain’t havin’ it. She chucks my new blue pillow from Ross at me. It bounces off my head.
“Hey! Cave-butt! Cut the Fred Flintstone crap and focus! Here’s me, right on time: super early; totally demonstrating who’s got your back! Right?! So! What should I do?”
I look over at her, then laugh.
She sounds motivated but she’s sprawled on her back on my comforter (with her shoes on), foot crossed over her knee so one shoe dangles half off, hands folded comfortably behind her head, her eyes closed lazily. I laugh. Her expression reminds me of The Bomb.
I lob my Beanie Baby dragon that sits on my desk, so it lands on her gut. She regards it peacefully. I chuck my beanie kitty at her head too, for good measure. She blocks it. I laugh.
“Bashy, please don’t budge—you look too comfy!”
Rusty Summer Page 4