The Big Apple Effect

by Christy Goerzen

  “They seemed pretty excited to see Phantom of the Opera,” Thomas said.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking their side!” I said. “I know Anna’s your sister, but think about me for a second here!”

  “Sorry,” Thomas said. He took another nervous sip of his float.

  “My mother is here to ruin my life,” I said. That was becoming my new motto. I sucked up the last of my banana-split milkshake so hard that the sound echoed off the ceiling. The server asked if I wanted another. I nodded.

  And thus began the rant to end all rants. It seriously went on for a half an hour. Possibly longer.

  I found myself telling Thomas the whole story of my mother’s craziness. The summer adventures. The raw-food retreat where all we ate was zucchini and kale smoothies. The Wild Wonder Woman Weekend where we were supposed to howl into a hole dug out of the ground. The tarot card readings with Lady Venus. Our week at his family’s farm last summer.

  The whole time, Thomas looked like he didn’t know if he should say anything.

  “Did you hear that she feng shui-ed your parents’ garden shed?”

  Thomas laughed. “My parents are pretty polite people. All they said was that your mom was ‘an interesting lady.’” He laughed again. “Anna, on the other hand, told me about it in great detail.”

  “I know you don’t know my mom,” I said, “but she seems crazy, right?”

  Thomas finally took the bait. “I can’t believe she just showed up! I totally didn’t know what to do when you and Anna ran off.”

  Oh right. He was forced to spend at least fifteen minutes of quality Lynn Turner one-on-one time when Anna and I were in the bathroom.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I was in shock.”

  “Completely understandable,” Thomas said. “Almost immediately, she grabbed my palm and told me I’d have three kids and a great love life.” He shuddered.

  Then we both laughed at the same time. When the server brought me my milkshake, it had a lit birthday candle sticking out of it.

  Thomas was the sweetest, cutest boy ever.

  “I wish Sam were here,” he said with a sigh. “She could sing a proper happy birthday to you.”

  Thomas was the sweetest, cutest boy ever with a girlfriend.

  We finished our milkshakes and then headed home. I felt a little better, at least.

  I pretended to be asleep when Anna and my mom got home later that night, giggling and singing “the Phantom of the Opera is here, inside my mind” in ultra-dramatic voices.

  Soon enough, my mom rustled into her sleeping bag on the floor, squished up right next to the futon. The apartment fell silent. All was quiet, except for a few sirens and car horns out on the street. That, and my mom’s rumbling, garbage-truck-like snores. I pulled the pillow around my ears.

  I couldn’t sleep anyway. The over-whelming sense of fury and betrayal kept me awake. This was supposed to be the best week of my life, but it was fast becoming one of the worst.

  After a while a word popped into my head. Canvas. I couldn’t forget about the main reason I was there. My big night was only two sleeps away, and I still hadn’t found an outfit. With my mom there, I wasn’t sure if I ever would.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, I woke up to my mom kneeling next to me, breathing in my face.

  “Madison,” she said into my ear.

  I opened one eye.

  “It hurt my feelings that you didn’t come to the show with me last night,” my mom said.

  “I hurt your feelings?” I croaked.

  My mom sniffed and raised her chin. “I saved up all year for those tickets.”

  “I saved up all year for this trip,” I said, at the exact time that Thomas emerged from the closet, looking adorable and scruffy.

  My mom didn’t hear me. She was already dragging Thomas over to the table, going on about reading his tarot cards.

  I rolled over. Anna wasn’t in bed. I figured she must have already been in the shower. I needed to talk to her. Taking a mug of coffee, I waited outside the bathroom.

  “Traitor,” I said when she came out.

  She didn’t look at me.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” If this had been in a movie, I would have splashed the coffee in her face and stormed off. Instead, I just kicked the wall lightly.

  “I had fun last night. I’ve always wanted to see that show,” she said. She said it all in her classic, matter-of-fact way. This only made me angrier.

  “It was my birthday!” I half shouted. “You left in the middle of my birthday dinner.”

  “I had spent all day with you, doing everything you wanted to do,” Anna said.

  I turned and stomped down the hall. There was nowhere to be alone in Thomas’s apartment. I plopped on my stomach on the futon.

  I checked my phone. I had a new email.

  To: Madison Turner

 

  From: Canvas Magazine

 

  Dear Maddie:

  We look forward to meeting you at the Canvas Youth Portrait Contest art show opening tomorrow evening! A driver will pick you up at the address you provided at 6:30 pm to escort you to the Bolt Gallery.

  Best wishes,

  Carl Robertson

  Editor, Canvas Magazine

  A driver! I couldn’t believe it. I felt like a famous artist. I read the email again.

  “Anna!” I burst out into the hallway. Then I remembered that she and I had just had a mini-fight. I decided not to care.

  “Serious?” Anna exclaimed, when I told her. “Just like in the movies!”

  We happy-danced in the hallway.

  “Maddie!” my mom called. She was all smiles. “Thomas got the Three of Cups, and you know what that means.”

  I didn’t know and didn’t reply.

  “He’s going to take me shopping,” she said.

  “I am?” he said. His voice came out like a breathy shriek.

  “You’re a fashionable city man,” my mom said.

  “I am?” he repeated. He gave his holey T-shirt and old jeans the once-over. He looked at me.

  My mother had never once asked me to help her shop for clothes, despite my in-depth knowledge of European fashion designers. Her flirting with Thomas was beyond sickening.

  “But what about my dress?” Now I was speaking in a shriek. “I’m looking for my ultimate outfit. I need it by tomorrow night!”

  “Maybe we’ll find something for you too.” My mom put her arm around my shoulder.

  “Thomas,” Anna called from the doorway. “Can you come here a sec? I think the toilet’s plugged.”

  “I don’t know anything about toi—” he started to say, but Anna’s stare stopped him. “Coming,” he said quickly. Anna cut me a quick glance.

  “I’ll help,” I said. The three of us scurried out.

  I decided to put aside my anger toward Anna. I still thought she should apologize, but this was solidarity time. We had to be united against one powerful force: Lynn Turner.

  A minute later, the three of us were crammed in the tiny toilet room. This was getting to be a thing.

  “She has a minute-by-minute itinerary planned out for each day,” Anna said. “It includes doing tai chi and eating organic mung bean sprouts.”

  I shook my head. “We cannot let her hijack this.”

  “I kind of feel bad,” Anna said. “I went to the play with her and all.”

  I took Anna by the shoulders. “That was a lapse in judgment,” I said. “We can’t let her get away with ruining our trip like this.”

  “You can leave anytime, Thomas,” Anna said. “Don’t feel you have to be here for this train wreck.”

  I could see he was tempted. But then he said, “Some train wrecks are interesting to watch.”

  We all laughed.

  “But what are we going to do about the shopping?” Thomas said, aghast. “I don’t know anything about ladies’ clothe
s.”

  Sometimes, the best ideas come to me in a flash of inspiration. “I know exactly what we’re going to do,” I said.

  I proceeded to lay out my plan of brilliance.

  “That seems mean,” Thomas said.

  Eventually, I convinced them. Thomas took notes on his phone. We all high-fived. This was going to be awesome.

  Chapter Nine

  The rest of that morning was operation “go along with whatever Lynn wants to do.” It looked something like this:

  9:53 AM: Lynn reads the palm of a complete stranger on the subway.

  10:08 AM: Lynn has a psychic vision of angels on the top of the Empire State Building.

  10:47 AM: Lynn asks guy selling newspapers which street Saks Fifth Avenue is on.

  11:24 AM: Lynn tells a Starbucks barista that her aura is purple and that love is coming to her soon. The barista just broke up with her boyfriend that morning.

  In our past summer adventures my mom had always embarrassed me in front of hippies. Now she was embarrassing me in front of all of New York City.

  Anna, Thomas and I shot each other glances all morning long. After lunch at a raw-food café, it was time for the main part of the plan of brilliance. My arugula, goji berry and nutritional yeast salad still sat like a clump of earthy gloop in my stomach.

  We passed store after funky clothes store. It pained me that we weren’t able to go into them, considering how desperate I was for my perfect art-show outfit. But I had to stick to the plan. I giggled with diabolical pleasure just thinking about it.

  On the Upper West Side we passed a used clothing store called Lulu’s. I looked in and saw lots of polyester and crazy prints. I elbowed Thomas.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Lynn,” he said, turning to my mom and holding out his hand, which she gleefully accepted. “The time to shop is now.”

  “Really?” she said, peering in the window. “Yay!”

  “Remember what I told you,” I muttered to Thomas out of the side of my mouth.

  Thomas nodded and squared his shoulders. “Let’s do this,” he said.

  Twenty minutes later, a salesgirl had already taken four handpicked Thomas outfits back to my mom’s dressing room. He was way better at this than I could ever have expected.

  Anna and I sat on a narrow bench next to the mirror by the dressing rooms. Thomas joined us, wiping sweat off his brow.

  “You’re doing great,” I said to Thomas.

  After a few minutes my mom came out of the dressing room and twirled around. I had to turn away. There was no way I could hold back my huge smile. She had on a mauve skirt that went almost to the tops of her sneakers, and a blue shirt with silver patches on the shoulders. She looked like a nurse from the Planet Zorgon.

  “Looks great,” Anna said. She had a wicked poker face. Thomas gave the thumbs-up sign.

  My mom checked the price tag. She made a face. “Do you think this looks good on me?” she asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Thomas answered. “Very on-trend.” He was getting into it.

  She tried on more outfits. In the next one she looked like a librarian from a 1983 Sears catalogue. After that she tried on an orange dress with buttons down the front. Thomas convinced her that the housedress was making a comeback.

  “Believe me,” he said. “I watch Project Runway.”

  “Well,” my mom said, “you’re the expert.” She handed the Planet Zorgon outfit and the orange housedress to the salesgirl. “I guess I’ll take these ones,” she said.

  I cackled quietly to myself as I headed out to the racks again, looking for more outfits for my mom. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “I don’t know how I feel about the plan anymore,” Thomas said, his forehead all wrinkled up. Adorably, I might add. “We’re not actually going to let your mom buy those hideous clothes, are we?”

  “Yes, we are,” I said, flitting past him. “She deserves it after all she’s put me through.”

  As I flicked through a rack of paisley jackets, I spotted a pop of green, above my line of vision. I looked up, and it was like choirs of angels sang from the heavens. Sparkles of light rained down from the skies. Hanging on the wall above the rack was the most gorgeous dress I’d ever seen. It was a luscious deep green, like the skin of a perfectly ripe watermelon. I jumped up and grabbed the dress hanger off the wall.

  Please let it be my size, I thought. I checked the tag. Yes.

  I ran to the dressing room and put it on in about one excited minute. I dashed out to inspect myself in the mirror.

  My mom was there, now wearing light blue jean shorts and a coral-colored quilted jacket.

  “Wow!” she said. “Maddie!” She stared at me up and down. “If you don’t get that dress, I’m going to buy it for you!”

  The dress was sleeveless, with a high, loose collar and big pockets. There were oversized black buttons down the front. It would be amazing with black tights, ankle boots and a blue clutch.

  Tears pricked my eyes. I felt like I was on one of those shows where the bride finally finds her perfect wedding dress.

  Thomas and Anna walked back into the dressing room area. I spun around, speechless.

  “Looks nice,” Thomas said. “Really nice,” he added.

  Anna sucked in a breath. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. I had found it at last. My perfect art show-outfit.

  I did another spin. I caught a glance of my mom in the mirror, behind me. She looked at me, her eyes shining with motherly love.

  I had what I can only describe as a conscience attack.

  I turned around and looked my mom over.

  “Mom,” I said. “I saw a pencil skirt and vintage Chanel blouse that would be perfect for you.”

  I whisked said items off the rack near the back of the store. On my way to the dressing room, I grabbed a black patent handbag. Gorgeous.

  Moments later, my mom came out of the dressing room again. This time, no alien costume or ugly librarian outfit.

  Mom looked like a knockout.

  Thomas, Anna and I made all the appropriate oohs and ahs.

  She looked at herself in the mirror like she’d never seen herself before.

  Then Anna whispered to me, “What the heck? What about your plan of brilliance?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “Something came over me.”

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you,” Anna said, shaking her head. “But you did the right thing.”

  I had found my perfect outfit, with one day to spare. I sailed through the rest of the day. I didn’t even groan when my mom tried to haggle over a pair of socks at the front counter.

  I hadn’t forgiven her, not even close, but I felt like being generous with the whole world at that moment.

  Unfortunately, the feeling would turn out to be temporary.

  Chapter Ten

  The next day, it was just my mom and me.

  “Thomas and I are going to do some brother-and-sister stuff this morning,” Anna had announced at breakfast.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Central Park,” Anna said. “Typical touristy stuff.”

  Thomas didn’t meet my eyes. Maybe he felt guilty. Anna didn’t seem to.

  We agreed to meet outside the Guggenheim Museum at two o’clock.

  Thomas and Anna left, and Mom was in the shower. I lay on my stomach on the futon. This was the day I’d been anticipating for a whole year, but this wasn’t quite what I’d imagined.

  Part of me felt abandoned. Part of me, though, could understand why Anna and Thomas wanted some sibling time on their own. They hadn’t seen each other in a year. Also, things had been pretty crazy the past few days. I wished I had a brother or sister to hang out with—someone else who’d understand how nuts my mom was.

  I took out my notebook with my list of all the things I’d wanted to do in the city. Of the one hundred and thirty-four things, I’d done only twenty-six. There were only two and a half days left. I quickly did some math on my pho
ne. If I wanted to do everything before I left, I would have to do 43.2 things per day. I hadn’t been to Brooklyn yet, or to any museums, or to Strand Bookstore.

  I hadn’t told my mom about all the things I wanted to do. My trip to New York had been so special to me that I hadn’t shared it with her. I didn’t think she’d get it.

  If I wanted to have any chance of doing 43.2 things that day, though, I decided I had to.

  Surprisingly, my mom was into checking out galleries. “I like art,” Mom said. “I sure do like that Andy Warhole.” She pulled up her leggings under her peasant skirt. Despite the awesome outfit I’d found for her the day before, she insisted on donning her hippie gear again.

  “Warhol, Mom, Warhol.” It was going to be a long day.

  We took the subway to the Museum of Modern Art. My mom only tried to give one old lady a reiki treatment during the ride.

  Maybe this will turn out okay, I thought. I was actually pleased at the chance to give my mom a glimpse into my love of art. Maybe it would give her a better understanding of my passions.

  The Museum of Modern Art was my very own heaven. I gasped at everything, from the high ceilings in the galleries to the Picasso paintings. My mom thought Frida Kahlo’s paintings were “weird” and Matisse’s were “interesting.”

  “Don’t you love his attention to texture?” I said to my mom, gazing at a Jackson Pollock, with its splotches of paint covering a huge canvas.

  “Mom?” I said, glancing around. She had just been with me.

  I didn’t see her. But then, moments later, I heard her laugh.

  My mom doesn’t laugh like a regular person. It starts out like a honking guffaw and quickly becomes a series of pig snorts when she really gets going. I heard the pig snorts echoing around the corner, near the Warhol exhibit.

  There, in front of the famous painting of the tomato soup can, was my mom. She was standing with another lady who looked just like my mom. The lady had long, scraggly blond hair with a sparkly blue scarf tied in it and silver rings on every finger. She wore a long flowy skirt and a leather vest.

  They looked like a new exhibit at the museum: “Fortysomething New Age Hippies of the Pacific Northwest.”