Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “Head’s up!”

  What is Mags shouting about?

  I look up. A soccer ball aims straight for my face.

  Bam.

  Pain sears through my forehead and my eyes sting and my cheeks burn and I can’t see, can’t feel-

  “Piper!” Hunter shouts but the pain, oh my, the pain and the blackness creeping in from both sides of my head.

  My legs wobble and then the cold, sick darkness takes over.

  The rest of the afternoon is something of a blur. Not like a wild, I'm-so-drunk-I-can-barely-remember-the-evening kind of blur, but more of a holy-wow-excruciating-pain-Batman kind of blur.

  I remember Mags holding my hand as I wake up, then she rushes into a flurry of conversation about how if I wasn’t so easily distracted by hot pieces of asses then I would have been able to catch the ball like a human being. Then of course there was Mom screaming at her to stop arguing and to go get a pillow.

  Fighting my way through the chaos, I stand up. “Can I just go home?”

  “But you haven’t had any pig yet!” Aunt Elise stomps her foot and Ted hurries to hush her.

  “Jesus, Elise, she’s just gonna puke it back up again,” Mags huffs and earns herself yet another talking to from our mother.

  Hunter, eyes wide, watches the commotion with a raised brow and an adorable, boyish curiosity.

  “Save me.” I mouth the second he meets my eyes and before I know it, he has a to-go plate piled high and we’re rushing through the crowd.

  “Maybe if we move quickly enough, they’ll be too busy arguing that they won’t notice that we’re gone,” he says as he grabs my keys from my purse.

  “If only we could be so lucky.”

  Still, we try, and we make it within about three feet of the front door before the throng realizes that we’re going and jumps us.

  Or, at least it feels like they jump us. Really it’s more like they grab and hug and kiss us until my cheeks are raw and my ribs ache, but all in a sort of sweet way.

  Hunter grabs my hand and we slip through the door.

  Wait. Grabs my hand?

  The second he realizes what he’s done he drops it. My heart jumps and then plummets and wow now I’m confused.

  “That was not such a great escape, huh?” He asks as we make our way back to the car.

  “No.” I wipe the sweat of my palms off on my jeans and my head spins. Oh my, I think-

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “That’s rude. Especially since I could have taken a picture of you in an apron with pretty white daisies all over it.”

  “No, I don’t mean” –he straightens his back and I trip and stumble and then he catches me again- “dammit. I mean, you look great but like you are going to pass out, but great in other ways. Not that it’s great that you’re going to pass out, just that it’s-“

  “Oh my God, some auntie spiked your drink, didn’t she? I’m sorry, they’re kindly, sweet loving ladies but they probably were hoping to get lucky, they do that sometimes-“

  “No, no one spiked my drink. All I had was some iced tea.”

  “Are you sure? Auntie Julie is about thirty times more devoted to Jack Daniels than she ever was to any of her past like three husbands.”

  “She had three husbands?”

  “Outlived them all. Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I lean my head into his shoulder, tired and still a bit out of it. “I hate that I pass out, it’s been happening since I was a kid. Makes me feel helpless.”

  “You’re not helpless. Far from it.” His voice is soft and sweet and rides through my nervous system with all of the steady force of a tidal wave.

  I stop and stare into his eyes. They shine like emeralds in the light of the moon. Yes, I mean that, emeralds. Or, you know, something green and sparkly and wow. Maybe I should sit down.

  Hunter opens the door of my car and helps me slide into the passenger seat. I do my best to keep my head up and my shoulders back. I can’t believe I passed out in front of him.

  Passing out. Like a delicate, wilting-flower-kind-of girl. That's not exactly the image I wanted to have around anyone, much less Hunter.

  "Really, I'm fine I can totally drive," I say.

  "No way. You're just saying that because you don’t want me messing with your radio." He winks, sending tendrils of heat licking from my head down to the tips of my toes. He points to the doll dangling from my rearview mirror. "Hold onto that unicorn, young lady, we’re going for a ride."

  He pulls out onto the freeway and my car makes noises that I've never known it possible for my little Corolla to make. I yelp as the car races up to speed, fingers digging into the door handles.

  A thrill rushes through me as the vibration rides up my legs and I laugh out loud. A full, throaty kind of laugh, one that wipes away the fear and embarrassment, one that helps me lean back deep into the seat and relax as we zip down the freeway, racing off through the drizzle towards home.

  Chapter 8

  Coffee Can’t Cure All Ills

  Dear Miss Behave,

  My eight year-old daughter informs me that last night she broke into our neighbor’s house to see if their house is really as awesome as their daughter claims it is. She went in through the garage while they weren’t home, looked around, and came back home to report that it is just sort of blah.

  What do I do?

  -Exhausted Mom

  Dear Exhausted,

  How does your little cherub look in orange? I’m almost certain that breaking and entering even if nothing is stolen is a crime. Though I understand her temptation to see if their daughter is just a braggy-pants, and no one likes a braggy-pants, she has to know that what she has done is wrong. Have you spoken with her about it? Explain that bad guys do things like this, not good guys. Or some other kid-appropriate terminology. And have yourself some vodka, darling, you need it!

  Love and Xanax,

  -Miss Behave

  Monday at work goes something like this: I sit at my desk. I listen to Gennifer’s tale about going to see a play in the city with her new girlfriend. Check to see if Hunter sent me any emails. He didn’t. I only have one non-work email, and it’s from Mags asking if I’m okay after the whole ball-in-the-head thing.

  I get up and walk around the office, looking for Hunter, my head light and my stomach sort of sick with anticipation.

  He’s not at work. Which sucks, because I made special care to actually look in the mirror when I put on my makeup in the morning. I do my work. Write up some articles like a good little worker bee. I check my phone to see if Hunter texted and somehow I missed it. He didn’t. Just a reminder from Mom about our coffee-date at quarter to five. Ugh.

  After lunch, I get back to the office and send a follow-up email to the Chicago Sentinel about my resume, and go back to waiting to see if Hunter is coming to work.

  He doesn’t show. Or text. Or call. Or email.

  Really, I’m not all that hard to reach.

  Stupid boss and his stupid smile and stupid me for caring.

  Of course he doesn’t call me. He’s dating some rich bombshell who probably farts Chanel No. 5. How on earth could I even begin to compete with that?

  By taking him to my family’s pig roast? I groan and pack up my things.

  Mom is waiting outside in her car at exactly 4:43PM.

  I open the door to the car and get in, my heels making noise against the hard plastic floor liners. “Hey,” I say in greeting as I place my purse down on her unnaturally clean car floor. We were the only kids I knew that were never allowed to eat or drink in the car. I can still hear Mom listing all of the species of bugs that would come and tickle our toes if we were careless enough to spill a drop of juice on the seats.

  She watches me buckle and then turns on her blinker and thrusts the car out onto the main drag. “What’s the name of that coffee place with the scones?” she asks. “Ground Land? I can’t remember.”

  “The Grind ‘Em Low over on fourth. They should b
e busy now, they just got their liquor license so they’ve been hopping at happy hour. I grabbed a few coupons from the paper.” Coupons exhibit thriftiness, and what mother doesn’t want her daughter to be frugal?

  She frowns.

  Okay. I’m not sure what on earth there is to frown about when it comes to booze and coffee. A positively perfect combination, if you ask me. And with coupons? Even better.

  My mother, the mystery.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask, hoping to get in and out of this forced bonding time without too much misery.

  “Nothing. Well, not nothing, but not something, either.”

  Mom keeps her gaze directed out the window, her expression pinched. I say, “That’s a rather enigmatic sentiment.”

  Mom sighs. “How do you know this place is serving booze? Have you been?”

  “To the Grind ‘Em Low? I go all the time. Their dark chocolate mocha and those blueberry scones are a dream. I haven’t tried any of their adult concoctions just yet, but some of the girls from work rave about them.”

  Her shoulders relax a bit. “Do you drink often?”

  “What?” Oh my. She’s worried? About my drinking? “Please, if there is anything about me you need to worry about it’s my big mouth, mom. Drinking I can take or leave. Mouthing off, however-“

  “A woman should speak up for herself. That’s hardly a shortcoming.” She pulls into the lot behind the strip of stores on Main St. by the coffee shop.

  We walk in and kill a bit of time chatting about my sisters while we wait for our dark chocolate mochas. With skim milk, of course, because, you know, have to watch that waistline.

  We talk about my sisters. My mom’s entire face beams exuberance when she tells me about my sisters. I bet she speaks to them daily, or at least I’d suspect by the number of texts that keep pinging on her phone.

  Grabbing our coffees, we take a seat on two comfy armchairs in front of the window. Where did mom and I go wrong, I wonder? She’s sitting across from me and chatting about my sisters so easily, and still, each and every one of our conversations feel forced, and always have. Even as a child I remember running to Ted first. Ted put bandages on my knees and read me bedtime stories. Mom was always sort of… distant.

  But just from me.

  She tucks her phone into her purse as she sits and stares at me, smile fading. Bewilderment crosses her face, like she forgot who I am and how I got here. The dark matter of her life.

  And here it is, the awkwardness. It towers like a mountain between us, hangs over our heads, impossible to climb.

  I chug my coffee.

  Ouch. Okay, too hot for chugging. I lick the whipped cream off of my lips and hope that it soothes my scorched tongue.

  She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, and then closes it again, putting the coffee to her lips.

  This is ridiculous. Why did she ask me out for coffee? Is she jealous because Dad is staying with me? Ugh.

  Well, if she’s here, I’m going to get the most out of it. “So, is it true that you know some guy that works at the Chicago Sentinel? I sent in a job application there, you know, and it’d be great if-“

  Mom turns fifty shades of green. “Derek Jacobson. I left him a voicemail and I’m waiting to hear back. I’m not sure if he even remembers me, we knew each other such a long time ago.”

  “Well, thanks for giving it a try.” She already called? And what’s with the greenish face? Helping me is painful, it seems.

  “Chicago is rather far.”

  Ugh. I’m not even going to start this, as I’m sure it will be a rather long and pointless time-suck and leave a wake of bad juju all around. So I quickly change the subject.

  “ I got this letter the other day that maybe you can help me with. When you worked at UMass Oakville, do you remember if most of the doors to the buildings on campus are locked?”

  She blinks once.

  Twice.

  She places the coffee on the small table between us, pushing the potted imitation gardenia out of the way. “Yes, you need a valid photo id to enter. What kind of letter?”

  “It’s from a young girl. She wrote to Miss Behave saying that her mom goes to campus every day and refuses to talk about why. The girl’s frightened for her mother’s well-being-“

  “She’s probably just taking classes. Some people don’t want their kids to know that they’re in school.”

  “I don’t think so. I called the girl on the phone and she sounds rather resourceful. She’s dug through all of her mother’s belongings looking for transcripts, welcome notices, invoices, any of the usual items that you would find with a student.”

  “Maybe she’s keeping them somewhere else. Or the mother might be a shredder. Some people don’t like to keep that sort of information around.”

  “Apparently she keeps all of her bills organized alphabetically in binders. She started classes at a community college a few years ago and never finished the med tech program, but still has all of the bills on file.”

  “How does she know that her mom is going to campus? She can’t drive-“

  “No, she put the WhereU@ app on her mother’s phone.”

  Mom stares at me like I’m speaking Mandarin.

  I clarify, “It’s a locator app, so she knows her mom is going to campus.”

  “Sounds like a rather precocious child.”

  “I like her.”

  “Maybe she’s a nude model.”

  “That would be disheartening.”

  Mom laughs. “Absolutely. But that may be the answer. I’d imagine they’d get paid in cash.”

  “How on earth would I tell a pre-teen that her mom is a nude model? Poor kid. Middle school is hard enough.”

  “Would you like me to call the art department for you? Just tell me her name.”

  “I wouldn’t want to bother you-“

  “I’ll do it right now.” Mom’s eyes twinkle. Yes, twinkle like the little star. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them do that before.

  Opening my purse with numb fingers, I pull out my phone and glance at the notes. “Leslie Marks.”

  Grinning, Mom punches in the number and immediately gets through to the secretary of the art department. I bite my lower lip. Whenever I call the college I have to wade through like a thousand automated phone messages.

  “Dolores! How lovely to catch you!” She leans back into her chair. “Yes, no, oh, Ted’s fine. Are you going to the luncheon Thursday? Listen, can you do me a favor? Can you look and see if a woman named” –she tugs my phone across the coffee table towards her- “Leslie Marks is on the books as a model?”

  I sip my coffee and cross my legs. Uncross, my eyes roaming mom’s face for some kind of expression. Any kind of expression that I could read would be great. C’mon, mom. Give me something I can use.

  I take another sip of coffee. Mom sighs. “Alright, well, thanks for looking. Yes, I understand. No problem. Tell Agnes I said hello.”

  She shakes her head. “Well, she’s not on the books. They have to keep track of names and things for tax purposes, so I doubt she’d be able to fly in and out under the radar. Or, at least not if she’s getting paid.”

  Mom sips her coffee.

  I stand. “It’s been great, but I think I have to go.”

  She blinks, her pretty face unreadable. “Where? I thought you wanted to find out what’s going on with that woman?”

  “I do, but-“

  “We’re going to campus. I’m still on the beautification committee, so I still have the master keys, you know.” She stands, pushing the strap to her purse up and over her shoulder. “Now get in the car.”

  Despite the overall weirdness of riding in a car with my mother to go spy on some woman who may or may not be naked, I somehow manage to doze off. Because, well, the car, though new, still smells like mom and Ted and home and home tends to make me sleepy.

  It’s just one of those things.

  Waking up as we park, the sun bleeds pink and orange and swathe
s the Oakville campus in its glory.

  Blinking, I’m almost surprised to see mom, her eyes on fire. “C’mon sweetie, get up. First we should just double-check to make sure this woman isn’t registered. I refuse to believe that the easiest explanation isn’t the best one.”

  Nodding, I rub the sleep from my eyes, smudging my mascara. Why did I wear that stupid stuff? It always smudges and leaves me looking like an extra from some zombie flick.

  Our first stop is the registrar’s office. Mom strides down the path, waving and smiling at many of the people that we pass. The campus is full of old brick buildings with white facades. The trees, specially picked for either the fact that they are great for shade or great for flowering on parent weekend, line either side of each and every walkway.

  I’ve always loved walking around campus, whether it was with mom or Ted. The parking lots surround the campus, like a fortress of cars, buffering the buildings with their old spires from the outside world. It almost feels like you are walking back in time, as long as you can ignore all the students lying on the grass with their tablets.

  Summers on campus tend to be especially pleasant, the university sponsors a series of concerts and plays for the community. I watched my very first play here, toddling around on a blanket thrown over cool grass as we feasted on a picnic dinner of pizza and cupcakes.

  Scanning her ID, the door to the registrar’s office clicks open and mom greets the women of the office who are leaving for the day. Mom ignores their odd looks and sits down and logs onto one of the computers behind the counter.

  After a few minutes of futzing around, I watch as the office ladies leave. “Find anything?” I ask.

  “Well, she’s not currently matriculated.”

  “Anything else? Is she an employee, maybe? Maybe she’s like a janitor or something and doesn’t want her daughter to know she had to take a second job.”

  “She’s not on any employee databases.” She sighs, her eyes going soft. “Parenting is so hard, Piper.”