Table of Contents
Chapter One—Dancing Lessons
Chapter Two—Explanations
Chapter Three—Politics
Chapter Four—The Toy Store
Chapter Five—The Escape
Chapter Six—The Blob
Chapter Seven—Experiments
Chapter Eight—Map of Life
Chapter Nine—Decorum
Chapter Ten—Risk
Chapter Eleven—The Manicure
Chapter Twelve—The Undoing
Chapter Thirteen—Wrapping Alaska
Chapter Fourteen—Explosives
Chapter Fifteen—Group Therapy
Chapter Sixteen—Double Jeopardy
Chapter Seventeen—It’s a Wrap
Chapter Eighteen—The Marriage
Epilogue
Copyright © 2012 by Saxon Bennett
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
First published 2012
Editor: Medora McDougall
Cover designer: Kiaro Creative
ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-297-7
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Bella Books by Saxon Bennett
Back Talk
Both Sides
Date Night Club
Family Affair
Higher Ground
Marching to a Different Accordion
Old Ties
A Question of Love
Sweet Fire
Talk of the Town
Talk of the Town Too
The Wish List
To Layce and Emma for helping me with ideas and getting those pages done.
About the Author
Saxon Bennett lives in Oklahoma with Layce, Emma and their two dogs Bear and Darla Sue. To read more about Saxon go to her website at [email protected].
Chapter One—Dancing Lessons
“I am a safe, sane and successful person,” Chase said. She was plagued by thoughts of crepe paper.
“What did you say?” Bud asked.
“Nothing,” Chase replied. She plucked the jar of peanut butter from the pantry.
Bud made no further remark. It amazed Chase that people let her get away with that. Whenever someone else said “nothing” it drove Chase crazy. She wanted to say, “You said something because I heard it, and saying something out loud in the presence of another requires you, by the social contract that allows society to function, to repeat what you said and explain its relevance.”
Bud watched her. “Is there something on your mind?”
“Why?”
“You appear anxious, and you’ve made three separate trips to the pantry, so apparently you’re distracted.”
Chase stared at her daughter and let out a sigh. Bud knew her too well.
“I’m on the decorating committee for the Fall Frolic dance thing,” Chase said, as she made three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, one for Bud and the other two for Bud’s friends, Collins and Summer. Gitana teased her about being the head of the Albuquerque Academy’s Feed the World program, to which Chase responded, “If I don’t, the world eats Bud’s lunch.”
“That’s fantastic news. Now Collins owes me five dollars,” Bud said.
“You’re gambling. I thought that was against school policy.”
Bud rolled her eyes. “I donate all my winnings to charity.”
Chase finished the sandwiches and put them in Bud’s oversized lunchbox. There was barely room as she’d already filled it with copious amounts of fruit because Collins, who wanted to be a vegetarian but was not allowed, was also a follower of Epicurus and ate more fruit than seemed humanly possible. Collins’s mother was still basing her opinion of fruit upon the Joni Mitchell song which mentioned DDT. It was a good thing Chase was a well-paid author or the food budget alone would bankrupt her.
“What did you bet her?”
“That you would cave in to the peer pressure of the Coffee Clutch and do their bidding,” Bud said. She was checking the contents of her backpack in preparation for school because, as they both knew, Chase would check to insure that Bud had checked to insure that she had everything. There was a lot of insuring and checking in the Banter household.
“It’s the Coffee Klatch,” Chase informed her, alarmed that her brilliant child had made such an error. Bud remembered everything. It was Bud’s ability to store knowledge that produced her high IQ scores.
“I was being sardonic. I think ‘clutch’ more aptly describes the situation. Have you ever decorated anything in your life? Do you even know what crepe paper is?” Bud raised her eyebrow.
Chase wished she could do that. Bud’s proclivity was inherited from her biological mother, Gitana, who was also a master of the raised eyebrow.
“Of course I do. I’m in charge of procurement.”
“Hmm,” Bud said, setting her cereal bowl in the sink. At six, she wasn’t tall enough to rinse the bowl, but Bud was a firm believer in egalitarian housekeeping—an if-they-all-did-their-share-according-to-their-means kind of thing. There was that damn Marxist crap again, Chase thought as she rinsed the bowl and handed it back to Bud, who put it in the dishwasher.
“Where exactly do you get this crepe paper stuff anyway?” Chase said and then amended her statement. “I mean where would be the best place to get it?”
“I suppose you could try Home Depot,” Bud said, shrugging.
Gitana came bounding downstairs. “What do we need at Home Depot?” she asked. She had that alarmed look on her face that she got whenever Chase embarked on a major remodeling project. “You remember that I have the Orchid Expo in a week and we are swamped at work.” Gitana owned the nursery, Blooming Orchids. She poured herself coffee and looked anxiously in Chase’s direction.
Chase kissed her cheek and said, “I thought I’d add a second story to the writing studio, so I can have that library we’ve always talked about.”
Gitana’s eyes got big. “No, Chase, please, not now. I just can’t. I’m already stressed over the Expo.”
Bud smirked and Gitana caught it. “She’s yanking my chain, right?”
Bud nodded. “I wonder what the etymological origin of that phrase is?”
“We’ll Google it on the way to school,” Chase said.
“Chase is going to Home Depot to buy crepe paper for the school dance. She’s in charge of procurement.”
“Ha! Donna owes me five bucks,” Gitana said.
“Let me get this straight—you bet Collins I would cave on the decoration thing,” Chase said, waggling a finger at Bud before turning back to Gitana. “And you bet Donna?”
Gitana had the good grace to look guilty. “Well, I actually bet Donna that you would succumb to peer pressure. It didn’t have anything to do with crepe paper, really.”
“And that’s supposed to make it better?” Chase poured coffee in her to-go mug.
“Donna did bet five dollars that you wouldn’t go anywhere near the dance. She had faith in you.”
“Remind me to thank her,” Chase said. She thought for a moment. “Mistake me if I’m wrong…”
“T
he phrase is actually ‘correct me if I’m wrong,’” Bud interjected.
Chase sighed. Sometimes it was difficult having a Mensa child. “May I finish?”
“By all means.”
“Just because I am learning to be a more involved parent does not make me a pawn to the gavels of suburbanites. Is that what you people are betting on—that I cave as a consequence of my parental concern?”
Gitana looked at Bud. “Is there some kind of…you know, term for what she is doing to us?”
“Aristotle’s Fallacy of Consequence,” Bud said, zipping up her backpack.
Chase, having perfected the “Bud Smirk,” smirked. Then she remembered the crepe paper. “So, just offhand where would be the best place to buy this crepe paper stuff. I mean, where would you go?” She directed the question at both of them.
“Oh, Home Depot, I suppose,” Gitana said.
This time Bud smirked.
“Are you yanking my chain? Home Depot doesn’t sell crepe paper, right?” Chase said.
Gitana relented. “No, it doesn’t. Go to Hobby Lobby.”
Chase glanced over at Bud for confirmation. She nodded.
“What, you don’t trust me?” Gitana said, putting her hand across her heart in feigned hurt.
“I did mess with you so you’d be within your rights to mess with me,” Chase said.
“But I wouldn’t do that,” Gitana said, wrapping her arms around Chase’s neck and kissing her. “Well, I might…”
“I could help you pick out the crepe paper,” Bud said.
“Oh, now you’re all helpful. What do you need?”
“More paper, charcoal sticks and another eraser,” Bud said, looking hopeful.
Gitana smiled and ruffled Bud’s curls. Chase was impressed that Bud still tolerated this. That was one of the hardest things about Bud growing up. Kids, Chase had noticed, had this tendency to stop being little teddy bear people that you could cuddle and begin to develop their own sense of self and personal space. Chase understood about personal space in her own world, but allowing Bud her own space had been a trial. It was a weaning process. She waited for Bud to initiate it. Bud seemed to sense this and gave herself over when she felt Chase getting that I-just-want-to-scoop-you-up-in-my-arms-and-squeeze-so-hard look on her face. She would lean against Chase and take her hand. Chase felt the physical release and thought, Not yet, it hasn’t started yet. They’d talked about this proverbial cutting of the apron strings at the Coffee Klatch. Chase learned a lot from the suburbanites with gavels so she put up with the “crepe paper” incidents.
“Okay, let’s go,” Chase said. She kissed Gitana and then kissed the top of Bud’s head, which made no sense since they were riding into town together. Bud smiled.
They crept down the road in the Mini Cooper, carefully avoiding the crevasses that the spring rains had carved and the summer heat had baked. What dirt was left on the road was a series of ruts and rocks. Driving down the roller-coaster ride of baked dirt could upset your coffee cup, your stomach and everything in the car that wasn’t strapped down. Plastic grocery bags filled with food had to be tied and wedged together to prevent a tumbling of goods all over the backseat. The Mini Cooper shifted from side to side as Chase attempted to keep her wheels out of the ruts. It was like keeping a rollercoaster cart on the rails.
“I’ve been lobbying the state government in your name for a rescindment order of the private road clause as it was not grandfathered in,” Bud said.
“Fuck!” Chase said when the Mini Cooper bottomed out.
“Double fuck,” Bud said, looking smug.
“Don’t say that.”
“I only say it when we’re together. It’s like a bonding thing.” She leaned against Chase.
She looked at Bud. “Are you playing me?”
“Actually, I’m not. I know Collins’s mom has been telling you things about how children’s affections change and they don’t want their parents to fawn over them.” She stopped and glanced at Chase.
“Yes,” Chase said, awaiting the blow.
“But…” Bud looked uncertain. “This has to be our secret.”
Chase, despite being a serious advocate of two hands on the wheel, brought up her right hand. “I swear.” They weren’t on the county road yet, so she figured it was only a minor infraction.
“I like when you fawn over me.”
“I don’t fawn exactly, do I? I mean that would be kind of gross.”
“I think you mentally fawn and it sends out vibes.” Bud smiled.
“Maybe a little. Is that all right?”
“Sure.”
“Really?” Chase was ecstatic.
“Really,” Bud said, kissing Chase’s cheek now that the car had stopped rocking from the road and they were at the stop sign. “Just don’t do it in front of my peers.”
“I won’t.”
Bud leaned against her.
They drove in companionable silence until they hit the freeway. Bud pointed to the cottonwood trees that lined the valley that followed Old Route 66 and the freeway. “The leaves are starting to turn. Maybe we could go hiking in the Jemez and look at the colors. I have grown a half an inch.”
“I’ve never said anything about your height.”
“No, but don’t think that I didn’t hear you tell people that you had to wait until my legs grew longer before we could go hiking.” Bud was smaller than her peers, but Gitana was petite. Bud looked a lot like her mother, almond eyes, dark shoulder-length hair, full lips and a turned-up nose. Chase resembled a Scandinavian nanny with her blue eyes, lanky frame and long blond hair. Meeting other parents always entailed a certain amount of explanation.
“All right, maybe I did. Why are you so interested in the changing of the leaves?”
“I want to take some photographs. Stella gave me one of her old surveillance cameras. It’s digital. Her version of ‘old’ is by no means Paleolithic.”
This was true. Stella was Bud’s Private Investigator Grandmother, a title that Chase only used when she was irritated with her mother. The arrival of Bud had quelled the ongoing feud between mother and daughter over Chase’s decision to be a writer of lesbian fiction instead of a Newbery Award-winning writer. Now their mutual adoration and protection of Bud made them staunch allies.
“Now you want to be a photographer?” Chase glanced at the speedometer. She was only going fifty-seven. Shit, she was going to have to go around the slowpoke in the middle lane.
Bud noticed. “You have to or we’ll be queued up for miles at school.”
“I know.” Chase studied her options, decided it was safe and passed.
“See, no problem.”
“So about the dance thing…” Chase wavered.
“Yes?” Bud prodded. “You always give it away that something is distressing you by using the gestural ellipsis.”
“A what?”
“Like in fiction when a person starts to say something and then stops and the writer uses an ellipsis,” Bud said.
“Oh.”
“What were you going to ask?” Bud said.
“Who are you going to the dance with? Have you picked someone out?” Chase blurted as if saying it quick would make her seem less like an overprotective meddler. This was another one of the disturbingly progressive things Bud’s school did—Decisional Socialization based on the theories of some whacko named R.U. Barffield.
“I have.”
“Who?” Chase asked. She’d Facebook the little urchin for signs of being a sociopath.
“I’m taking Summer,” Bud said, looking out the window. “She wants to wear a dress.” She said it like it was a confession—a character flaw. Chase didn’t know if it was about going to the dance with Summer or Summer wearing a dress.
“What are you going to wear?” Chase inquired, keeping her voice level and tension free.
“My tux, and in case you were wondering, this isn’t a butch-femme thing. It’s what we like to wear. I respect Summer’s choice of feminin
e garb, and she said I look nice in my tux.”
“When did she see it?”
“The night she slept over.”
Chase thought about the sleepover, trying to remember how much supervision she’d given them. She hadn’t known about the clothes changing. “So the tux thing was like playing dress up?”
Bud furrowed her brow in that what-are-you-talking-about-dumbass way she used when exposed to inanity. “Dress up? We needed to ascertain how the tux would look in such circumstances, and I wanted Summer’s opinion.” She stared at Chase.
They entered the city limits proper, and Chase figured she had twelve minutes to suss up this dance thing or the discussion would be closed forever, because reopening it later would be construed as over-parenting by both Bud and Gitana. “So…”
Bud interjected. “Do you realize that you overuse the word ‘so’? You start a lot of sentences with it. If Stella notices you will be issued a citation.”
In addition to being a private investigator, Chase’s mother was also part of the Lynne Truss Grammar Society, and she’d created her own division of the Overused Word Choices, which issued citations for such offences.
“I’ll work on it.”
“You have until Thanksgiving to break it.”
Chase nodded and glanced down at the dashboard clock. She had ten minutes now. “Isn’t there a boy you want to go with?” Chase couldn’t believe that came out of her mouth. She studied the stoplight at Tramway. She didn’t want to meet Bud’s eye.
Bud appeared to be transfixed watching a pack of riders speeding down the bike path that lined both sides of Tramway.
This was not how Chase envisioned having the sex talk. In her mind, they’d sit down over coffee—Bud would be old enough to drink coffee—and they would have a reasonable discussion about sexual persuasion and how Bud felt and what genetics provided. Chase was of the “made” not “choice” school of thought, so in her mind Bud had a fifty-fifty. She hadn’t thought they would be having “The Discussion” when Bud was six and going to second grade.
In the Unlikely Event... Page 1