Groovy? I wait for someone to laugh, but the room is as quiet as a library. Even Kevin has his mouth shut.
Olympia strides to the front of the room and sits down on the edge of Jane’s desk. “Sharing our thoughts and feelings in a safe, judgment-free space is vitally important for any group—whether that group is a family at home, or a family in the classroom.” She pushes up the sleeves of her oversize ski sweater and beams at the class. “That’s why confidentiality is key.”
After Sam explains to Michael that confidentiality is a fancy word for “Don’t blab other people’s secrets,” Olympia nods. “That’s right, Sam. Whatever you say in this room stays in this room.”
“Like Vegas!” Hector reaches over to bump fists with Kevin.
“Huh?” Michael doesn’t get it.
“It’s an expression, butt-brain,” Kevin tells him. “Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
“Las Vegas,” Sam corrects him, “in the state of Nevada, the thirty-sixth state admitted to the Union on October 31, 1864.”
“My grandma went to Las Vegas once,” Michael says, leaning back in his chair. “She won four hundred dollars and a free steak dinner.”
“Red meat is disgusting!” Liberty scrunches up her nose.
“And very unhealthy,” Wilson adds, tapping his medical book. “It clogs the arteries and causes hypertension.”
“I hope your grandma chose the vegetarian option,” Liberty says to Michael. “Did she?”
Michael frowns. “I’m not sure. Can I borrow your phone?”
Jane clears her throat. “While the importance of a vegetarian diet can’t be underestimated, Olympia is waiting to begin.”
Olympia hops off the desk and starts arranging our chairs in a “trust circle.” Once we’re all seated, she reaches into her Free Tibet tote and pulls out a long wooden stick. “This is an aboriginal talking stick,” Olympia tells the class, dropping her voice to a hush. “A symbol of tolerance and democracy. Whoever holds the stick has the right to speak. Others may not interrupt without the speaker’s permission. Now, who would like to kick things off?”
Michael flings up his arm. “Me!”
Olympia gets up from the trust circle and hands him the stick. “Speak your truth, Michael. Loud and proud.” Michael clears his throat. “Well, there’s someone in this room I really like. She’s nice, and cool, and funny. But I don’t think she likes me. It sucks, you know?”
I hold my breath, waiting for Olympia to get mad at Michael for using the word “sucks.” She doesn’t. “This must be very hard for you,” Olympia says, returning to her seat. “Have you told this girl how you feel?” I like that Olympia asked Michael a question rather than telling him what to do. Grown-ups hardly ever do that.
“No,” Michael says, shaking his head. “That would be weird.”
Olympia leans forward. “Weird in what way?”
“I dunno. Just weird.”
Halle pokes me in the arm. “He’s talking about me.”
“How do you know?” I whisper.
“Look.” Halle makes a pecking motion with her head. I follow her eyeballs and see that she’s right: Michael is staring straight at her. And all this time I thought he liked Madeline! Which goes to show: diamond earrings and a bra can only get you so far.
Then again, what if I’m wrong and Michael really does prefer Madeline? Halle will be crushed, like she was in third grade when her mom wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced. But this is more serious. This is boy stuff.
“Kat?” It’s Olympia, squatting in front of me with the talking stick. “Would you like a turn? I heard you whispering to Halle.”
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I have to think twice before answering. The truth is, I’m not fine. I’m so mad at Mom I could scream. Why is she so focused on cleaning and germs these days? Why did she have to embarrass me at the supermarket in front of Madeline and Coco? And why did she let me walk home by myself? Sure, Greenwich Village is safe, safer than when Mom was a girl and she had to carry mugger money in her Care Bears lunch box. But that doesn’t mean I liked walking home by myself. It’s only fun when you want to walk home alone. Not when you have to.
“Kat?” Olympia is looking up at me now. Her eyes are the color of faded Levi’s, with lashes so pale they’re almost white.
“I don’t have anything to say,” I tell her, shrugging off the talking stick. “Sorry.”
Olympia gives me a warm, crinkly-eyed smile. “Maybe next time,” she says, getting to her feet.
Yeah, I think. Next time.
Or maybe not.
I catch up to Halle in the cafeteria, in line for spaghetti and soy balls. She wants to analyze Michael’s rapsession confession, but I stop her before she gets going. I need to tell her about my problems or I’ll explode. I get a tray of food and sit down across from her.
“I can’t believe Madeline and Coco were there,” Halle says after I’ve filled her in about the supermarket disaster. “I bet you wanted to die.”
“Death,” I say, reaching for a napkin, “would have been a relief.”
“You should tell your dad,” Halle says, spearing a soy ball with her fork. “Maybe your mom has some kind of problem. I mean, who brings antibacterial wipes to the supermarket? And wears latex gloves?”
That’s what I’d like to know. I watch Halle chew.
Suddenly she puts down her fork. “I have an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“You should ask Olympia for advice. Psychologists deal with stuff like this all the time. She’ll know exactly what to do!”
“Olympia? You can’t be serious?” I get up with my tray.
“Come on, Kat,” Halle says, grabbing my sleeve. “Hear me out.”
I sit back down. “You’ve got twenty seconds. Go.”
As Halle tries to convince me that Olympia is the answer to my problems, I start to wonder whether my best friend is right. Olympia is a professional psychologist after all, and she does seem nice. She even stopped me in the hall after the rap session to apologize for putting me on the spot. “Come by my office if you ever feel like talking,” she said. “My door is always open.”
But who am I kidding? It’s nice to know Olympia cares, but Mom would kill me if I told a stranger about what’s going on. As she likes to say, it’s tacky to air your dirty laundry in public. Which means I’m keeping my laundry right where it is: in the hamper, with the lid shut tight.
—
Mom is vacuuming the sofa cushions when I get home from school. I consider saying hello, but I don’t have it in me. Instead, I go to my room and flop down with Harriet the Spy. I’m at the part where Harriet tells her parents she won’t go to dancing school, but I can’t concentrate. My brain keeps replaying what Halle said to me at lunch.
You should ask Olympia for advice.
Psychologists deal with stuff like this all the time.
She’ll know exactly what to do!
What if Halle is right? What if talking to Olympia isn’t such a dumb idea after all?
I put down my book and go get my Village Calamity laptop. We all got one this year, with a school email account and everything. I haven’t emailed anybody yet, but here it is—all set up for me. I start typing.
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Help
DATE: September 15 4:07:42 PM EDT
FROM: [email protected]
Dear Olympia,
Halle told me to write to you. She thinks you might be able to help me with a problem. A problem with my mom.
This may sound weird, but my mom has this thing about cleaning. She does it all the time, for hours and hours, every single day. Weekends too. She’s always been a neat freak, even before my parents got divorced four years ago, but lately things seem extra strange. She started washing her hands a lot and spraying Lysol on the doorknobs and light switches. Sometimes she’ll do the sam
e load of dishes over and over again, just to make sure they’re really clean. She says she can’t help it, which I don’t understand. I mean, I used to bite my nails and thought I couldn’t help it. But last year I decided to stop—so I did. Why can’t my mom do the same thing with cleaning?
Oh, and get this: Yesterday, she wore latex gloves at the supermarket and made me wear them too. Then she wiped down cans with antibacterial wipes while people were watching. (By “people,” I mean Madeline and Coco, who were there with their moms.) This can’t be normal, whether you’re a neat freak or not.
Whenever I’ve asked my mom about all the cleaning she’s been doing, she tells me not to worry. But that’s easy for her to say. She’s not the one who has to sit around while she makes everything clean—and then clean again—before we go anywhere or do anything. And she’s not the one who can’t have friends over because they’ll track in germs. Not that I’d want my friends to come over. They’d think my mom’s weird. Except Halle, of course. Best friends don’t care if your mom is weird or not.
Today in rap session you asked Michael if he’s told the girl he likes how he feels. I bet you’ll tell me to tell my mom how I feel. I don’t think I could do that, though. That’s why I’m writing to you.
-Kat
I read over my email. The words look fine on the computer screen, but there’s so much more I could say. For one thing—and maybe most important of all—I want my mom to act normal, the way she did before Dad moved out and started his new family uptown.
My parents used to be happy together, and I have a picture to prove it, in a silver frame on my desk: Mom and Dad at my cousin Katie’s bat mitzvah, mugging for the camera. I was only six, but I remember how Dad told the photographer to hang on a sec while he snatched a yellow rose from the flower arrangement and stuck it between his teeth. Mom had rolled her eyes and said, “Really, Dennis?” but I could tell she thought it was funny too. My parents got divorced a year later. Then Dad met Barbara in line at Starbucks, and that was that. Henry was born when I was eight.
I take one last look at my email, then drag it into the trash. There’s no way I can send it. What was I thinking, telling Olympia about Mom? I find my phone and call Halle. Sometimes, there’s nothing like hearing your best friend’s voice when you feel like crud.
“Why’d you trash the email?” Halle asks. “You should’ve sent it. It was a good idea.”
“I don’t want Olympia to think my mom is a freak,” I say. “Only I can think that.”
“Yeah, but Olympia would never think that. She’s a psychologist.”
“Maybe…”
I know Halle is trying to say all the right things. But I still can’t picture myself sharing my problems with Olympia—even if I want to.
After I hang up, Mom appears at my door. She’s holding a bottle of disinfectant spray and an almost-empty roll of paper towels. “Would you mind running down to the deli for a few things, Kit-Kat? It’s still light outside, and dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour.” I don’t want to run down to the deli, even if it is only around the corner and Omar will give me free pickles and tell me how business is going. Still, I ask Mom what she wants.
“Oh, not much.” Mom reaches into the pocket of her overalls and pulls out a list. “Paper towels, a bottle of Windex, two cans of Lysol…”
Suddenly that email to Olympia doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
Mom is doing something other than cleaning when I get home from the deli. She’s sprawled out on the couch, watching TV, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. This is odd. Mom hardly ever watches TV, at least not without a mop or a dust rag in her hand. And popcorn? In Mom’s world, those pesky little kernels are a bear to vacuum up. Maybe I don’t need to write to Olympia after all. Mom looks happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a long time.
“What’s going on?” I ask, pointing to the screen. “Are you feeling okay?”
Mom laughs. “I’m fine. Come sit.” She passes me the popcorn as I sink into the cushions. For a split second, I’m transported back to when Mom and I had Girls’ Nights, when we’d watch movies like The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday with popcorn and big bowls of ice cream on our laps. Dad joined us sometimes, but not usually. It was always me and Mom.
I’m trying to remember the last Girls’ Night we had when Mom grabs my arm. “It’s starting!” she says, squealing like a first grader at a birthday party. “Watch.”
My eyes settle on a tall, silver-haired man holding a broom. He jogs across the set—a pretend kitchen—and gives a cheesy grin to the camera. When he gets to the other side, he hands his broom to a burly sanitation worker in a green uniform and orange safety vest. The guy takes the broom, holds it up in the air, and gives it a little twirl.
“What is this?” I ask.
Mom shushes me.
Oh, boy. I sit back and watch a second sanitation worker jog across the TV kitchen and accept a broom from the man with the silver hair. Then another, and another. Before long, five sanitation workers, two men and three women, are standing in a row with their brooms. When the music stops, a huge neon sign lights up behind them: CLEAN SWEEP.
Oh, now I get it. The sanitation workers are actually contestants on a game show!
“Isn’t this great?” Mom says, her eyes twinkling like Christmas lights.
“I guess….”
“Each contestant is given four dirty household items to clean,” Mom tells me, using the remote as a pointer. “A greasy stove, a refrigerator with moldy food inside, an old barbecue grill, and a toilet. They get to choose their own cleaning supplies too. Whoever cleans their items the fastest and most effectively wins.”
“Wins the stuff?”
“Nope, even better. Twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and a lifetime supply of cleaning products.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’d be perfect for this, and I wouldn’t have to travel. The show is taped right here in New York.” Mom gestures to the TV. “I’m going to fill out an application,” she says. “What do you think?”
I want to say that cleaning a dirty toilet on national TV is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. But what if it’s not? What if Mom’s willingness to put herself out there—to do something other than cleaning the apartment and washing her hands thirty times a day—means her problem isn’t so bad after all? Besides, twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money. A prize like this would really help, because Mom doesn’t work (except for housework, of course) and Dad pays for most things. “You should go for it,” I say. “You’ll definitely win.”
“You think so?” Mom takes my hand. Her fingers are redder than ever and rough as sandpaper. “I never apologized for my behavior at the supermarket,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Or for letting you walk home alone. It was wrong of me, Kit-Kat, and I’m sorry.”
If I were brave, I’d point out that sorry doesn’t change the fact that she cleaned cans in public and made me wear latex gloves in front of my friends. Or that I walked home by myself when it was starting to get dark outside. I might even ask Mom why her cleaning is getting worse, and why she’s so worried about germs and me getting sick. I might even admit I’m worried about her. As worried as she is about me, I’ll bet.
But I’m not that brave. I also don’t want to ruin this moment.
I grab a handful of popcorn and shove it in my mouth, careful not to drop any kernels on the floor. When Mom wraps her arm around me, I want to keep her next to me—and away from her vacuum—as long as possible.
The smell of gingersnaps tickles my nose when Halle and I walk into the classroom on Monday morning. Olympia is here for our second rap session and she’s brought homemade cookies. I sure could use a baked good. The highlight of my weekend was helping Mom check my sheets for bedbugs. It was as if our Girls’ Night reenactment never happened.
“I’d like to hear from some new rappers today,” Olympia says, holding up the talking stick. “Who wants to go first?”
&nbs
p; Kevin races over to Olympia and snatches the stick out of her hand.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak, Kevin,” Olympia says. “Sharing is a privilege, not a right.”
“That’s okay,” Kevin says. “Watch this!” Before Olympia has time to stop him, Kevin puts the Burger King crown on his head and starts rapping into the talking stick:
“My name’s Kevin and I’m here to say
I’m so cool in every way.
I can rap and I can rhyme.
I’m so dope, yo! It’s a crime!”
Kevin bumps fists with Hector, then starts his first victory lap around the trust circle. After he’s done fist-bumping the rest of us—except for Madeline, who refuses to touch him—Jane coughs into her hand. “That was quite creative, Kevin, but I don’t think Olympia is inviting the fifth grade to perform rap music, exactly. She wants you to talk about your feelings.”
Olympia sends a thank-you nod Jane’s way and takes the talking stick from Kevin. She hands it to Sam, who’s been waving his hand to go next.
“This may not sound like a big deal to some of you,” Sam says, glancing around the trust circle, “but I have chronic eczema.”
Michael’s jaw drops. “Is it fatal?”
Madeline lets out a snort. “Eczema is a rash, you moron—not a life-threatening disease.” She turns to Olympia. “Why are we talking about this?”
Great question.
Wilson puts down his latest medical book, Molecular Cell Biology, and steps forward. He’s wearing a white lab coat today, with a stethoscope around his neck. Wilson wants to be a doctor when he grows up, and I’m sure he’ll be a good one. He’s getting plenty of practice already. “Eczema, or atopic dermatitis,” Wilson tells the class, “is no laughing matter. The incessant itching can cause extreme discomfort.”
“Preach,” Sam says, scratching under the sleeve of his cardigan. He hands Wilson the talking stick.
Wilson bends down to examine Sam’s arm. “Have you tried a steroid cream? It can be very effective.”
Kat Greene Comes Clean Page 3