Kat Greene Comes Clean

by Melissa Roske

  “And don’t forget,” Mom adds, “you could do a lot worse than Sam. When I was at Village Humanity, this boy named Jimmy Vincent took a Polaroid of his behind during a class trip to Bear Mountain. He made a bunch of photocopies and handed them out to every kid in the class.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Did he get in trouble?”

  Mom squirts more cleanser on the countertop and rips off another paper-towel square. “Remy said he had a flair for photography and encouraged him to sign up for after-school classes. Can you imagine?”

  Actually, I can.

  As I watch my mom clean an already-clean counter, it occurs to me that now would be the perfect time to take Olympia’s advice and talk to her about her problem. I don’t want to make her angry, so I choose my words carefully.

  “I was wondering about something…”

  Mom looks up from the counter. “Yes?”

  “Well…” I pause. “Why do you clean so much lately? You’re always doing it. Washing your hands too.”

  Mom’s jaw muscle twitches. “Lots of people do that. It’s not a crime.”

  “I never said it was. I was just wondering.”

  “Oh.” Mom finds a pair of metal tongs from the canister on the counter and goes over to the stove. Then she starts removing the silverware from the pot of boiling water, piece by piece. First the spoons, then the forks, then the knives. Before long, a silvery line of cutlery has snaked its way across the countertop.

  “Mom? I asked you a question.”

  She reaches for a clean dish towel and starts drying the silverware. First the spoons, then the forks, then the knives…

  “Mom?” I say again. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

  Mom spins around. Her bandanna is on crooked and fraying at the edges. “It calms me, Kat. I can’t explain it—I’m sorry. There’s nothing else to say.”

  But you can try, I feel like telling her. Problems don’t disappear on their own. But Mom is in no mood for talking. If anything, she looks sad, like when I’m home sick with a fever and she’s waiting for my temperature to go down. I want to say something, but it’s useless. She’s already back at the stove.

  I storm off to my room and flop down on my bed. I listen to the radiator hiss. Boy, is it loud—and hot. I get up and crack the window. Cold air whooshes in and tickles the tip of my nose. I close it again. Then I start counting cabs. I get to thirty-seven before I feel bored.

  But it’s not boredom I feel, flopping back on the bed. I’m mad. Why can’t Mom answer my question? And tell me why she cleans so much, and why she’s so afraid of germs? It wouldn’t have killed her. I stare at the fuzzy peace-sign rug next to my bed, remembering how Mom washed it herself and had it dry-cleaned before allowing it inside my room. It came from a flea market, and I was surprised she let me keep it at all.

  I should be thinking about what Sam and I will talk about later, when we meet at Dad’s. But how can I concentrate on the Harriet project when I’m this upset? When I want answers and Mom won’t give them to me? I reach for my laptop and bring up Google.

  I type in “people who clean all the time” and wait for my choices. An article called “How to Stop Obsessive Cleaning” pops up at the top of the page. I skim through it until the following sentence catches my eye: “Obsessive cleaning may be symptomatic of wider anxieties, such as fear of contamination.”

  Well, that makes sense, I think, remembering Mom’s comments about the germs on my backpack and on the handle of the shopping cart. The Purell in her purse. The antibacterial wipes. The latex gloves. I keep reading.

  “People who clean compulsively wish they could stop, but they feel as if they must do so in order to prevent catastrophe and illness.”

  My heart starts pounding. When Mom said she couldn’t help it, she wasn’t exaggerating. Clearly this cleaning thing is beyond her control. Plus she’s always worried I’ll get sick. Does that mean something is wrong with her? Or is she just a neat freak like she always says? I type in “neat freak” and find this:

  “The main difference between ‘neat freaks’ and people with OCD is that ‘neat freaks’ like being neat. People with OCD wish they weren’t that way.”

  There’s that word, OCD. I’ve heard it before and I think I know what it means. I need to be sure, though—especially if there’s a chance Mom’s got it. I type in: “What is OCD?” and within seconds I find a definition.

  “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a common, chronic, and long-lasting anxiety disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, reoccurring thoughts (obsessions) and behaviors (compulsions) that he or she feels the urge to repeat over and over. Examples include checking the door multiple times to make sure it’s really locked or washing your hands until they’re scrubbed raw.”

  Wait.

  Washing your hands until they’re scrubbed raw…

  I picture Mom’s hands, all red and cracked and lobstery. Then I reread the words on the screen. But what am I supposed to do with these words?

  I wish I knew.

  Part of me wants to email Olympia and ask her to explain what I read online. The other part wants to pretend I never heard of OCD in the first place. It seems weird, and scary, and very, very serious. I know I could ask Dad about it, but he’s never mentioned OCD before and I don’t want to put any ideas in his head. Besides, I know what he’ll say: “Come live uptown with me!” But that’s not something I’d ever want to do, no matter how many times he asks.

  I’ll write to Olympia later, I decide, after I’ve had time to think about things. For now, I’ve got to get ready for my study session with Sam. I throw on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, snatch my jacket from the hall closet, and go into the kitchen to get Mom. She insisted on taking me to Dad’s in a cab herself, even though I told her it’s babyish. I guess you can’t win every battle.

  I find her at the kitchen counter, a paper towel in one hand and her phone in the other. She smiles when she sees me. “I’m using the timer to increase my cleaning speed,” Mom says, holding up her phone. “Great idea, don’t you think?”

  If she wants to know what I really think, I’d say the timer is fine but maybe she should work harder at talking to me. But that’s not what she wants to hear. I’m not even sure that’s what I want to say. I tell her to get her coat so we can go.

  There’s little traffic on the FDR Drive, so we get to Dad’s in record time: twenty-five minutes from door to door. Mom waves good-bye from the back seat of the cab rather than taking me upstairs. She’s still in her cleaning clothes, but that’s not it. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to see Dad. My parents get along fine, but some things—like coming face-to-face with Dad’s happy second family—are just too hard. I get it.

  Before I can show Dad the French quiz I forgot to bring with me last week, or even say hi to Barbara and Henry, who are playing Candy Land in the family room, the doorbell rings. It’s Sam and Chloe, ten minutes early.

  “Nice place you have here, Mr. Greene,” Sam says, stepping into the entrance hall. “Do you own or rent?” He hands Dad his jacket and beckons to Chloe to follow him inside.

  Dad raises an eyebrow at me, but I just shrug. If he wants to answer Sam’s nosy question, that’s up to him.

  “Well, we were renting before the building went coop,” Dad says, still holding Sam’s jacket, “but then, with the favorable mortgage rates, we figured we might as well put in an offer.”

  “You didn’t pay the asking price, I hope?” Sam is frowning now.

  “Oh, no. Way below. We got a good deal, actually.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir. Well played.”

  “Thanks.” Dad is trying not to smile.

  Sam gestures to his little sister. She’s picking her nose with her pinkie. “This is Chloe.”

  Chloe takes off her yellow slicker and drops it on the floor. “Do you have Barbies?” she asks me.

  “Um, I don’t think so, Chloe,” I say, trying to ignore the finger rammed up her nose. “My bro
ther, Henry, has other toys to play with, though. Want to go into the family room and see?”

  Chloe nods and inches closer to me. I should take her hand, I realize. That’s what nice people do. But I don’t feel like being nice. I feel like dousing Chloe’s hands in Purell, starting with her pinkie. If only I’d taken one of Mom’s extra bottles.

  Barbara appears and kneels down to Chloe’s level. “I’m Barbara,” she says, putting her arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “Henry’s mom, and Kat’s step mom.”

  “Stepmom?” Chloe’s eyes bug out in alarm. “Like in Cinderella? She’s mean!”

  I want to laugh, but I feel bad for Barbara. I duck down too. “Barbara is nothing like the stepmom in Cinderella, Chloe. She’s a nice stepmom. The best!” I lean over and give Barbara a hug.

  “I owe you one,” Barbara whispers to me before grabbing Chloe’s hand and leading her down the hall.

  Later, when the grown-ups have left, I go into the family room to check on Henry and Chloe. They’re squished together in front of the TV, watching Big Bird count to ten in Spanish. I hand each kid a sippy cup and a box of raisins and head for the dining room to find Sam. He’s already at the table, flipping through a spiral notebook. We decide to start with The Boy with the Purple Socks.

  “ ‘What is the significance of this character?’ ” Sam reads off the directions sheet. “ ‘Back up your answer with concrete examples.’ ”

  “That’s easy,” I say. “The Boy with the Purple Socks is new to the school, which makes him an outsider. Harriet feels like an outsider too, when her friends read her notebook and get mad at her for all the mean things she wrote about them.”

  Sam scratches his chin. “I don’t know if I agree with you, Kat. Harriet didn’t say anything mean. She was just being honest. Her classmates shouldn’t have looked at the notebook. It’s their own fault they got hurt.”

  “Well, sure,” I say, “but people do things they’re not supposed to do all the time. Think about it, Sam. If I had a diary lying around and you found it, wouldn’t you take a look?”

  Sam crosses his arms over his skinny chest. “I would not. I would respect your privacy.”

  “That’s what you say now. But what if the diary was out in the open? You know, on a table or something? Chances are, you’d read it.”

  “Nope.” Sam shakes his head. “That would be an invasion of Kat World.”

  Kat World? “Let’s move on,” I say, tapping the directions sheet. “Read.”

  Sam starts reciting the next question, his voice high and squeaky. “ ‘How has this character changed throughout the course of the novel? As above, back up your argument with concrete examples.’ ”

  I rack my brain for ways The Boy with the Purple Socks changes, but I can’t think of a thing. He’s too boring to change. I tell this to Sam.

  Sam puts down his chewed-up pencil. “The Boy with the Purple Socks changes significantly by the end of the novel. Not only does he allow the Spy Catcher Club to borrow his purple socks, but he also wears green ones during the club’s parade. For another thing…”

  While Sam is blabbing on about how The Boy with the Purple Socks has changed when I know he really hasn’t, I start counting the days until this stupid project is over. I like Harriet the Spy as much as the next person, and I even like Sam. But with everything going on with Mom lately, it’s hard to care about purple socks. Or green ones.

  “Kat?” Sam leans in closer. “I really like you.”

  “I like you too, Sam, and I like this book. I’m just having a hard time liking The Boy with the Purple Socks. He doesn’t really do much.”

  Sam grins, revealing a flash of blue tooth elastics. He puts down the directions sheet. “We’re a lot like Sport and Harriet, you know.”

  “Um, that was random. What do you mean, Sam?”

  “Well, Harriet isn’t like everybody else. She does her own thing, without caring what people think. You’re the same way, Kat. You’re different. I mean, look at your hairstyle. You still wear pigtails.”

  I touch one of my pigtails. I never gave my hair much thought. I just like the style because it’s easy. But now that Sam’s pointed it out, I worry that pigtails are weird or babyish.

  “And I’m like Sport,” Sam continues. “He isn’t afraid to tell Harriet how he feels about things—like admitting his father sleeps all day and his mother ran away with all the money.”

  “So?” I ask. “What’s your point?”

  Sam’s smile gets bigger. “I feel as if I can tell you anything, Kat. Anything at all.”

  “That’s, um, good to know, Sam, but can we please get back to The Boy with the Purple Socks?”

  As I’m reaching for the directions sheet, Sam comes closer and squinches up his eyes. Before I know what’s happening, I feel a pair of squishy Sam lips on mine. Blech! Sam Teitelbaum is kissing me!

  I leap out of my seat. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, Kat. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Oh, yes, you could!” I’m shouting now, but I don’t care. I point in the direction of the family room. “Go get your sister and leave. Now!”

  Sam hangs his head. “I said I was sorry. Don’t make such a big deal out of it. I wanted to show you how much I like you—that’s all.”

  “And I want you out of my house!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m going.” Sam slinks off to the family room and returns with Chloe.

  “I didn’t get to play Barbies,” she says, clutching her box of raisins.

  If I were in the mood to care, I’d say something like, “That’s too bad, Chloe,” or “Maybe next time.” But why lie? There will be no next time.

  I open the front door and watch as Sam and his little sister step into the hallway. As I’m closing the door behind them, Sam appears in the open crack. “I’d like our jackets,” he says stiffly. “And my directions sheet.”

  I flounce over to the closet and grab the jackets. “Here!” I yell. “Take them!”

  “And the directions sheet?”

  In reply, I slam the door in his face.

  I watch Sesame Street with Henry until Dad and Barbara get back. When Dad asks how it went with Sam, I roll my eyes. Dad seems to get it, because he doesn’t say more. He just asks if I’m ready for him to bring me home.

  I’m surprised to find Mom standing inside her walkin closet when I walk into her room. I’m even more surprised to see her at the full-length mirror, trying on clothes. Shirts, sweaters, jeans, dresses, and a jumble of shoes and boots are scattered on the floor. I repeat: scattered on the floor.

  “Whoa, Mom. What’s going on?”

  Mom bends down to pick up some sweaters and carries them over to her bed. “I’ve got nothing to wear for the Clean Sweep dinner,” she says, reaching for a navy V-neck to fold. “People say that all the time, but for me it’s true. I haven’t got a single thing!” Mom flops down on the bed. I flop down next to her.

  “Want to borrow something of mine?” I ask. “I’ve got lots of nice stuff you could wear.”

  Mom leans over and plants a mushy kiss on my cheek. “Thanks, Kit-Kat, but you and I aren’t exactly the same size.”

  Mom’s got a point. She’s short and weighs as much as a large fourth grader. I’m built more like Dad: tall, with a bit of extra weight around my middle. Grandma Belle calls it puppy fat, which I don’t exactly appreciate. “Why don’t we go shopping?” I suggest, propping a pillow behind my head. “There’s plenty of time before your dinner. It’ll be fun!”

  Mom glances at the clock on her nightstand. “We could, but I don’t have the energy. I’m sure I can dig up something.”

  I picture the contents of Mom’s closet: out-of-date office clothes, faded overalls, and a grubby red bandanna. “Macy’s has a good selection,” I say, not ready to give up. “And it’s open until nine thirty.”

  Mom looks up, surprised. “How on earth did you know that?”

  “I know more than you think,” I say,
getting up from the bed. I want to tell her about Sam’s barfy kiss, but it might put her over the edge. Kissing equals germs, and germs equal more worry for Mom. Instead, I say the project is going well and head to my room to text Halle.

  Are you there?

  What’s up?

  You’ll never guess

  ????

  Sam kissed me!!

  YUCK!!!!!!

  Ikr!

  You ok?

  I’m super grossed out

  Boil your mouth

  Good idea

  Wish MM would kiss ME!

  Lol

  Ttyl

  Cu

  The more I think about Sam’s squidgy lips pressed up against mine, the sicker I feel. Not only was the actual kiss disgusting, but I was hoping my first one would be with someone special, in the back of a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park, maybe, or by the fountain at Lincoln Center. Not with Sam Teitelbaum in my dad’s apartment.

  I’m deciding whether to tell Olympia about Sam—or to ask about OCD, which I still don’t understand—when Mom stops by my room. She’s ready for the Sweepers’ dinner and feels funny about leaving me alone. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at your dad’s?” she asks for what feels like the bazillionth time. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”

  I sigh. “We’ve been over this before, Mom. I’m old enough to stay by myself. You can trust me.”

  Mom yanks a loose thread off her skirt. “Trust has nothing to do with it, Kit-Kat. I’m just worried about your safety.”

  After I promise not to set the house on fire, drown in the bathtub, or open the door to strangers, Mom seems convinced. Then she asks what I think of her outfit. “Are the pearls too much?” she asks, pointing to her neck.

  I shake my head. They were a gift from Dad on Mother’s Day. I was six. I remember how Mom gasped when she opened the black velvet box. “They’re gorgeous, Dennis!” she squealed, fastening the clasp at the back of her neck. “I’m never taking them off.” And she didn’t. She wore her pearls every day, even to the grocery store. Dad thought she was being silly, but Mom didn’t care. She loved her pearls.