Kat Greene Comes Clean

by Melissa Roske

  Well, now that you mention it…

  “I wanted to talk to you about our last email exchange.”

  Oh no. I never wrote back, I realize. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just didn’t know what to say. I still don’t, even now that I’m sitting here, watching Olympia watching me. As much as I want to share my feelings, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much.

  “You’re having a tough time with your mom,” Olympia prompts. “Right?”

  I lift my eyes from the floor.

  “You can trust me, Kat. I won’t say anything, to anyone. Not even your mom, unless you want me to.”

  “I don’t,” I say quickly. “I’d rather keep this…” I search for the right words. “Just between us.” I pause. “Can I have a glass of water?”

  “You got it.” Olympia goes over to a small refrigerator in the corner of the room and takes out a jug of water. She finds a glass, fills it, and hands it to me.

  While I’m drinking, Olympia takes a handful of jelly beans from the jar and lays them out on her desk, bean to bean. A jelly-bean chain. She stares at it thoughtfully before motioning for me to put down my empty glass. “So, let’s try something,” she says. “Each jelly bean represents a thought. You’ll take a jelly bean from the top, eat it, and then say the first thing that pops into your mind. You won’t overthink your statement, and you won’t pass judgment on it. You’ll just talk. Then you’ll move on to the next jelly bean. Sound okay?”

  I nod. Although Olympia’s idea seems a bit strange, I reach for the green jelly bean at the top of the chain and pop it in my mouth. When I’m done scraping the last sugary bits off with my tongue, I look over at Olympia. “My mom has OCD,” I say. “At least I think she does.”

  I expect to feel ashamed for saying this out loud, for using the medical term I’d Googled. But shame is the last thing I’m feeling. It’s relief. Relief that I’m finally able to take the lid off the dirty-laundry hamper—even if it’s just a crack.

  “Go on,” Olympia says. “You feel…”

  “Scared.”

  “Scared of…?”

  I know I’m not supposed to overthink my feelings, or judge them. I’m supposed tell Olympia the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But the truth feels impossible to say out loud. I mean, how can I tell Olympia that I find Mom’s problem, her OCD, difficult to understand and I’m scared I might get it too? And how can I admit that I haven’t talked to my dad about this? Olympia will ask. And when she does…? I don’t know what to tell her. It’s like when I was little and couldn’t jump in the deep end of the pool. I wanted to, but I always chickened out at the last minute. This pool is deeper, though—and way scarier.

  “I need to go,” I say, reaching for my backpack.

  “That’s fine, Kat, but—”

  Before Olympia can finish her sentence, I’m out the door.

  After school I find Mom in the bathroom, spritzing the bathtub with spray bleach. Her phone is on the counter, displaying the timer function. This is odd. If Mom’s not going on Clean Sweep, why is she using a timer? Could this be a new symptom of her OCD? And if it is, how do I make it go away?

  Mom puts down the spray bottle when she sees me. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve changed my mind about Clean Sweep. I’m doing it.”

  “You are?”

  Mom smiles. “The taping is a week from Friday. You can bring a friend if you’d like. Your dad and Barbara will be there too.”

  I feel as if the air has been sucked out of the room. Mom’s changed her mind? And she invited Dad? How is this possible? Mom never changes her mind, and she only talks to Dad when she has to. As Ole Golly says to Harriet: “Life is very strange.” I plop down on the toilet lid. “What made you change your mind?” I ask.

  Mom peels off her rubber gloves and sits down on the edge of the tub. “For starters, there’s no sense worrying about what’s to come after the show. I might not even win.”

  “Right…” I say.

  “But that’s not the main reason,” Mom admits. Her eyes find mine. “I did a lot of thinking after our fight, Kit-Kat. About what happened between us, and my behavior in general.”

  I sit up straighter. Is Mom about to admit she has OCD? Or is there something else she wants to tell me? I hold my breath, waiting.

  “I know I haven’t been making life easy for you lately,” Mom says. “With all the cleaning and stuff.”

  “You’re not doing it on purpose,” I tell her. “You can’t help it.”

  “I know, but still.” Mom looks down at her hands. “I need to make some changes around here, Kat. Big ones. Clean Sweep is just one of them.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well…” Mom adjusts her bandanna. “I know my cleaning is a problem. The hand-washing too. I’m hoping that doing the show might turn things around for me. You know, put myself out there…channel my problem into something good.”

  What Mom’s saying kind of makes sense, even if it doesn’t 100 percent explain why she changed her mind. Still, I’m proud of her for trying. And for being honest with me. It’s a big step.

  Just as I’m leaning over to give her a hug, I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I take it out to see who’s calling. It’s Sam. In all the drama with Halle—and now, with Mom changing her mind about Clean Sweep—I had forgotten we’d planned a “conference call” (Sam’s words) to discuss the Harriet project. “Sorry, Mom,” I say, jumping to my feet. “I have to take this.” I run into my room and sit down on the bed.

  “I think we should mention that The Boy with the Purple Socks isn’t the kid’s real name,” Sam says right away. “It’s Peter. Peter Matthews.”

  “Well, duh,” I say. “Everybody knows that.”

  “It was only a suggestion, Kat. You don’t have to be hostile.”

  “I wasn’t being hostile. Just honest.”

  “Then it’s your honesty that’s hostile. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re still mad.”

  I want to say something snarky like, “Good guess, Einstein,” or better yet, hang up. But I don’t want Sam to tell Jane I’m difficult to work with. “Can we get back to the project now?” I say. “Please?”

  “Okay, fine.” Sam tries again. “How about the fact that Pinky Whitehead is so pale and thin, he looks like a glass of milk?”

  “That’s a description of what Pinky Whitehead looks like, Sam. It’s not important. What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m trying to do well on the Harriet project, and you’re coming up with silly ideas.”

  Sam doesn’t answer at first. Finally he says, “I think we should talk some other time, Kat. You know, before one of us says something mean.”

  Like Halle, Sam’s got it all wrong. I’m not mean. I’m just upset that my friends are turning against me: Sam by trying to kiss me, and Halle by thinking I’m a sneaky backstabber. Unfortunately I don’t get a chance to tell Sam how I feel. He’s hung up on me.

  I stare at my phone in disbelief. Sam, hanging up on me? I didn’t know he had it in him. And then the ringer goes off again. Sam calling to apologize, I assume. I knew he couldn’t stay mad for long. But it’s not Sam’s voice I hear when I answer. It’s deeper, with loud music in the background.

  “We didn’t get to finish talking on Saturday night,” Michael says into the phone. “I was telling you I like you, but you hung up.”

  “Um, I…”

  “So, here’s the deal,” Michael continues. “I think you’re cool, and I know you like me too. So we should, you know, hang out or something.”

  “Hang out?” I grip the phone tighter. “I don’t think—”

  “Cool. I’ll text you my schedule. Check you later, Kat.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  The line goes dead.

  Which is what I’ll be when Halle finds out that her crush called to say I’m cool an
d that he’ll text me his schedule.

  D-e-a-d.

  When my alarm rings the next morning, I feel like throwing it out the window. The thought of going to school, where Halle thinks I’m a backstabbing crush stealer and Michael might leave me another dopey love poem, makes my stomach hurt. I’m also feeling bad about being mean(ish) to Sam and bailing on Olympia. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on Sam. And maybe Olympia was only trying to help me—but I wouldn’t let her. I roll out of bed and get my computer.

  TO: Olympia.Rabinowitz@VillageHumanity.org

  SUBJECT: I’m sorry

  DATE: October 17 7:05:42 AM EDT

  FROM: Kat.Greene@VillageHumanity.org

  Dear Olympia,

  I’m sorry I ran out of your office yesterday. Talking about problems is harder than writing about them, I guess. I hope you’re not mad.

  Oh and guess what? My mom changed her mind about Clean Sweep. She’s doing it. The taping is a week from Friday. I’ll let you know how it turns out. She thinks this will make everything better. I hope so. I also hope she wins the money.

  I consider telling Olympia about the situation with Halle, but I don’t. With any luck, things will be back to normal by the time I get to school. I sign my name and send the email.

  —

  Halle ignores me when I walk into the classroom, and later, in carpentry, she refuses to pass me the nails. By lunchtime, she’s still not talking to me. “This has got to stop,” I say, plunking down with my cafeteria tray. “I’m not interested in Michael, Hal—I swear. You’ve got to believe me. We’re best friends!”

  Halle takes an angry bite of her free-range chicken leg. “That’s what I thought, until you tried to steal him away from me.”

  I could argue, but I know it won’t help. Instead, I tell her about Mom’s last-minute decision to go on Clean Sweep. “The taping’s next Friday and I can bring a friend. We’ll miss school and everything. My mom already checked.”

  Halle throws down her chicken leg. “If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re nuts! And that includes trick-or-treating on Halloween. You can go with Michael, for all I care.”

  I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I thought for sure Halle would say yes to Clean Sweep. Missing school for a TV show taping is like Christmas and your birthday all rolled up in one. And not going trick-or-treating together? Impossible. “You don’t mean it,” I say, reaching for my best friend’s arm. “You’re just mad.”

  “Oh, I mean it, all right.”

  Just then Michael appears at our table. A strip of beef jerky dangles from the side of his mouth like a gangster’s cigar. “Thought I’d come over and say hi,” he tells us.

  Halle’s eyes narrow. “To me or to her?”

  Michael puts down his tray. “Can’t I say hi to both of you?”

  “You can,” Halle says. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Why not?” Michael says.

  “Come on, Hal,” I say under my breath. “You don’t need to do this. It’s stupid.”

  “Oh yeah?” Before I can stop her, Halle is heading to the other end of the table, where Madeline and Coco are daintily picking at salads. I watch as she sits down and joins the girls’ conversation.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” I say to Michael. “She hates me more than ever.”

  “Why would she hate you?” Michael says.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “I like stories,” Michael says, snatching a sweet-potato fry off my plate. “And I like you.”

  “I like you too, Michael. But I don’t like-like you—not the way Halle does. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Noticed what?”

  “That Halle likes you. She talks about you all the time.”

  “She does?” Michael cranes his neck for a better view of Halle at the other end of the table.

  “Yeah,” I say. “A lot.”

  “Well, I dunno…” Michael takes off his Yankees cap and scratches his head. I’ve never seen him at a loss for words before, but there’s a first time for everything. “Do you think I should talk to her?” he asks.

  “Why not?” I say. “Halle would probably—”

  But I’m talking to myself. Michael has picked up his tray and is squeezing in next to Halle.

  Well, that was quick.

  I scan the lunchroom for someone to eat with, ruling out Halle and Michael immediately. Madeline and Coco too. Wilson is examining Liberty’s nose piercing with a flashlight, and Kevin and Hector are shooting spitballs at the fourth graders.

  That leaves Sam.

  The problem is, I’m supposed to be mad at Sam. But staying mad at Sam is harder than it looks. He stuck up for me in rap session, and he cares about getting good grades—which I really do admire. Now, watching him eat his pasta alone, I kind of feel sorry for him. I get up with my tray.

  “Kat!” Sam’s face lights up like a glow stick. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I want to make up,” I say, taking a seat across from him. He’s got a smear of tomato sauce on his chin, but I don’t mention it. I’m here to apologize, not criticize his table manners. “You did something wrong, but I’m tired of being mad at you.”

  “That’s nice of you, Kat,” Sam says. “I really am sorry.”

  “I know you are.”

  “And I’m sorry for hanging up on you yesterday. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I kind of deserved it,” I admit.

  “Does that mean we’re friends again?”

  “Yeah, under one condition.”

  “Anything.” Sam blinks at me behind his glasses.

  “You’ll come with me to see my mom compete on Clean Sweep. It’s a TV game show, and the taping’s a week from Friday.” Now that Halle hates me, Sam’s the closest thing I have to a best friend.

  Sam sticks out his hand for me to shake. “Deal.”

  I take his hand and shake back. And for the first time in ages—since my fight with Mom and since Halle started ignoring me—I feel like myself again. Somewhere between jump-for-joy happy and down-in-the-dumps sad. It’s not ideal, but I can live with it. For now.

  On the morning of the Clean Sweep taping, Mom speed-cleans the kitchen one last time before changing out of her overalls. We eat a quick breakfast and then take a cab to the studio in Midtown. Sam and his mother are waiting for us in the lobby.

  “Good luck, Deidre,” Mrs. Teitelbaum says, pecking Mom on the cheek. “We’re all rooting for you.” Sam’s mom looks exactly like Sam, with curly auburn hair and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. If she weren’t wearing a dress, she and Sam could be twins. Mrs. Teitelbaum hugs Mom good-bye and scurries off to work, leaving the three of us to wait for further instructions.

  “I’m really nervous,” Mom says, chewing her lip. “What if I lose?”

  “You won’t lose,” I tell her. “No way.”

  “Kat’s right, Mrs. G.,” Sam says, patting Mom on the back like a gassy baby. “You’ve got this in the bag.”

  “Well, I have been practicing,” Mom says.

  “Practicing” is an understatement. The timer has barely left Mom’s hand since she changed her mind about the show. If she doesn’t win, it’s not because she didn’t try hard enough.

  As Sam and I take turns building Mom’s confidence, a skinny guy with a clipboard appears to take Mom to the wardrobe department. “Ready, Deidre?” he asks.

  Mom turns to me and Sam. “I’d better go,” she says. “Wish me good luck.”

  “Good luck, Mom,” I say, giving her a squeeze.

  “Break a leg, Mrs. G.,” Sam tells her. “You’ll be great!”

  Mom gives us a shaky smile and follows the guy down the hall. I turn to Sam. “What if she doesn’t win? She’ll be so disappointed.”

  “Relax,” Sam says, motioning for me to follow him into the auditorium. “Your mom’s been practicing. She said so herself.”

  “I know, but…” I trail Sam
to the third row, where Dad and Barbara are already seated. Thank goodness they had the sense to leave Henry home with the babysitter.

  As I take my seat, the overhead lights dim and a stocky guy in a tight black T-shirt makes his way onto the brightly lit set. The neon CLEAN SWEEP sign is blinking on and off behind him like a billboard in Times Square. I don’t spot any of the dirty kitchen appliances yet, but I do notice an assortment of cleaning products lined up in neat, even rows along the back wall. I’ll bet Mom can’t wait to get her hands on them.

  “I’m Tommy Z.,” the announcer tells the crowd, “and I’m here to explain the rules for audience participation.”

  “Hi, Tommy!” a blond lady calls out. She’s wearing an I NY sweatshirt and fanning herself with a tourist map.

  Tommy Z. walks closer to the audience and continues his instructions. “So, when the applause sign is on, you’re going to…”

  “Clap!” Sweatshirt Lady yells from her seat.

  “That’s right,” Tommy Z. says, smiling patiently at her. If he finds her annoying, he doesn’t let on. “How loud?”

  “Really loud!”

  “And if the applause sign isn’t on?”

  “We should be quiet!” Sweatshirt Lady puts a finger up to her lips.

  “Right again! I can tell you’ve done this before.”

  While Sweatshirt Lady is giggling behind her hand at Tommy Z.’s comment, I catch a glimpse of the Sweepers offstage. Mom is biting her nails and looks as green as her sanitation worker’s uniform. I nudge Sam with my elbow. “My mom looks nervous.”

  “She’ll be fine, Kat. Don’t worry.” I want to believe him, but how can I? There’s so much at stake—for Mom, and for me.

  “Now, without further ado,” Tommy Z. says, “please put your hands together for the host of our show, the one, the only…Mr. Bing Monroe!”

  The crowd starts clapping like crazy when Bing Monroe strides onto the stage, carrying a broom. “Welcome to Clean Sweep, folks!” he says. “The show where a little elbow grease can make one lucky winner very, very rich!” The applause sign isn’t on, but people are hooting and hollering and stomping their feet. Some are taking pictures, even though it’s probably not allowed.