She rallied, though. My mom is tough. And persistent. She’s like a stalker for Jesus.
She has gotten Leonie to go to church with her—and Leo loves it! St. Teresa has this giant Mary Magdalene/Recovered Fallen Woman thing with Leonie. (Which just pisses me off for so many reasons—however, I will not digress further.)
I tangled with my mom because she always says: “so what—(blah-blah—topic of contention) makes no difference to our everyday lives,” with which then I emphatically disagree, usually at the top of my lungs, because Everything Makes a Difference!
She and I are much better now than when I still lived there. We could be sulky at each other for days, back then, after one of my histrionic little history lessons.
Now I can holler even harder! This is great—free lectures!
And if I do holler, Mom can say “Oh, goodness me, look at the time! Don’t you have skate practice, or someplace you’re supposed to be, honey?”
Then I know we both think it’s time for me to go back to my own house—have us a lil’ time-out.
Sometimes, in the saddest, most knuckle-draggin’ way, I used to feel that if my mom wasn’t my mom and was just some random girl my age, she wouldn’t necessarily want to be my friend. Or vice versa.
I gotta admit; that “Coming of Age” crap was a drag. But now I can shrug and cheer up and just am glad she’s my mom. Nobody’s perfect. She loves me, I love her—a million times around the world. And sometimes that’s enough.
Besides, after our time-outs I always come back, the main reason being that I miss her a lot.
And another is because . . . well, laundry is freaking costly!
I’m still into sweats and hoodies. It’s just easier. I’ve got several I’ve cut off at the knees and elbows for skating and summer, which is quickly approaching. At least it is everywhere else in the country, according to Facebook. Here, it’s mostly still frigidly raining, but the days keep getting longer.
And I must say springtime evenings are a very cool thing in Seattle. When it’s not raining, when the light returns, the sun sets over the Sound, lingering in these lazy, golden, cinnamon-rose swirls, reflecting across the salt water. Sometimes it doesn’t even seem to really get dark; dusk just blends up into the sky from the city’s ambient lavender night light.
So, any-hoo, I think that’s everything.
Now I’m going to go see Mom, my brother Paul, Leo, and do some laundry.
Luckily, I didn’t skin my driving leg. I can feel it starting to tighten up already.
Mom is putting stuff away when I get there. She just got back from the store. Grocery bags piled high!
And The Bomb is glad to see her Auntie Rusty!
She is such a pretty dog. She is all shiny and smiley and healthy, and her big wolf teeth are sharp and white. I give her some kisses where the dark fur comes to a little point on her lil’ husky forehead, and she wags. She gives me some kisses back on my cheek. Good, sweet girl!
I miss living with a pet so much! But I just can’t afford one in the city. The special pet deposit is like $500 (in addition to the regular deposit) when you move into a rental, if they’ll even let you have one. It’s lame! Bommy would never dookie in the house, unless there was an emergency! But try telling a landlord that. When Beau and I rented our house that was one of the first questions. That’s how I knew how much the deposit was. And that was only if we had a cat. No dogs allowed at all!
I look to see what else is in the paper bags. So many . . . and so full! Whoa.
Mom is spending way more on food now that she is working. I get a mango out of the bag.
“Dang, Mama, mango? I might move home.”
“Hey, don’t cut that yet. I don’t think it’s ripe till day after tomorrow.”
“No, it’s good, I can tell. It’s all mushy and yummy.”
“Still—don’t. Have an apple.”
Her tone makes me stop.
St. Teresa, patron saint of control freaks; pray for us.
I put the uniquely unripe mango back in the sack. She bails it out of the bag and puts it in the fruit bowl. Gives me a little look. Fine. Fruit bowl it is, Boss-Lady!
I sigh, as wearily as she ever did when I lived with her.
And she hears me and turns around in genuine concern. She comes over and puts her hands on my cheeks and stands on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. I have to bend down for her to do that now.
“How are you two doing up in that terrible house?” She looks at me searchingly, and I feel my annoyance melt. “Do you keep the windows and doors locked all the time?”
“Pretty much. We’re fine. Beau has to be careful with his bike though. Block watch guys said there had been a few petty robberies recently,” I say.
See, I told her this as a comfort and also to distract her from tripping on our safety. No worries; just petty property crimes. So that she’s not to worry. See, Mom, honey, I don’t even have a bike, and Beau McCarefulbritches brings his inside!
Yeah. So that strategy backfired.
She immediately starts freaking out.
“What?! When?! Were they armed?! Oh, honey!! Do you know anyone who got robbed?! Did any of your neighbors?! Did anyone call the cops?! Oh, why do you guys have to live there?! It’s a terrible neighborhood! It’s awful! And they litter!”
My mom is so random. I keep a straight face.
“Okay, Mom, I promise to do something about that. The litter.”
She stops and points her finger at me.
“Rylee, you stop making fun of me! It’s true! It shows people’s attitude! Oh, just never mind, Miss Smarty!” She’s getting cranky-face again.
I change the topic.
“I ordered my cap and gown today.”
She stops and switches to the same subject. Sort of.
“Listen, have you heard from your dad yet?”
“No.” Now I’m the one getting cranky-face.
“Huh . . . You know, this is starting to get a little weird. I don’t know what his problem is. He used to be very reliable about getting back to people. I don’t know what to think. It’s strange for him to ignore your graduation.” She glowers with ancient annoyance. He has the power to irritate her, even years later, even from like three zillion miles away.
And I agree this time.
He hasn’t got in touch with my little brother Paul or me in years. I decided not to think about it—after failing repeatedly to get him to visit us—so I haven’t been in touch with him either. The graduation card and picture is the first letter I’d sent, since I’m still waiting for an answer from the last time I wrote four years ago, when I sent him a birthday card/long letter and never got a response.
It’s all a giant whatever.
Photo by John Keister, 2013
MARY McKINLEY is a TV writer/performer whose work has been featured most recently on the new Seattle-based sketch comedy project, The 206, and on Biz Kid$, an Emmy-winning young adult show on PBS. For the last thirteen years, she has written stand-up and sketch comedy with her partner, John Keister, as well as several TV pilots. A nearly lifelong Seattle resident, Mary graduated with a BFA from Seattle University.
You can visit her on the Web at maryfmckinley.com
When Beau transferred to our school, I thought:
“Good; fresh meat.” Because I knew he would be
tormented the entire time he was at Baboon High.
Like I am. All day . . . every day.
Growing up is a trip....
In high school, there are few worse crimes than being smart or fat. Lucky me, I’m both. But when Beau Gales blows in to town, it takes about two minutes for the jackasses at our Seattle school to figure out he’s gay, and that makes him an even bigger target. Have you ever heard the saying: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend”? There’s something to that.
When the bullying gets violent and Beau decides to run away to San Francisco to ask his Uncle Frankie for advice, we all go. Beau, me, Leonie (designated class slut), and a sc
ruffy rescue dog called The Bomb—a tribe of misfits crammed into my mom’s minivan. Throw in a detour to the Twilight town of Forks, armed robbery, cool record shops, confessions, breakups and makeups, and you have the kind of journey that can change the way you look at the whole world—and yourself.
A Kensington trade paperback and e-book on sale now!
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Mary McKinley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eKensington Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3642-1
First Electronic Edition: April 2015
The Hurt Patrol Page 13