Page 21 of Clever Little Thing

“I saw it,” Stella announced, appearing beside me. “Zach’s mommy was being mean to my mommy.” I loved her so fiercely. But then she continued. “If someone invades your personal space, you should punch that bastard right in the face.”

I gaped. “Stella! That is not how we talk. Go to your room.”

She retreated, and I closed my eyes, feeling hot and prickly all over. “OK, OK,” I said. “I get the message.” I felt so ashamed,desperate for them to go away. As I shut the front door, I distinctly heard Emmy saying, “Cray-cray.”

I certainly looked cray-cray in the video. I thought of all those videos I’d watched of little kids freaking out. Now other people had watched this video of me. But those videos of kids were anonymous, taken by their parents to help other parents. This video was taken to warn the other moms about me, a menace who had to be disinvited from FOMHS.

I called Pete, even though it was still early in Atlanta, and did my best to make this into a funny story.

“Those moms are the crazy ones,” he said. “They’re treating you like you’re some kind of psycho.”

I tried to laugh. “I know! But they know I’m not. I’ve been out for margaritas with them.” On one occasion, we’d laughed ourselves silly at the thought of the nit-removal party we were going to invite people to: “The pleasure of your company is requested/For an evening of cocktails and nit-picking…” For some reason, the phrase BYONC (bring your own nit comb) was especially hilarious.

But now that I thought about it, the way the nit party came up was that I’d been talking about hosting a get-together at my place, musing about what type of event I could have. “A drawer-organizing party,” someone had joked. I’d laughed along. Then Emmy had suggested the nit-removal party. I thought they were laughing with me, but now I realized they were laughingatme.

I sat down on the sofa and cradled a cushion to my chest. “I don’t think they ever actually liked me. They thought I was uptight.”

“They only know one tiny part of you. In San Francisco, they would have killed to be invited to one of your parties.”

“Do you ever wonder about that time?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Were we really friends with all those people? I’ve lost touch with pretty much all of them.”

“Long-distance friendships are tough,” Pete said.

But after I got off the phone with him, I reflected that he was always texting and calling old friends. I was the one whose friendships were so flimsy they had melted away. My time in San Francisco had been my proof that Icouldmake friends. But now I looked back on all those parties and dinners, I realized I was always too busy to sit down and talk with anyone. I couldn’t remember a single conversation.

Maybe I didn’t know how to get along with others, and the FOMHS mothers saw the truth.

I got the rubbing alcohol from the cleaning supplies cupboard and poured it onto a clean cloth. Then I went at the cross. It didn’t work, and I tried nail polish remover, and then toothpaste. Finally, I got a paring knife and scraped off the paint. I would need to paint over the ruined spot. But for now, it felt good, so good, like scratching a mosquito bite until it bled.

14.

By the time I’d finished gouging the wall, it was lunchtime, so I forced myself to make something for Stella. Sometimes when I cooked, I felt as if my mother were standing in the kitchen watching me. She did this when I was growing up, and later, on the rare occasions she visited us or we stayed with her. Sometimes she said, “Is that how you chop an onion?” or “Will Stella eat that?” Someone else might not even have recognized these comments as criticisms. Mostly she just watched, her eyes following me as I chose a knife, as I chopped, as I heated oil in a pan or grated cheese. If you have something to say, say it, I thought now, and then gave one of those small starts as my brain realized that this particular thought groove had expired. Pete said that for months after his dad died, he thought of funny or interesting things to tell his dad, then remembered with a jolt that he was dead. I thought of Edith telling me I was using the wrong spatula.

I tried to perk up, but everything reeked. The sponge smelledmoldy, even though it was a new one I’d unwrapped yesterday, and its smell fought with that of biodegradable peppermint dish soap. I texted Cherie and told her about Lurid Leggings’ video.Emmy threw me out of FOMHS. I’m a pariah!Confused face, melting face.

The old Cherie would have responded with a tears-of-laughter face andOMG I wish she’d banish me too. Btw did you see what she was wearing yesterday? She looked like a walking zebra crossing.

Nothing.

Cherie could have offered to text Emmy and set her straight about what had happened. But I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t. That thumbs-up the previous day had clearly meant what I thought: she didn’t really forgive me after all.

I was starting to regret apologizing to her. Normally I apologized for everything, including things I hadn’t done. I apologized when someone stepped in front of me to grab the last shopping basket at the supermarket. I apologized to Pete when he came home late. I apologized to Stella when the bath temperature wasn’t to her liking. Charlotte Says: If in doubt, apologize. It doesn’t cost you anything.

I felt that this apology had cost me something: I’d put myself in the wrong. Cherie could stand to apologize too.

I finished making Stella’s lunch and delivered it to her room. Then I flopped on my bed. If my friendship with Cherie was still intact, I could return to our running joke and text: “Never mind, a spot of eyebrow reshaping will cheer me up.” Instead, I scrolled through home-organization photos, my eyes stinging. I aspired to cupboards and drawers where the entire contents were visible at first glance. I hated losing things that I knew were somewhere inside my house.

My bedroom door banged as a breeze blew through the hall. How long had I been lying here? “Stella!” I went to her room. Everything was as usual: the birds of California poster, her collection of mussel shells that looked identical but weren’t (she noticed when I tried to throw a couple away), the stuffed owl we’d sewn together, made from some fluffy fabric that molted everywhere. But no Stella. A trickle of cold in my chest.

Was she in the alone-time cupboard? No. Back to the living room. Could she have crept behind the curtains when I was sleeping?

The front door was wide open. Hence the breeze.

I had the strange sensation that what was happening was preordained. This was always going to happen. From the first night of her life, I’d wondered how I could deserve such glorious riches. When I got to take her home from the hospital, I could hardly believe it. It was like a mythical creature had come to live with us, a phoenix. Now she had flown.

---