Page 29 of Pick-Up
“Ah!That’sher name! She looks different. Like, less together maybe? How do we know her again?”
“I know her a little from growing up. From my whole high school scene. Not well.”
I chanced another glance over at Kaitlin, whose own gaze skittered away. I guess maybe she did look a little less together. She usually had a kind of preppy, tightly wound vibe. Today, she looked like maybe she hadn’t brushed her hair. No judgment.
The truth is, I kind of avoided her. There was something about the way she looked at me, talked to me, that made me uneasy. She was definitely a VIM. Maybe she thought I was slacking on the mom front? Maybe she just didn’t like me?
Once, early on at some festival, she had introduced me to her circle of school moms as “a close friend from middle school” and “that untouchable high school girl.” I thought about that periodically afterward. We’d hung out the summer before eighth grade, but we hadn’t remained close, at least not in my memory. It was more like that friendship that sustains you—at any new place—before you find your actual people. Like an unspoken understanding. Also, the idea that I seemed so inviolable as a teenager was hard to fathom, since, like all teenagers, I’d felt exposed. I guess I did a good performance of Teflon. Of course, later—after Cliff—I found better ways to protect myself. By being literally untouchable.
“Right!” said Celeste. “I could not remember!”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, she was like, ‘Oh, Henry this and Henry that’ and I was like, ‘Who are you again?’ I’m the worst!” Celeste clapped a hand over her eyes.
“She must have liked that.”
She grimaced with genuine remorse. “Hopefully, I played it off.”
“Probably not.”
“Probably not.” She sighed.
“But, honestly, there’s no reason why you should know her. I barely do.”
I glanced back at Kaitlin then and caught her looking at me. I smiled, reflexively, and the corner of her mouth ticked upward too.But, as her gaze lingered, her smile faltered. And her eyes seemed to tell a different story.
Now, all is right with the world. I get to go on my trip. I can pay for drama classes and, oh, you know, rent. My kids have a safe place to stay while I’m gone. And, on Monday, I can begin planning the Citrine Cay shoot in earnest with theEscapadeteam.
For this evening, all I have to do is hang with Celeste at Monster’s Ball, help some cute (and some not so cute) kids use the photo booth and sneak swigs from my flask. Heaven!
Only, that’s not in the cards. Because there’s been a mix-up. Of course, there has.
When I approach Celeste, who is already working our station, she is wearing a cable-knit sweater, sailor jeans I wish were mine and a look of resignation.
“There was a mix-up with the sign-up sheet,” she says to me, eyes filled with unspoken expletives and boring into my own. “Apparently, your name did not appear with mine in the photo booth slot. So, Lisa, here, signed up as my partner.”
Lisa! Mom Who Never Stops Talking’s name is confirmed. That’s one tiny silver lining.
“We’re going to have the best time!” She grins.
Celeste bites her lip.
“Oh, okay,” I say. I am bummed, but not that bummed. Now, I don’t have an assignment. I can just hang around, chat with the two parents I know, visit Celeste. “I guess I’m out of work!”
“Not quite,” says Celeste, eyes wide.
And I can feel the universe readying to wallop me from a mile away.
“Oh, there you are!” I turn around to find the school administrator, the one who is always at the drop-off entrance, waiting behind me. “Are you ready to start?”
“Ready to start… what?”
She raises her eyebrows.
And now the pity in Celeste’s eyes is starting to concretize. It wasn’t for herself. It was for me. I have been given the most dreaded job in the entire Monster’s Ball festival:
I am the cotton candy lady.
