I don’t wait for a reaction; I just turn and march toward the exit. I can only imagine Gwendolyn’s fake smile and her eyes boring into my spine as I let the door slam behind me.
I hope I don’t have to move to South Dakota.
14
Kiki
She quit.
She quit the Mom Squad.
She walked away from Gwendolyn. From the PTA. From my chance to be friends with her!
I’m trying to horn in on all the whispered conversations happening around me, but my phone keeps vibrating.
KENT: Kiki, where are the diapers??
ME: Top drawer of the changing table. Xo.
KENT: When are you coming back?
ME: Meeting goes until 9. Xo.
KENT: 9pm?? You still have to go to the supermarket.
KENT: I’m out of protein bars.
ME: I know! Xo.
KENT: And milk. Whole, not that 2% stuff.
ME: I know! Xo.
KENT: I’m serious, no almond milk.
ME: Yep!
KENT: And apples. Green ones.
ME: You got it!
KENT: Thick-cut ham.
ME: Alrighty!
Carla is gone. She must have left while I was texting, probably because texting in public is so rude.
My dad always told me that quitting was for quitters. He was talking about smoking, and he later died of emphysema. I never quit anything except my job when I got pregnant, but that’s different. As a kid, I still played hockey even after I dislocated my shoulder. “Get back out there!” my coach shouted when I tried to get off the ice, and I did. At the ER later that night, the doctors said they couldn’t believe I was able to finish the whole game in such excruciating pain. My dad stood there, beaming with pride while they popped my shoulder back into the socket. Junior year of high school, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis. That’s the kissing disease, but you can also get it from borrowing someone’s reed in marching band, or drinking from the same cup as Crystal Baumgartner, which are the two places I could have gotten it, seeing as how I for sure wasn’t kissing anyone after what they taught us in sex ed. Anyway, mononucleosis didn’t stop me from going to the State Finals for Debate even though my doctor said I was in danger of developing hepatitis if I didn’t rest. Hadn’t Amy had a strict father who taught her better than to just . . . quit? And why do I so badly want to follow her out that dang door?
All around me are the people I had hoped to connect with: moms who I had hoped would want to get a special coffee sometime, or exchange recipes for dessert bars. What did Gwendolyn have against dessert bars? Gwendolyn had a lot against dessert bars, it turns out. I happen to know for a fact that they make people happy, but her entire presentation included photos of sad kids clutching their bellies like they had just swallowed a Tide pod, and I saw on Good Morning America that some kids are actually doing that and it seems like that is a crisis, not my mother’s seven-layer bars. Nobody in Minot could ever get them as gooey as hers, and here’s why: she used two sticks of salted butter in every batch. But butter is now outlawed. So is chocolate. And sweetened coconut. And graham crackers. And caramel. And walnuts. And butterscotch. And condensed milk. Any milk, really. The recipe that I was counting on to win over hearts and minds and stomachs at McKinley was now officially outlawed.
My phone buzzes again.
KENT: Mild salsa.
KENT: And chips.
Heart thumping, I grab my purse and stand up.
I’M NOT FOLLOWING AMY; I’M JUST WALKING BEHIND HER FOR a few blocks without saying anything. I want to say something, but when I try to think of what I could call out to her on a dark street without alarming her, nothing comes to mind. So I just hang back, hoping that the right opportunity will present itself. I’m just thinking about how much I like the sound of her boots clicking on the pavement when she darts across the street without even looking both ways, and walks into a low, plain building with a big neon sign. The Office.
I’ve never been to The Office. Kent says that bars are for creeps and lowlifes, but the moment I step inside I realize that he forgot to also list sad-looking people, regular-looking people, and McKinley moms, apparently.
It smells a little bit like the inside of Bernard’s mouth after he’s had the stomach flu, or maybe the inside of a sippy cup you find on the floor of the van on a hot summer day. It smells bad, but when my eyes adjust to the dark, I see her. My future friend.
Be normal. Be normal. Be normal.
“Hi, I’m Amy! You’re Amy. I’m Kiki. My kids go to McKinley.” My voice sounds like me, but not like me. I sound like an alien doing a bad impersonation of a human mother.
Good job being normal, Kiki.
Amy Mitchell has the prettiest skin I’ve ever seen in my life. She has no pores. It’s like she’s been airbrushed, except you know that she doesn’t wear makeup—maybe a swipe of mascara, if she’s feeling like it. She’s just that beautiful. Her hair is so glossy I want to weave it into a pillowcase and sleep with it every night. Even my thoughts are not being normal.
“Oh God.” She moans. “You were there? I’m not normally like that. I just have a lot going on right now.”
Her voice is so warm and kind that I want to take a nap inside of it. I know that what I say next really matters; I rehearsed this conversation in my head the whole way here. It’s my chance to turn the fact that I followed her from a school to a bar several blocks away into the beginning of an actual friendship.
I’m interrupted by Carla, who has been busy ripping through the pile of pull tabs in front of her. Are she and Amy . . . friends? Did I totally blow it by ignoring her to text my husband? Does she totally hate me now?
“Hey!” Carla smiles. “I know you! I tried to get you out the door with me, but you were glued to that fucking phone. It’s a tracking device, you know. So. What’re you drinking?”
When I was little, my mom would take me with her down to the VFW for the Friday-night fish fry, and I’d get two dollars to spend. I’d get myself one Shirley Temple with extra cherries and six pull tabs, even though it’s technically gambling and for sure illegal to sell them to children. I took my time with each tab, double-checking every symbol to make sure I didn’t miss a winner.
“Helloooo! Kiki! Drink?” Carla is snapping her long fingers in my face.
“Shirley Temple, extra cherries.”
At first I’m afraid that she is gravely injured, but the sound coming from her mouth and throat is apparently a laugh, which turns into a cough that really should be treated by a medical professional.
“You’re nuts,” she says, stepping behind the bar.
What she hands me is too dark to be a Shirley Temple, so I assume it’s a Roy Rogers. I try not to drink Coca-Cola Classic after five PM because it keeps me up, but this is a special friend date and I want to be polite.
It tastes like acid mixed with nail polish remover and whatever is leaking out of the bottom of our van right now, but I keep drinking. The faster I get this over with, the better.
“Easy, mama!” she says. “That’s a Manhattan. It’s like, pure alcohol. You’re gonna be on your ass if you drink it that fast.”
Alcohol! And not just alcohol, but a Manhattan. Kent and I went to Manhattan once. I thought we’d go to FAO Schwartz and the Statue of Liberty and the Museum of Natural History, but mainly I just stayed in the hotel room while Kent went to his work conference because he said the city was filled with crooks and pickpockets. We did go to the Olive Garden in Times Square, though, and when we were walking back to the hotel, Kent stepped in human poop.