“You’re right, Kent,” Kiki interrupts with a smile. “I’ll see you at home. We’re having pork tenderloin and new potatoes tonight.” Kiki puts on her backpack and opens her Velcro wallet, placing four crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table. She has literally no idea what a Shirley Temple costs.
Amy and I sit in silence, watching her walk through the dining room. Across the restaurant, Kent and I lock eyes. He smiles at me, and I raise my glass to the dickbag who just ruined our lunch.
“You’re going down, son,” I mouth to him, smiling.
20
Kiki
I have six followers on Instagram, and two of them are my mom. She forgot the password to her first account, so she made another. Still, I can always count on her for a like and a comment. When my phone buzzes, I sometimes think, Oh! Maybe that’s a new follower! Or, Oh! Maybe that’s a text from another mom who found me in the MFM part of Craigslist I’ve been posting in.
But usually it’s Kent. Kent recently added this app called HNYDO that is supposed to be pronounced “Honey-Do,” but I guess they just didn’t know how to spell it? It lets him add all the things he’s asked me to do, and then it reminds me to do them if I haven’t yet. Each time I complete a task, I’m supposed to click a little button, and a little bee pops up and says, “Thanks, Honey!” I told him that I liked my planner just fine, but he said he likes to know what I’m doing all day while he’s at work financing our lifestyle.
I took one photo today, the kind that Gwendolyn usually takes, where you hold your camera above your plate so everyone knows what you are about to eat for lunch. I haven’t done this before, because usually my lunches are just the crusts from the kids’ sandwiches, the milk they leave in their sippy cups, and whatever half-chewed carrots or goldfish crackers they leave behind. Sometimes I’m lucky and they leave half a quesadilla completely untouched.
But today, I ordered a real lunch. There were the cutest little rolls, and tiny little butters that went with them. I got a niçoise salad, which I thought was pronounced “knee-coyze” but the cute waiter told me it’s “knee-swaaah,” and I got a little butterfly in my tummy when he said it like that, the kind of butterfly I used to get in college when Kent would pick me up for dinner in his Toyota Corolla with the windows down.
It’s a good picture, even if you can kind of see the shadow of my phone hovering over the salad.
Fun lunch with the girls today! #salad #lunch #instafood
My phone buzzes less than thirty seconds after I post it. Mom.
Glad you’re out having fun, Kiki! You deserve it!
Another buzz. Did she accidentally post it twice?
@_jane_and_dylans_mom has tagged you in a post
I have never been tagged in a post, and my hands are shaking as I click the notification. Amy’s account is mostly photos of the kids: Jane standing in a soccer field, hands on her hips, a medal around her neck. Dylan snuggled up with Roscoe. Mike makes an appearance in some of the photos, but Amy never does. I’m not in any photos with my kids, either. I’m always the one taking them. But this is a picture of me. I didn’t even see Amy take it today. I’m mid-laugh, probably because when Carla talks about dicks, I get really uncomfortable and have to laugh so I don’t freak out. I look pretty. I look happy. She’s written a caption, too:
So lucky to know this special lady. Here’s to new friends. Xo.
I double-tap the center of the photo, and a small red heart appears on the image, right above where my own heart is. I don’t like it. I love it.
21
Amy
The donut holes were right at the gas station checkout. They were (at least) a day old, so they were practically free. They practically forced me to buy them. And I had to pass McKinley on my way home, anyway, and there was an open parking spot right out front, which there never is, so what I’m saying is, it was meant to be.
Ever since Dylan started kindergarten, the bake sale has been my own personal hell. I’d spend months scouring blogs and Instagram for inspiration, weeks hunting down allergen-safe ingredients, and days trying to work out the kinks in the recipe. And then I’d arrive, set up my little shop, and immediately feel my body flood with cortisol while I mentally tallied whose booth had more kids crowded around it, whose cookies were cuter, and which moms did a shittier job than me.
But walking in the door today feels great. I’m just here to enjoy myself. I’m going to eat some cookies, and not even think about how many scoops and squeezes the barre instructor would punish me with.
There’s an audible gasp when I walk in the door. It’s probably only audible because the room is so quiet. There’s no hustle and bustle, no laughter, and absolutely no gluten.
There’s still one open table on the other side of the cafeteria, so I make my way over. Every other mom has gone full-on Pinterest: they had crafted hand-painted signs that coordinated perfectly with their tablecloths and eco-friendly disposable plates. Beckett’s mom had a neon sign made for her booth. Jasmine’s mom had branded napkins printed. I knew I was phoning it in with the donut holes, but now I’m actually feeling insecure about phoning it in. Should I have picked up some coffee or something to go with them? No. No. That’s the old Amy talking. This is New Amy. And New Amy is just here to enjoy herself and raise money for . . . what exactly are we raising money for?
I settle into my spot, wedged between Anna’s Avocado “Cheese” Cake and Vicki’s Veggie Bites.
“Those look amazing,” whispers Vicki, not making eye contact.
“Oh my GOD, Amy. You’re killing me,” whispers Anna. “I can smell the sugar.”
My insecurity vanishes. I’m just giving the people what they want. I’m fine. I pop open the BPA-filled plastic clamshells and sit back, putting my feet up. The combination of lard and sugar is sniffed out immediately by a kid from Jane’s class holding a bar that appears to be made of condensed bird food.
“Ten dollars,” I say, and the kid reaches for his money agreeably.
“How much?” I hear a man ask, and look up to see the Hot Widow. I mean, he has a name. It’s Jesse. But he’s hot and he’s a widow. Beside him, his daughter grins.
I throw a donut hole to the birdseed kid. “Enjoy! Tell your friends!” I turn back to Jesse. “They’re . . . ten cents?”
He hands me a crumpled dollar.
“I don’t have change,” I realize, embarrassed.
“That’s fine,” he replies, smiling. “I know where you live.”
What?
“Okay, I meant that as a joke, but I’m a man and I shouldn’t say those things to a woman, because it sounds threatening and inappropriate. I just meant that we live close to each other.”
We live near each other? I do not remember seeing him around the neighborhood.
“Your daughter is my daughter’s Big Kid Buddy. She talks a lot about Jane . . . SO! I’ve made this weird enough. Have a good night, Amy.”
He turns away, his ears turning red. It’s been a while since I’ve felt anything other than cramps in my lady area, but something is happening down there. Jesse’s thumb had grazed mine when I took the dollar bill, and that small, accidental touch flipped a switch inside of me.