Brownie Points (29 page)
“I couldn’t be prouder of you. Congratulations, dear. You’re the next big thing.”
One Year Later …
My art show was everything François promised it would be. Hundreds of friends attended the reception at an old warehouse François converted into a gallery. I loved seeing Michelle and the girls from Utopia dressed in silver sequins sneaking a cigarette out on the loading dock.
Jason sidled up to me at the reception and whispered, “I just heard a reporter call you an overnight sensation.” I gave him a kiss, drinking in every moment of this night.
“I love you, baby.”
I smiled. “I love you, too.”
The next day we were out of our formalwear and ready to hit the road. Val was the first to arrive at my house, pulling up in her black SUV which now sported a PFLAG bumper sticker on the back. “She’s always early,” I said, pulling back the curtains.
“She’s always
prepared,
Mom,” Logan corrected me as he rolled his suitcase out onto the doorstep. I grabbed my backpack, wondering how I ever got suckered into spending the weekend camping with a bunch of Girl Scouts. “Have you got everything?” he asked. “Sleeping bags, tent, lantern, moisturizers?”
“Ready?” Jason asked as he helped Maya bring her bag outside.
“I think I’ve got everything I need,” said Maya as she grabbed her cell phone and iPod.
Logan grabbed both items from his sister and tossed them back into the house. “Michelle said no technology,” he scolded.
I locked the door just as Michelle arrived. Her daughters poured out of her car, a chorus of excitement. Bianca hopped out of her mother’s car and joined the girls on the sidewalk, shuffling bags and consulting checklists.
Michelle was like a newly engaged woman constantly displaying her engagement ring, but her gem was the “Leader of the Year” jacket Girl Scouts gave her at their annual awards ceremony. She found any excuse to turn her back to us as she helped the girls get situated.
After driving a few miles, our caravan pulled over to the side of the road. “Ready, buddy?” Jason asked Logan.
“Ready.”
The two hopped out of the car, opened the trunk and removed their bags. “How much stuff did you bring, Logan? We’re staying for two days.”
Logan laughed and shrugged.
Kisses were exchanged, then my two guys walked away, passing the coral gate of Los Corderos Rosas. As I looked back at the two heading up the pebble road, I saw Jorge and Finn appear on the front porch. “Hi, Li-li!” Jorge shouted in his sheepskin vest and leather collar. “Don’t you worry about your boys. We’ll take good care of them.”
Logan and Jason turned back to our car and waved. Jason puckered his lips and winked at me. “See you Sunday, baby! Have fun camping.”
Finn wrapped his arm around Jorge’s waist as they waited for Logan and Jason to reach them. “They’re going to love it here,” Jorge shouted to me. “The spa is beyond!”
As Jason passed the pink sheep sign by the front door, he gave it a little tap on the head. I could no longer hear what the guys were saying, but Jason laughed and gave Logan a playful shove. They opened the front door and went inside.
“Okay,” I said to Michelle at the wheel. “Let’s hit the road.”
Sneak Peek!
Read the opening chapter of Jennifer Coburn’s
upcoming release
Field of Schemes
Field of Schemes
Chapter One
“Let go!” the sculpted brunette demanded as she tugged the sleeve of the soccer jersey stretched between us.
Staring at her with steely determination, I wrapped my fist tighter around the other sleeve and yanked back. “You let go!” I replied with volume that surprised even me. Softening a bit, I tried to approach the situation rationally. “I understand you want the jersey, but I picked it up first.” Shrugging ever so slightly, I added, “Fair is fair.”
“If you had it first, it would be in your hands right now,” she growled through perfectly veneered teeth. She narrowed her eyes with pure unadulterated hatred for me. At first glance, this woman wearing Lilly Pulitzer ribbon-trimmed capri pants epitomized the well-maintained suburban soccer mom. Her chocolate brown hair was perfectly highlighted with subtle auburn undertones pulled back by a puffy headband wrapped in the same ribbon that trimmed her pants. Her nails were slick with a fresh manicure, clean square tips dangling beneath a diamond tennis bracelet. When she opened her mouth, though, it was clear that there was no love in her game. “Let go, I said,” she barked.
“No. The shirt is mine! It
is
in my hands!” I reminded her. It was clear she was not going to politely back down from our tug-of-war over the black-and-white German National team jersey, the last one on the table at Soccer Post.
“It’s in your
hand
, singular,” she snapped, “
and
in mine. If you’d taken full possession of it, you’d have both hands on it.”
Was this true? Was there some sort of two-hand rule?!
Like synchronized swimmers, we each placed a second hand on the jersey.
This was crazy. Perhaps the store had another jersey in the back, I thought. At the very least, they could special order another one for this psychotic mother, and I could take mine home for Rachel today. This woman probably didn’t need the jersey right away like I did.
At the very moment I opened my mouth to suggest we ask for an inventory check, Psycho Mom gave the shirt a little tug to assert her dominance. Her muscles flexed impressively, the sinewy biceps and forearms of a woman with free time. Since I was bound to lose the battle of the brawn, I tried to appeal to her better nature. “Look, this jersey is very important to my daughter,” I said softly, aware of a few customers staring at the two moms caught between the taut German National Team jersey. “She’s had a rough year and I want to—”
Yanking the jersey again, the mother snapped, “Not my problem. Now hand over the jersey and—”
“And what?” I demanded. A woman stopped and stared, alarmed, tapping her husband on the shoulder before he hurried off to get help. “And no one gets hurt? Are you threatening me over a soccer jersey?” Then, I had a glimmer of sanity. It was just a black and white striped polyester soccer jersey. Without the German team emblem, and player number on the back, it could’ve passed for a prison uniform, which is exactly what I’d be wearing if I made a habit of getting into retail brawls with other soccer moms. I decided to let go of the overpriced jersey, drop the fight and walk out of the Soccer Post with my dignity intact. Well, maybe half my dignity.
As I had resolved to forfeit this petty battle, the insane soccer mom did something I never expected. She pulled the jersey with full force, causing me to fly toward her and lose my balance. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, only that somewhere on our way down the floor, the two of us knocked over the clearance rack, and a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Mia Hamm. As we landed, I noticed two things. One, Mia was still smiling, even though she was on her back with her eyes completely covered by men’s shorts. And two, neither Psycho Mom nor I had let go of the now-torn jersey. “Look what you did!” she shouted as we lay on the store’s Astroturf flooring.
The clerk rushed over to us, nervously asking what happened. “She attacked me,” said Psycho Mom as she pointed at me. “She wanted my jersey, so she jumped on me and started going nuts.” At this point, at least a half dozen sets of eyes were on me, waiting for an explanation. A three-foot goalkeeper with a military buzz cut and goalkeeper jersey shook his head as if to say he thought now, in his entire five years, he’d seen it all.
“That’s simply not true!” I defended. As I stood up, I realized that neither Psycho Mom nor I had loosened our grip of the jersey. I defended myself against her bogus charges. “I was holding the jersey when she came out of nowhere demanding that I give it to her.”
The teen clerk looked at the two of us, then glanced at the small goalkeeper, and joined him in shaming head shaking. “Ladies, I’ve got plenty of German team jerseys in the back. It’s not like this was the last one, y’know?” The clerk shook his head again. “Why don’t I run back and get another one? What size?”
In unison, Pyscho Soccer Mom and I mumbled, “Small.”
I never thought I’d be one of those parents who became overly invested in their children’s lives, yet here I was with half of a torn jersey in my right hand and a clump of another mother’s hair in my left fist. (I swear it was an accident. I needed to grab something as I tried to regain my balance.)
I’ve always been appalled when I heard news reports about Little League and hockey parents’ fights. I cried when I read about the mother who shot a cheerleader so her daughter would have a better chance of making the squad. Then there was that French dad who drugged his daughter’s tennis rival. When I say drugged, I don’t mean that young Fifi started seeing butterflies and lollipops dancing on a rainbow. I mean the poor kid took a swig of her Evian and dropped dead. It was truly ghastly, yet here I was having my very own fight with another soccer mom over a jersey. This crazy bitch even bit me after we landed on the floor! Now she brushed her hands against each other as if the whole experience had sullied her.
“Yeah, uh, listen ladies,” the clerk said. “Someone’s gonna have to pay for this ripped jersey here.”
Our words toppled each other’s again. “Not me.” For someone so completely unlike me, this Psycho Mom certainly was reading from the same script as I was.
“Why don’t you ladies split it?” he suggested.
“Looks like they’ve already done that, dude,” a spectator couldn’t resist injecting.
“Who won?” the little goalkeeper asked.
“It was a tie,” said the staring mother. “Nice example you’re setting,
ladies
.”
“Mind your own business!” Psycho Mom snapped back.
The clerk placing a new jersey in her hands had a sedative effect on Psycho Soccer Mom. While she was hardly friendly, I no longer feared for my safety. “Why don’t we just split the cost of the torn one and call it even?” I offered.
“Fine,” she said.
I didn’t have the energy to continue with this madness. Besides, in my very own hands was a brand new German National Team soccer jersey. I had mine; she had hers. All was right in the world. As we finished our transactions, both Psycho Mom and I walked toward the exit of the store, sporting Soccer Post shopping bags. When we reached the door, she pushed it open and held it for me. Though I secretly feared she was going to pull a Zidane and head butt me in the chest, Psycho Mom was surprisingly pleasant. She smiled and gestured with her hand that I should walk ahead of her.
“Thank you,” I said tentatively.
“No worries,” she said. “You have a great day now!”
I stood motionless in the parking lot, staring agape as Psycho Mom bopped toward her minivan.
Have a great day? Did she really just tell me to have a great day just minutes after sinking her teeth into my left hand?
How did this happen? What had become of me? I’ve always been one of those people who saw the world as having enough for everyone, even when it didn’t. My husband, Steve used to tease me about this, telling me that while everything isn’t a zero sum game, some things absolutely are. That is, if there’s only one spot left on the fencing team, there’s only one spot. They’re not going to simply adopt my hippy dippy philosophy of creating one big, all-inclusive team where every nearsighted klutz is given a saber.
Another soccer mom just bit me, but my overwhelming feeling was one of victory because I would be going home with a German National Team jersey for Rachel. Now she could impress Coach Gunther by dressing in sportswear from his homeland.
How did I get here? When did this happen to me? And more importantly, once a person crossed the line into the world of crazy sports parents, was there any way back to sanity?
Brownie Points
Questions for Discussion
- By supporting Logan’s effort to join Girl Scouts was Lisa being permissive or wise?
- If Logan were your son, would you let him try to join Girl Scouts? What would be the risks? How would your community react?
- Lisa’s friend Jorge accuses her of shoving her son out of the closet. Why do you think she was so eager for her son to share his sexual orientation with the family?
- Was Lisa right to want this? Or was she rushing things for her own sake?
- Why do you feel Lisa has such a chip on her shoulder when moving to Los Corderos? At what point do you feel Michelle wins her over?
- Why do the women of Los Corderos seem to fear Val Monroe so much? Do you ever see this power dynamic in your own circles?
- What advice would you give Lisa Taylor as a mother, an artist or a person?
- What tips would you give to Logan as he and Maya enter middle school?
