Leave It to Claire (2 page)

See, the great thing about being a published writer is that I can stay home in my jammies all day if the muse is hot on my
shoulder. Usually no one cares—unless it’s six-thirty and I forgot to get dressed and my daughter is mortified to be seen
with me. But the thing is, I
am
the mom and she isn’t going to get away with talking to me like that.

I open my mouth to tell her so, but she cuts me off. “I’m sorry I was rude. I’m going to change.”

Score one for her. Can’t help but grin at the clever way she avoided being grounded. And she
did
sort of apologize, although her sincerity is highly in question.

Besides, it’s hard to think about holding a grudge when I’m staring at five slices of leftover pepperoni pizza sitting in
the box from dinner. Ari was supposed to put those away. Hmm. My mood is starting to improve just looking at the grease spots
on the box, and I’m not sure if I should yell at my daughter for disobeying a direct order or thank her for not doing it.

I look at the box. Look away. I’m dieting. I drum my fingers along the countertop, trying to ignore the little crispy edges
of slightly overcooked pepperoni.

To divert my attention, I envision my scene with Blaine and Esmeralda. The raven-haired beauty waits breathlessly, heart pounding
as Blaine moves in for a bite— A bite? Oh, brother. What, is Blaine a vampire now?

Pizza is the thorn in my side. Every excess inch of my side. Suddenly, I can smell pepperoni. And it smells so good.

Walk away from the pizza, I tell myself in no uncertain terms.

I start to, but the power of the cheesy, tomatoey, crusty pie is too strong. I spring back like an extra-large rubber band.

I snatch a slice and bring it to my mouth, my eyes shifting about like one of those tattered, starving people in an apocalyptic
B-movie. You know, the ones squatting next to a building eating the last rat on the face of the earth before anyone else can
get it? That’s me. Sad thing is, even that image doesn’t make the pizza less appealing. I’m so weak.

“All right, I changed. Let’s go.”

I jump, guilty as sin, at the sound of my daughter’s voice, and drop the goods back into the box. Only one bite gone. Oh,
sure, she decides to hurry for the first time in her life. Two more minutes and I would have scarfed that slice down plus
another one.

Probably just as well. Who needs a bazillion calories anyway?

“Okay, kiddo,” I say, following her through the kitchen and out the garage door. “Sorry about the SpongeBob pants, but come
on, you should read the great stuff I wrote today. Five thousand words of sheer magic.”

“I’m happy for ya,” she practically snarls.

It’s funny how I find the well-placed acerbic remark rather amusing and occasionally brilliant, coming from me. Coming from
my sarcastically-inclined offspring, it just burns me up. Is that a double standard?

“Hey, watch yourself or forget the game. I’m trying to be civil here. And you’re not at the top of my happy list tonight as
it is.”

“Sorry,” she mutters in an un-sorry tone.

Within minutes, we pull through the circular drive in front of Jefferson High School, amid a crowd of teenagers shouting and
tossing cups of water on one another just outside the gym. A band member in full uniform jumps out of the way in time to avoid
getting his tuba soaked.

Ari reaches with purpose for the handle. Her jerky movements clue me in to her displeasure. Somehow I’ve completely forgotten
to drop her off at the side of the school as promised. I can tell she’s seething at the injustice of being forced to step
out of her mother’s van in front of the building.

I shrug. “Oops. Well, at least you’re not late for kickoff.”

She opens the door and slams it shut without a good-bye, “Thanks for the ride,” anything. Resentment cranks inside me as I
watch her sashay off toward the building where her half-naked cheerleader friends are packed together like canned fish.

Cool canned fish. There’s something satisfying to me about my daughter being one of the cool kids. Rationally, I know that’s
just stupid, but I can’t help but live vicariously through her. I was always in the nerd click. Fodder for cheerleader terrorism.
And come on, who doesn’t secretly wish to be one of the beautiful people? My Ari is a natural beauty and has a confidence
about her that induces her peers to clamor about waiting for her to notice.

Only, at this moment, she’s oblivious to her little entourage, because I have her full attention—and the full force of her
glare. Apparently I haven’t driven away quickly enough to suit her, because she sends me an exaggerated wave.

Sometimes it just burns me up how insignificant I become to my daughter once I’ve done her bidding. Tonight it really gets
to me, especially since I left a perfectly yummy kiss scene and an equally yummy pizza to bring her to the game.

The injustice of it all hits me smack in the middle of my forehead like a suction arrow. In an impulsive moment, I roll down
the passenger-side window. “Ari, honey,” I call, louder than necessary and in a tone that’s just a notch above my normal pitch.
I have every intention of making her walk back to the minivan and kiss me good-bye in front of all these people. The little
stinker. I remember when she cried every time I dropped her off at school. Okay, so she was five, but still. When did she
stop loving me?

Quickly, she turns around and slinks back to the minivan, trying desperately not to be noticed. Only problem with that is
the whole popularity thing. Everyone knows her, so when someone calls “Ari” like I just did, kids stare.

However, I’m regretting my rash decision to put her in her place. Because not only are they staring at her, now they’re looking
at me. My hair isn’t brushed, and there’s not a speck of makeup on my face. Instinctively, I check out my reflection in the
rearview mirror. Big mistake!

“Mo-ther,” she hisses. “You’re humiliating me.”

Suddenly needing to get out of there quick, I take pity on us both. “You forgot to tell me what time to pick you up,” I say,
as a way of covering up the fact that I was about to purposely embarrass her and ended up embarrassing myself instead. My
mother would call that poetic justice.

“I have my cell phone. I’ll call you when the game’s over.” She walks away, leaving me to stare after her.

Shoot. Why does she always get the last word?

I see her group of followers pointing at me and whispering among themselves. Okay, they’re probably looking and admiring her,
and most likely haven’t even noticed me, but when you have the kind of self-esteem I have, laughing kids translate to “laughing
at me” kids. That’s the way I feel if anyone is cracking a joke anywhere in the vicinity, and I’m not in on it.

It’s something I’ve dealt with since I was a kid. Full of myself one second, down on myself the next. I probably need therapy.
I hear Dr. Phil has a diet book out now. Maybe I should read it and kill two birds with one stone. Get my head and my behind
shrunk for one low price of $19.99.

I’m about to pull out of the drive, seriously considering making a detour to Wal-Mart’s book aisle on the way home, when I
see a woman walking toward me, waving and mouthing, “Stop.” I’d love to pretend I don’t see her, but eye contact has already
happened. Besides, I recognize her as the mother of one of Ari’s friends. Linda Myers. She and her husband are new to my church.

That’s the thing about living in a small town. Acquaintanceships go beyond work, school, or church. Usually there are at least
two common structured organizations in your life to connect you to someone. The sad thing is that Linda and I have daughters
who are best friends and a church in common, and I have never taken the time to get to know her on a personal level.

As she approaches, I notice she’s wearing a yellow-and-black GO YELLOWJACKETS T-shirt tucked into a pair of button-fly Levis.
She looks how I wish I looked. I haven’t tucked in a shirt on purpose in a good five years. She reaches the van and I realize
she’s even prettier than I remember from seeing her across the church. Auburn hair and enormous green eyes give her a romance-heroine
beauty. And they say no one really looks like that. Wait until I tell my skeptical editor. Still, I’d rather eat dirt than
have to talk to this woman and pretend I don’t care if I’m wearing SpongeBob jammie bottoms.

A bright smile is splitting her beautifully made-up face and I wish I could crawl under the seat. Instead, I press the button
and roll down the window.

“Hi,” she says. “You’re not staying for the first game of the season?”

I stare blankly.
Shoot
. I should have.

“I’m uh… on deadline.” I give her a you-know-how-it-is smile, although we both know she doesn’t. For some reason, I really
hope she won’t think little of me for being a horrible mother and not supporting my cheerleader daughter like she supports
hers.

“I understand,” she says. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“It’s okay.” I continue to smile tightly, hoping this is the end of the conversation.

No such luck.

She leans against my van and I start worrying that she’s going to get a ton of dust down the front of her. When was the last
time I had this thing at the car wash?

She pulls me from the question with her next sentence. “I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate of me, but…”

Oh, brother. Here it comes.
“I’m a member of Weight Watchers… Low Carbers… Weigh Down…”
You name it, I’ve heard it. Well-meaning ladies who honestly feel that inviting me to a weight-loss class is just the thing.
After all, I have such a pretty face.

My defenses are rising and I want to cut her off before she even has a chance to say anything. Instead, I take the less-than-truthful-but-necessary-for-my-reputation
approach. “No, you’re not bothering me at all.”

Not so friendly as to invite conversation, but not so rude that she can spread the word about what a snob the published author
is.

Instead of getting to the point, she clears her throat and looks toward the building. “I notice you didn’t let her wear the
crop top.” She inclines her head toward the group of cheerleaders still milling around the doorway to the gym.

I relish the approval in this virtual stranger’s face and give a superior laugh at her observation. “Not in my lifetime.”

She nods in agreement, and again I’m feeling an unusual sense of camaraderie with this stranger. “Trish threw a fit, but I
told her either she could wear the old top or they could have a crooked pyramid.”

I give a weak laugh. It’s the best I can do. Funny how you think you’re the only one with quick wit—your one claim to self-worth—only
to find there’s a Linda Myers in town who is not only beautiful
but
thinks up the exact same jokes. How can that be fair?

“Anyway,” Trish’s mom is saying, “I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve tried to call several times but can never seem to get an
answer.”

Not that I’d tell her this, but that’s largely because I never answer my phone. As a matter of fact, it stays unplugged most
of the time. Drives my mom perfectly nuts. But it’s the only way I can write without being interrupted every fifteen minutes.
People inevitably believe if I’m home, I’m available. That’s the drawback to working at home.

I don’t unplug the phone to be hateful; it’s a matter of self-preservation. Gotta meet those deadlines or we’ll be eating
government cheese.

Still, this lady isn’t one of my regular callers and I really don’t have a good reason to hold a grudge against her for something
other people do. Besides, she seems sort of sweet and genuine. So I smile for real. “I’m so sorry I missed your calls. What
can I do for you?”

“It was nothing, really. I just… Mainly I wanted to thank you for your last book.
Tobey’s Choice
.”

Well, then… Maybe I should give her my cell phone number, because if we’re going to talk about my books I can talk all
night.

Only, she has tears streaming down her face. I feel this is more than an average fan gusher. I sense the Holy Spirit leading
me to be still and listen. To get over myself for once. This is not all about me. Sufficiently chastised, I get a grip and
cover the hand she has placed on the halfway-down window. “I’m so glad you enjoyed the book,” I say, in order to encourage
her to continue.

She gulps. “I—I could so relate to her. My husband did the same… Well, reading your book gave me the strength to confront
him. God is healing our marriage and I want to thank you for listening to Him and writing what I needed to hear.”

Tears fill my eyes. I say a little prayer aloud right there in the circle drive of Jefferson High School, heedless of the
watchers. God has performed a miracle.

Moments later I leave the school behind, all thoughts of Dr. Phil pushed firmly to somewhere in the back of my mind. Who needs
that guy when God is in the office?

I drive home on autopilot. Humbled. Thoughtful.

Feeling like an utter hypocrite.

Tobey’s Choice
. My book about forgiveness. My heroine’s cheating husband didn’t deserve a second chance. I wanted to kill him off—after
Tobey did the right thing and forgave the weasel, of course. But my editor insisted the ending be rewritten so that their
marriage was saved. No horrible death scene—and boy, did I have a good one. I was mad, but I gave in.

Now I’m glad I did.

A
mazing how lukewarm pizza loses its appeal after you find out your book just saved a marriage. I float into the house on a
cloud of “Wow, God, did You really use little ol’ me?”

I’m refocused on the ministry of writing. The power of God flowing through the written word. With the kids at my ex-husband’s
tonight (except Ari, who will go over in the morning), I have all night to finish my book. I practically fly up the steps
to my office, anxious to let Blaine finish his kiss.

Okay, so I know kissing isn’t necessarily a powerful ministry tool, but even in a Christian romance novel, the last embrace
is still the big finish. And good grief, Christians kiss, too—or they would if the right guy would just show up, already.