I dry my hair, but I don’t bother styling it. This is better than I’ve been doing so I figure it’ll make my mom happy.
When I pad downstairs she’s sitting in the chair in the front room reading a book. Her jaw drops. “Are those jeans?”
I look down, pretending I didn’t already know. “Yeah.”
“I feel like I should take a picture,” she mutters to herself.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn her, coming the rest of the way downstairs.
“Since you’re dressed, why don’t we go somewhere?” she suggests. “Target? Wal-Mart?”
I stare at her, a bit shocked. My mom considers Wal-Mart the tenth ring of hell. Seriously, she hates the place, so she must be desperate to get me out of house if she’s suggesting Wal-Mart.
“Nah, I don’t feel like it,” I say automatically, starting for the kitchen.
“Dan, grab your daughter and the car keys, we’re going to Target.”
I stop in my tracks. I know that tone of voice. She’s going to kill us if we don’t get in the car.
My dad looks over at me from the couch. “You gone and done it now, Kid. You awakened the Kraken.”
“Car. Now.”
My dad and I get moving. You do not mess with my mom when she sounds like that.
I grab a coat while my dad shoves his feet into his shoes and shrugs on his own coat. My mom is already waiting by the door with her coat on and her giant purse—seriously, the thing is so huge you could smuggle a puppy and a couple of hamsters in there.
We pile into my parents’ rental car and Dad drives us to Target. He grumbles the whole way. I would too if I wasn’t afraid my mom would beat me over the head with her giant ass purse. The woman can be crazy.
We arrive at Target twenty minutes later.
“Out,” my mom says in a clipped tone. If she was a bad guy she’d have a gun held to my middle right about now. I half-expect her to demand, “Walk,” when I get out, but she doesn’t.
She grabs a shopping cart and sets her purse in the child’s seat.
“Let’s go.” She gestures with her hand for us to follow—almost like she’s herding cattle or something.
My dad shoves his hands in his pockets and barrels forward. “I’m getting popcorn.”
My mom huffs, “Like hell you are. You don’t need any popcorn.” She points to his round middle.
He makes a face. “If you expect me to get through this, I’m gettin’ me some damn popcorn.” He heads off before she can protest further.
She looks to me and sighs. “He’s like trying to raise a big kid. He never listens. Ooh, look at this stuff,” she says, distracted by the dollar section. “I need these.” She grabs a handful of cheap notepads.
I don’t bother explaining the difference between need and want to her.
“Kid, you want anything?” my dad calls from across the way.
My mom makes a face and hisses, “Could he not make a scene?”
“Yeah, get me a Dr. Pepper,” I yell back, just to spite my mom. She looks like she’s about ready to lose it between my dad and me. It’s pretty funny—serves her right for dragging us out of the house.
“You two will be the end of me,” she groans. “The end, I tell you.”
Normally, I’d make a joke right about now, but I don’t feel like it. Instead, I stand there mute.
“Come on, let’s look at the clothes,” my mom says, ushering me over to the left. “This would be nice on you,” she points at a flowery summer dress—and please, someone explain to me why companies put out summer clothes in the middle of winter; no one’s thinking about hot days when there’s a foot of snow on the ground.
I make a face and move on down the aisle. Not even retail therapy can pull me out of this funk. I commend my mom for trying, though. God, she’s trying so hard. Bless her heart.
“How about this?” She holds up another dress, this one a little more weather-appropriate. It’s cobalt blue with long sleeves. I actually like it, but I only shrug in response. She sighs and puts it in the cart anyway. That almost plucks a smile from me.
“Here, Kid,” my dad says, appearing with a large bag of popcorn and two drinks.
I take mine and mutter, “Thanks.”
My mom throws her hands in the air. “Why do you talk to him and not me?”
My dad looks over his shoulder at her. “Because Maureen, I don’t irritate the girl like you do.”
She sighs for probably the fiftieth time that day. “I’m not irritating,” she argues.
“Yes, you are.”
“No—”
“Guys,” I interject, “please stop. And Mom, you are irritating—” her face falls “—but I know you mean well.” She brightens at this. “Thank you for trying.”
She smiles, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
We walk around the rest of the store and checkout. On the way home, my dad veers off course.
“Dan?” my mom questions, but he doesn’t answer her. He continues driving like the two of us aren’t staring a hole into his head.
When he stops in front of the café, I nearly have a heart attack.
“Get out of the car, Kid.”
All the blood drains for my body. At least it feels that way.