Twenty Something Else

Chapter 1

If age thirty-nine were a fruit, some days I feel confident she’d be a beautiful yellow banana—just ripe, the best in the bowl, still young but deeply wise and poised to tackle her prime. She does the elusive all, with grit and passion and strength.

Marathon?

Banana.

Stomach bug?

Banana.

She is energy and potassium, with children of her own, perhaps, while her own mother still lives and breathes. The sweetest spot, in the center, that magical middle of everything. There is nothing thirty-nine cannot do.

Other days, I’m positive thirty-nine is a raisin.

Boxed in. Sweet, maybe; delicious to some.

She’s a pretty good snack in a pinch but has the effect of shrinking into both herself and the background.

One of a handful, blending. The best seems behind her, mostly.

Does anyone even eat raisins anymore, unless they’re part of a trail mix, second place to the chocolate and peanuts?

Cotton Candy grapes (say, age ten) and expensive wine (maybe sixty) are by far the superior and more interesting iterations of this particular fruit.

Today, I’m the latter. The raisin. No doubt on earth. I’m shriveling next to my thirteen-year-old son, the coolest kid anyone knows. He murders me with his side-eye as I sink lower into the driver’s seat.

“Mom, seriously? You had to leave the house with those rags in your hair?” He lifts a hand to his face in a shield as if to ward off possible witnesses.

One hand on the wheel, I scoff and note that I need a manicure. “They’re not rags, Max. They’re heatless hair rollers. I saw them on TikTok.”

“What are you even doing on TikTok?” he whines. I don’t have to see his eye roll to know it’s scraping our SUV’s ceiling.

“I use it for work. And spying on you now, apparently.” I’m still frustrated, and so is he. He’s angry about being the only kid in middle school who doesn’t possess a smartphone; I’m angry at him for breaking our no-social-media rule in a big way.

Yes, our seventh-grade son created an entire secret YouTube channel of his sports commentary videos, straight from the family iPad.

Unfortunately, they were spectacular. Extra Point by Maxwell Layne has gone viral on various social media platforms: Instagram, TikTok, the works.

Strangers worldwide were rave-commenting, gushing paragraphs of praise. Were they predators? Killers? Who knew!

But the thing was, genuine pride mixed with my horror at the discovery.

Had Max just asked us if he could begin expressing himself in this way, we might have reconsidered our statute.

Instead, he spent months covertly building an online universe, one sneaky swipe at a time.

And I had to stumble upon it innocently while searching for old Britney Spears music videos to amplify the experience of reading her memoir.

We have rules, Maxwell James, for great reasons.

Social media is the devil if you let him wild.

I gulp, my thoughts landing back on Saturday night with a guilty clunk. That message, unanswered, burning a hole in my Facebook Messenger app:

Hey you! Long time . . .

Nope. Not today, Satan. Never.

Max, unlike me, had lied and sneaked—which was the point and the call for punishment. So, he remained grounded for two more weeks and banned from any semblance of screens.

“You can’t really blame him, Mom,” pipes a sassy voice from the back. “You’re obsessed with your phone.”

“Addicted,” echoes her twin.

I peer into the rearview, feeling attacked, glancing from ten-year-old face to identical face.

Maisy, the parrot, with her soft brown hair in two neat French braids, freckles on her cute nose.

She’s the more mellow of the girls—the reverse of her bold sister, our sharp and precocious Malone.

Maisy meanders through life as if it’s a meadow, while Malone forms friends and ideas faster than a mom late to school on the toll road.

How can twins be so . . . untwinny? I ask myself this every day.

“I’m not addicted,” I defend. “I need it for work.” And texts. And groceries. And true crime podcasts. And voice notes the length of those podcasts.

“And Instagram!” all three of them chant in unison.

I clench the wheel, annoyed. “Do you guys like having a life? Because my phone is also your portal to fun. If you want, I can just . . .” I press the button and my window descends. I dangle my iPhone over the asphalt.

“Stop!” Maisy claps a palm to her cheek, her nail polish fresher than mine, I observe in the rearview.

“Yes, we do need you to keep the family organized.” Malone’s voice is earnest. “But I have seen those called rag rollers, Mom. Sorry. They’re rags.”

Suddenly doubting my beauty risk, I reach up to twist the black-and-white polka-dot fabric ends of the sausage thing crowning my head.

I might be serving 1950s housewife vibes at the moment, but the after pictures promised me stunning results.

I have a big prospective client meeting today, so it seemed a great time to try them. Like a brilliant plan!

Until now. Nothing like a pack of tweens to eviscerate your self-confidence.

“You’ll all take it back when you see my perfect curls later.

” I try to sound sure as I spin my white Suburban onto the street of Coast Academy, our private Christian elementary and middle school in Newport Beach, California.

Modern and boxy, high-tech but still homey, the gray-and-white school stands as a beacon in our Orange County community.

Fresh succulents rim the perimeter, along with joyful morning playground attendants wearing big smiles and silly hats.

They love our kids immensely, with all of their hearts and their hand gestures.

I flip on my blinker to enter the morning drop-off line, a river ever-efficiently flowing. Elsewhere in town, this massive car can feel like a monster. But here, I am home. I stream into our daily tributary with the other gargantuan vehicles.

A black Ford Expedition pauses to let me in, and I perk up when I see that it’s Quinn. I wave wildly and mouth, See you soon!

“Mom, stop!” Malone begs from the back. “You’re being so extra this morning.”

I shoot her a look before grabbing my phone again—addict—and tapping Spotify. Taylor Swift blares from the speakers.

“Are we out of the woods?” I belt, breaking into a dance, snapping my fingers. I spy Quinn behind me, applauding.

Victory.

“Ugh!” Max groans and buries his face in his hands.

He has a huge crush on Quinn’s daughter, Cat, eleven.

My sandy-haired boy with his disarming grin, killer bone structure, and swagger of a celebrity.

At that tender impasse of beginning to look like a man but still loving Harry Potter. Liking girls already.

“Can you stop?” he begs. “I hate you.”

It’s quiet, the last part, the bite. Like the growl of a cub with no idea how much he still needs his mother.

I flinch. “Don’t say that, Max. You don’t mean it.”

“Trust me,” he storms, face smashed to the window. “I do.”

Sighing, I swivel to look at the girls. Maisy says nothing, bug-eyed; she’s usually sweet to me. Thank God. One out of three? Were those the odds? The dice we all rolled at the cosmic table of motherhood?

Malone’s tone matches Max’s, per usual. “Can you at least play something from Tortured Poets? Newer Taylor? This song is so tired.”

You know who’s tired? I want to say. Me.

I sigh, reduce the volume, and breathe.

“Are you girls excited to find out your parts in the play?” I ask, hoping my heartfelt question defuses the tension.

“Three more days!” Last week they tried out for Annie at school—to be the star orphan herself.

They’re hoping to share the part, which I find so inventive and sisterly.

Maybe inspired by Full House reruns and their mad love for Michelle.

Still, as a former theater major, I’m proud.

My chest puffs out just imagining them in the iconic red dress and wig. The cast list will be posted on Friday.

“Yes,” Maisy confirms. “I think we have a great chance.”

“Me too,” says Malone assuredly. “But Maisy was pitchy in most of the songs. Come what mayyyy! She still needs to practice. A lot.”

“I was not pitchy!”

“Yes, you were. Come what mayyyy,” Malone serenades. I don’t point out that her pitch is perfect—and that Maisy’s does leave something to be desired. Twins are tricky. You have to tread cautiously.

Instead, I chime in myself. “Come what mayyyyy . . .”

Silence. I feel their jaws plummet.

“What?” I shrug.

“Your voice is beautiful, Mom.” Maisy touches my shoulder. “You sound like an angel. Sometimes I forget.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Layne,” chirps the jovial crossing guard after yanking open our doors. “On time today! Cool hair! Happy Tuesday to all of you!”

“Morning, Mr. Tate!” I am on time today, thank you. “It’s something new I’m trying.” The punctuality—and the hair. I fluff my ends, to Maxwell’s further dismay. My three offspring tumble out of the car, Max glowering at me viciously without a goodbye.

“I love you, Max!” I yell after him. “I love all three of you, more than anything . . .”

I swallow as they walk away, toward their days full of lessons and worlds to which I’d never be privy. Max strides alone toward the middle school building with his black backpack, Air Jordans, and strut. Only one more year before high school. My insides roil, rejecting this truth.

The twins are as distinct from the back as the front, Malone looking older and taller even though they’re the same height: her straight posture, smooth hair, and checkered Vans to Maisy’s shy slouch, bouncing braids, and sequined tennis shoes. My chest tightens every morning watching them go.

They’re just so amazing.

They’re just so big.

They’re just such a pain in my butt.