30. Kate
“So, you’re saying when we eat cheese”—Claire’s face twists with disgust—“we’re eating fungus?” The class cringes at her question.
“I’m saying,” I start as I shut my textbook, officially giving up for the day, “that cheese is produced through fungal and bacterial activity.”
“Bacteria?” Tess whines.
I rub my temples and reassure the class. “It’s just how cheese is made, you guys.”
“No wonder you’re vegan,” Claire remarks, shaking her shoulders as if the conversation has physically accosted her.
“What about meat, then?” Travis shoots his hand up. I guess we might as well stay on this topic. I check my watch, praying the universe speeds up time. “Does it have bacteria?”
“It could, but it shouldn’t be eaten if it does.”
“What if it was roasted on a spit?”
“Dude, let it go.” Devon tosses a pen cap at Travis’s head.
“I can’t! I’ll probably never get a chance again!” Travis groans, attempting to throw his pop quiz paper at Devon. It flutters slowly to the floor between them.
“What are you—”
“Travis is just pissy he didn’t get to see a pig roast at camp,” Ethan murmurs from the back.
“Oh, why?” The class ignores my question, making themselves busy with their pen and paper. Whenever any of them are in cahoots about something, they do a terrible job at hiding it. Last fall, they really thought their plans to crash the school board meeting for Ellie and Benny would go unnoticed. Secret meetings in the chemistry lab were my first sign that something was up—most of these kids never set foot in that area.
Silence fills the room, so I ask the looming question, “What happened to the pig roast?”
The bell rings, and a wave of relief washes over their faces as they gather their things.
“No homework this weekend, but please have your final presentation topics chosen by next week. We will work in groups.” My words are directed at an empty class as the students rush out as fast as humanly possible.
Tidying up my desk, I check my phone and see a notification from Derek, my newest online buddy. It feels weird calling him that, but there’s no other way to put it. This online dating situation has flooded my inbox with so many options I can’t fully wrap my head around it. So, in an attempt to sidestep the gnawing feeling of desperation that likes to make itself known anytime I scope the selection pool, I have elected to call them online buddies—people I’m getting to know, feeling out, with very open-handed expectations. A kind of judgment-free zone I’ve created for myself. It’s made it more enjoyable these last couple of weeks. The less pressure surrounding this venture, the better. I’m pretty sure I already have everyone and their dog judging me. I don’t need to judge myself too.
DerekL123:Hey! Are we still on for today?
A smile creeps across my face as I respond with an eager yes. Derek has been the best of the bunch lately, very much wedding-date material—which, I will admit, has become a driving force for speeding this process along. Up until recently, it had nothing to do with Ellie and Benny’s upcoming nuptials, but when Ellie reminded me that we have six months until the altar, I started to panic. Swiping right on every option with a full set of teeth was step one. Now I have to establish a relationship with someone and get to a comfortable place where asking them to be my date to the wedding isn’t alarming.
Derek is an electrician, currently in school to get his MBA, with hopes to own and operate his own business one day. He has zero pets, zero dolls, and, so far, zero red flags. A perfectly harmless option.
I make my way down the hall to drop off some forms Emma asked me to handle before prom, noting the slew of prom-esque decorations lining the halls. Students have taken it upon themselves to decorate their lockers with memorabilia dedicated to their favorite literary works. I doubted the hype Emma’s prom theme idea would get, but I am pleasantly surprised at how wrong I was. A few lockers have dedications to Jane Austen and Julia Quinn, while others have bats and faeries covering every inch of their locker door. I’m not sure what those are referencing, but they’re all very warm and cozy in their own right. The ceiling is covered in twinkly lights weaved around vine plants, with book pages hanging by thread like they’re floating.
The twinkle lights aren’t lit yet, but I can already tell it will look magical in here come Friday night.
“What do you mean you can’t get it done in two days?” Emma’s snappy words travel out of the break room and into the hall.
I approach slowly and quietly, taking in the scene. Emma paces back and forth on the phone while Ellie and Benny watch her from the table with another banner attempt underway. Emma has vetoed four of Ellie’s banners already. I wish she would just let it go. Margaret sits in the recliner, knitting a rather large sweater? Or hat? Something with a collar and three legs. Malcolm leans against the refrigerator, sipping his coffee and gazing out the large window. I sidle up next to him, doing my due diligence to avoid eye contact with Emma in her current state.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, drawing Malcolm’s attention away from the window.
“Something about an ice sculpture,” he says into his mug, taking another sip.
Of course it is. Leave it to Emma to come up with these ridiculous plans days before the event. Who in their right mind can get an ice sculpture ready and delivered in less than forty-eight hours?
“I recommended a giant teddy bear instead, but she didn’t appreciate that.” Malcolm smirks, his piercing blue eyes lingering on my face. I can feel his eyes, like a gentle caress down to my pulse point, and I can feel myself longing for it.
Another reason to sludge through the online dating pool.
I can’t keep getting sucked into these moments, making them more than what they are. Malcolm is my friend, that’s it. His concussion was a fluke, affecting my brain more than his, contorting our friendly interactions and making them into something they aren’t meant to be. And he still has no idea that we kissed. That his lips collided into mine like that was what they were created to do. My knees buckle next to him at the memory, and I have to cling to his elbow for support, jostling his coffee cup—my coffee cup—Hilda’s face getting splashed with the strong stuff.
“Whoa there.” Malcolm grabs my wrist while simultaneously protecting his drink. “It’s too early in the day to assault someone.” Even in his joking, he helps me stand up straight, and his eyes move all over me, a concerned wariness to them.
He’s always been that way with me. A silly word or retort, yes, but his eyes are always watchful and his hands hover, as though they’re prepared to shield me. It’s like he’s…protective…of me. The realization sends a hot, melty sensation down my spine with a flurry of goosebumps trailing close behind.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I say, quickly shaking off the sensation.
“Alright, then!” Clicking her phone off, Emma directs our attention to the bulletin board on the wall. “Here are your jobs for Friday night. I don’t want to hear any complaining about what you’re stuck doing. It’s literally for four hours. You can do anything for four hours!” She pins her gaze on all of us.
“Um, actually, I can’t stand for that long,” Bill reminds her, pointing to his hip, which I’m pretty sure should be healed by now.
“Ugh, fine. Bill can be on punch duty. I’ll tell Ross he has to man the bathrooms.”
“We don’t need two for bathroom duty,” Malcolm pipes in.
“Right, Malcolm, you’re actually going to be on the floor,” Emma says over her shoulder, eyes focused on the bulletin board.
“What?” The snarl Malcolm gives comes from deep inside his chest. The image of him enduring the mosh pit of dancing teenagers delights me.
“We need you on the floor.” Emma waves him off.
“So I can get gyrated all over? No thanks.”
I snort. “You’ll be with us,” I say, waving toward Ellie, Benny, and then myself.
“Yeah, it’ll be fun!” Ellie says with an innocent gleam in her eyes. This is her first prom to chaperone. Homegirl has no idea what she’s up against.
“Our definitions of fun are quite different,” Malcolm mumbles into his coffee mug, the hand that was holding my wrist now tucked under his elbow.
“It won’t be that bad,” I whisper to him.
“Easy for you to say. Loud music and crowds are the worst combination.”
I give him a supportive elbow nudge and pull my phone out when another notification from Derek comes in. I could be imagining it, but I feel Malcolm’s body move away from me when I unlock my phone. Glancing up at him, I see he’s now laser-focused on the banner draped across the table. The message from Derek is disappointing: Something came up. For some reason, I feel irritated and refuse to respond immediately. He just confirmed an hour ago. Why all of a sudden is he canceling? I shove my phone back in my pocket and focus on Emma, not the small balloon of rejection slowly inflating itself in the back of my throat.
“Everything is lined up. Be here…” Emma’s words fade as my thoughts start to rush through—every conversation I’ve had on this little dating app replaying in my head like a broken record. This whole being-openhanded-about-it idea isn’t that easy when you’re constantly let down.
Everyone just leaves you, Kate.
The small voice of my mother lingers in the back of my mind, threatening to zap through every neuron associated with feelings and emotions.
“What’s up?” Malcolm towers over me, his eyes doing that protective searching thing again.
“N–nothing,” I stutter, abruptly turning to the cabinets behind me to hide the tears trying to escape. What is with all this weepiness lately?
“Kate, do you know what you’re wearing?” Ellie asks as she steps up next to me and drops her palm tree mug in the sink—Benny’s mug, actually. The notion that they share mugs, all couple-like, is another one-two punch to the gut.
“No.”
“Are you alright?” She catches on too quickly.
“Do I look alright?” I snip, aggressively scrubbing the coffee remains from her palm tree cup.
“Nope,” Benny says behind me, and I whip around to glare at him. I glare long enough to watch his eyes widen before he goes back to vigorously coloring the block letters on the banner.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ellie whispers.
I finish drying her mug and place it in the cabinet above my head, then I grip the sides of the counter, letting my head hang for a moment. My messy curls drape down over my face like a curtain, blocking Ellie and Malcolm from view. Do I want to talk about this? Any of this? I don’t even know what I would say or what I would need in return. I just know that I am sick of this ever-present despondent feeling that is affecting every aspect of my life. Unwanted and unloved. That’s all I feel, even when I clearly have people around me who care. It looms over me like a black cloud, and no matter how hard I try to run from it, it follows me.
“I’ll be fine.” I abandon the mug I grabbed for myself and hightail it out of the break room. I need to get out of here. I need some sense and wisdom, something to help me trust that everything I’m doing is right. The universe seems to be of no help lately, so I will go to the next best thing.
There is one person who can speak some sense to me in times like these, and she has no other choice but to listen to my issues because she’s currently on house arrest until cleared by her physician. Her physical choices lately don’t indicate lifelong wisdom, but her words have always been a comfort no one else can give me.
When I pull up to Lola’s house, my stomach twists when I see a red Mercedes parked next to her Jeep.
What is she doing here?
“Knock, knock.” I open the door and peer in to see my mother sitting on the couch next to Lola. “Mom, what are you doing here?” The question makes it obvious how unenthused I am to see her, but I plaster a grin on my face to soften the blow.
“I’m here to see you.” Mom smiles nonchalantly, as if her eight-month absence hasn’t been meticulously cataloged by every aunt and uncle in our message group. “And to check on Lola.” She grabs Lola’s hand and squeezes. It would seem tender and sweet if it was anyone but her. I cross my arms and watch her, willing my eyes to stay centered instead of getting lost in the back of my head like they want to. Ignoring the fact that her own mother had a literal heart attack, she always has a motive for coming by. It’s never a simple “I missed you” visit. There are stipulations for her stay, and my entire body tenses up with anticipation, never loosening until I watch the red of her car fade down the road.
“Yes.” Lola pats her hand back. “We were about to have some tea. Would you like some?” She attempts to stand from the couch, but Mom squeezes her hand and gestures for her to stay seated. Lola eyes her, contemplating how much she wants to rebel, but she concedes and watches Mom walk into the kitchen and start preparing their cups for tea. I guess she can be good for something.
“Has she asked for anything yet?” I whisper to Lola, sitting on the floor at her feet. I lift her aging feet and rest them in my lap, rubbing her thin ankles. There’s a purple tint to her dark skin with lines twisting and curving up and down her feet, and her soft skin feels frail under my fingers. Aunt Edna came this morning and painted her toenails a hot-pink color with sparkles. A smile pulls at my lips as I assess them. My lola has always been younger at heart than she really is. The fitness classes, the vibrant wardrobe, hosting a romance book club…all little things she does to feel young and alive, she tells me. Things that bring her joy and make her forget the hard things in life, like losing Grandpa or watching Dateline alone—which no one should ever do, by the way.
“No. Now, be nice,” she whispers back, tsking me with a flick on the shoulder. We watch Mom pour three cups of tea at the kitchen counter, mixing each differently: Lola’s with two Sweet’N Lows, mine with honey, and hers with a splash of milk. She remembers the way we like it. The small hole left in my heart from her absence tries to close a tiny bit at that.
“Kate, could you help me with these?”
I join my mom in the kitchen, collecting the mugs and a bag of chips from the pantry. As I head back into the living room, she stops me. “Kate…” Her words linger in the air, the inevitable favor waiting to hit me in the face like a pendulum. “I have something to ask.”
“What’s that?” I ask breezily.
“I was wondering if I could have your grandpa’s antique tool set. It would work perfectly for an upcoming exhibit I’m helping organize!” She’s practically giddy at the request, completely oblivious to how inappropriate it is. It’s not even mine. It’s Benny’s.
I gape at her, dumbfounded. My face probably looks like one of those frozen-in-time moments that is so unflattering you have to burn the evidence. I try to speak, but my annoyance blocks my vocal cords, which is probably a good thing seeing as all I want to do is grab the woman by the shoulders, give her a hard shake, and yell, “What is wrong with you?!”
“Anna, that’s fine. We can sort it out later,” Lola answers for me, breaking the tense silence that was starting to build.
“Ahh, thank you, Lola!” My mom reaches around Lola, hugging her tight. “Look, I have to run a few errands. How about I pick up dinner on the way back?” Without waiting for our answer, Mom is halfway out the door with her purse slung over her shoulder. “Kate, will you join us?”
“I, uh…can’t. Sorry, I’m busy.” I keep my eyes pinned on the wooden bird clock hanging next to Lola’s front door as the screen door swings shut. I wait, listening to the sound of my mom’s wedges on the gravel and the closing of her car door, before I turn to face Lola.
“What the heck?”
Shrugging, Lola relaxes back into the couch and sips on her tea. Wincing once at the heat, she smacks her lips and raises a brow at me—a look that says I precisely know what the heck and how dare I question her. The wrinkles surrounding her eyes and lips deepen for a moment before she lets out a breath. “Katherine, sit.”
I reluctantly plop down onto the floor, crossing my legs like a child, and pout at her. She’s about to make me sit through an enlightening moment, wisdom thrown at me like bullets, and I’m going to have to deal with it.
“Why do you let your mother upset you?” she asks, and all I can do is stare at her, bewildered that she would ask such an obvious question. “Seriously, why?” she asks again.
“Um, because she’s never here? And when she is, all she does is ask for something?”
“And do you think that’s enough to be upset about it?”
My bewilderment takes on physical form as my mouth hangs open. “Well, yeah!” I finally say. “Does it not upset you that your daughter never comes around? That she’d rather go on her little trips than be with her family for Christmas?” The answers are obvious, but I still go up an octave to hone in on my point.
“It does.” She nods, setting her cup of tea down on the rickety side table. A small black-and-white photo of Grandpa sitting on the edge of a boat rests next to a tiny box of tissues. “But it also reminds me of who my daughter is.” I blink away from the photo and back to Lola. She’s gazing out the front door Mom just walked out of. Her face is solemn yet peaceful. Accepting. “I have known your mother for fifty-eight years. And the one thing I have learned about her is that she will always, always, be the same. For years, I prayed she would change her ways, be more about the family, live the way we wanted her to. It never changed. But something else did.” She looks back to me, gray eyes soft and warm. “It was my acceptance of who she is.”
I scoff at that.
I am far from accepting that this is who my mother truly is. What daughter wants to feel unwanted by their own mother? Who in their right mind wants to feel like second place in everything? It’s one thing to feel unwanted by men, especially those online who aren’t always who they say they are—I’m talking to you, Larry, who was supposed to have hair. But it’s a different thing entirely to feel that way with your own flesh and blood. The person who made you. To feel abandoned by the one person who is supposed to love you more than anyone else. When she’s actually around, it’s like I’m invisible to her, barely acknowledged. So, who can blame me for feeling a tad moody at seeing her this afternoon for the first time in ages after being let down by a man, again.
“Well, I haven’t accepted it. And I probably never will.”
“That’s your choice. But I hope you remember this…you can’t change people. People are selfish and will continue to disappoint you. The only thing you can do is change how you let it affect you. You can’t make someone choose you.”
I glance up at Lola as the weight of her words hit me like a ton of bricks. The corner of her mouth turns downward as she registers the feelings all over my face.
“I know you want to feel wanted, Katherine. For someone to choose you. And I’m sure it would be even better if it was the one person you’ve wanted since you were a baby, but life just isn’t that way sometimes.” She speaks so matter-of-factly, like she hasn’t just gutted me with the truth. “Your mom will always be your mom, and I think the best thing you can do for yourself is to accept that. And then focus on the people in your life that do want you.”
I scoff again, because that’s the mature response right now.
“I’m serious,” she says. “You have so many people who see the real you, all your faults and quirks. Your bright shoes and crazy hair. We see all of it and still want you. You are cherished by more people than you realize, and if you get over this thing with your mom, you might be able to see that.”
“Being wanted by my seventy-eight-year-old lola and my crazy aunts and uncles isn’t much to write home about.” I curl my knees into my chest and hug them tight.
“There’s more than that, and you know it.”
“Benny is old enough now, so he’s grouped in with the uncles.”
She rolls her eyes and waves me off. “I’m telling you, if you opened your eyes, you’d see who I’m talking about. And you wouldn’t have to stress about these little boys on these apps either.”
What does she mean by that?