Catch a Rising Star (3 page)

Mom: “You’ve had two weeks, and you didn’t plan for extra company?”

See? It’s that attitude.
Have you learned nothing from me? You’re such a disappointment.

Me: “I was just really hoping for time alone with you and Dad.”

Totally not true. I dread every second of it. But if there’s any chance… any chance at all that my mom will consider
recanting her invitation to whatever unsuspecting male she’s planning to inflict on my life, I’ll do or say anything. I know
it sounds selfish, but Brian Ryan is a prime example of why I don’t trust my mom’s matchmaking skills—or the lack thereof.
Oh, lightbulb moment… and this is truly a horrific thought. What if she… ?
No!
Surely she wouldn’t . . .

Me: “Ma! You’re not bringing Brian, are you?”

Mom: “And what would be so terrible about that?”

Me: “Do you want the list? Mother! You’re killing me here.”

Mom: “Lands, Tabitha, the way you carry on, you’d think he’s a troll. Brian’s a very nice young man. Very handsome and interested.
And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly getting any younger.”

She paused, and that’s where I should have jumped in, but outrage and dread combined to render me completely speechless, thus
opening the door for Mom to continue.

Mom: “And you know, he’s very successful in the restaurant business.”

Why was it that all of a sudden Mom’s words sounded something like
wa-wa wa-wa
. Like every adult on the
Peanuts
cartoons.

Me: “Oh, Ma! I mean it. Call the funeral director because you’re sucking the life right out of me.”

There was slight whinage to my tone, I am ashamed to admit. But gee whiz. The guy just doesn’t do it for me. And I don’t care
what my parents think, he’s not that great of a catch. It has nothing to do with his choice of profession either. I mean I’m
the reading rabbit, so who am I to look down my nose at anyone’s job? But the restaurant business? Hello? He manages a steakhouse
franchise with sirloin steak on the buffet. Not exactly a five-star anything. I probably get more respect wearing the rabbit
suit.

Mom: “Don’t be dramatic, Tabitha. We’ll discuss it later. I have to run and set your father’s clothes out for him to wear
tonight or heaven only knows what he’ll wear.”

Me (stupidly): “Sure, Ma. Because heaven only knows how he dressed himself the thirty years he was alive before you took over
the responsibility.”

Mom: “Sarcasm isn’t becoming, young lady.”

Me (suddenly I’m ten years old): “Sorry.”

We hung up not so pleasantly.

So here I am pouting about my mother’s inviting Brian along to my dinner and seriously debating the spiritual damage it might
do to me if I were to suddenly come down with a case of Asian flu, when Laini rushes in after work. “I know your parents are
coming. I’ll be out of here in two seconds.” She buzzes right past me and into the bedroom we share. (Dancy gets the private
room. We don’t mind—most of the time.) I follow Laini because I need a shoulder to cry on.

She starts pulling clothes from her drawers as I plop down on her bed. “Mom’s bringing Brian,” I say glumly.

Laini stops perusing the clothes she’s just taken out and stares at me, her big blue eyes beneath a pair of Ralph Lauren glasses
going wide. Then she frowns, scrunching the freckles on her nose together. Laini looks like a redheaded Meg Ryan—before Meg
cut her hair—more like in
When Harry Met Sally
than, say,
You’ve Got Mail
.

She shakes her head and plops down beside me on the bed. “What kind of a jerk moves in on a girl’s parents?”

“The kind without caller ID block on his phone.” I give her a sheepish grin. “I ignore his calls. But don’t sell my parents
short. It may not have been Brian’s doing. He was probably sitting at home ready for a night of popcorn and
Star Wars,
minding his own business.”

“You think your mom called him? Just like that?”

“Oh yeah.” I’d be surprised if she hadn’t.

Laini checks out her image in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall and rakes her long fingers through her shoulder-length
curls. “I’m glad I’m not going to be here to witness the fiasco.”

In a rush of panic, I grab Laini’s arm. “You can’t leave. Stay, please. I’ve ordered Chinese.”

“You invited your folks and ordered in?” Another disbelieving shake of the head. “You’re incredible.”

Somehow, I know that’s not a compliment.

“I worked all day. No time to cook a proper meal. Besides, Dad adores Chinese, and Mom never lets him have it.”

“That’s because it’s loaded with sodium, and your dad’s blood pressure worries her.”

I throw myself back and lay across the bed, staring at the ceiling. “She nags him all the time.”

Laini gives me a pat on the knee and grabs her purse off the bed. “She loves him as much as you do, my friend. You really
should give her a break.”

“No. No. No.” I shoot up so fast, Laini jumps and loses her grip on her purse. In a flash I take her upper arms in my hands.
We are almost nose to nose as I search her startled face. “You can’t be on her side. Even if you think I’m wrong, you can’t
say it. I can’t deal with that.”

Okay, she’s rolling her eyes.

“Fine.” Letting her go, I stoop and grab the pink T-shirt she dropped and shove it back into her hands. “Just go ahead and
do what you had planned for tonight. I can handle my mother all by myself.” Oh, the self-pity. “Really, I’ll be fine. You
go and have a good time.”

“Oh, please. That’s your worst performance ever.” She grins. “Besides, I’d never leave you alone with your folks and Brian,
so you’re stuck with me. But you’d better have ordered egg drop soup.”

A sense of well-being shoots from my head to my toes. It’s good to have real friends.

Mom and Dad knock on the door promptly at 6:59 p.m. Laini sets her magazine aside and gives me a nod of support as I smooth
my shirt over my jeans so that (God forbid) my midriff doesn’t show. Gathering a deep breath, I open the door and wait for
the inevitable.

“Hi, Mom and Dad,” I say perkily. A little too perkily I suppose because Mom’s eyebrow goes up—just the right one (how does
she do that anyway?). “Good to see you.” I’m distracted by Brian’s absence and look past Mom’s shoulder, but there’s no sign
of him. Something’s up. I know Ma didn’t go back on her invitation. “Here, let me take your coats.”

“We’re not wearing any,” Mom says in
that
tone that sets my teeth on edge and makes me feel small—and not in a good way. “It’s August.”

Heat shoots up my neck and spreads around to my cheeks in a split second. “Oh yeah,” I murmur. “Come in.”

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Brockman.” Good old Laini senses the need for a little rescue and jumps right in without even testing
the water first. “So nice to see you again. How was the ride over?”

Dad opens his mouth to answer, but Mom butts in. “Traffic was terrible, of course. Frank here is getting blind as a bat, so
we have to take cabs these days. And I abhor those foreign cab drivers. They all pretend they don’t understand a word we say.
But you know darned well they’re taking it all in and reporting back to their superiors.”

I roll my eyes. No way I’m going there with her. Besides, I’m focused on what she said about my dad.

“Daddy? When did you stop driving?”

“Oh, you know your father, he can’t see anything. He hasn’t driven the car in months.”

Mom’s butting in and snappiness are starting to bug me. I’ve definitely decided I’m
not
going to allow an argument to arise between us though. I’ll hold my tongue. But not without a lot of effort, let me tell
you.

“Why not just get glasses,
Dad
?”
I send Mom a pointed look and her expression darkens considerably. I might have crossed the line, but then, that’s so easy
to do with my mom. Her line is pretty thin.

“Oh, well, your mother thought they might not be able to—”

“For goodness’ sake. The glasses he’s wearing are about as thick as they go, and he can barely see through them anymore.”

A sad kind of nostalgia creeps through me as I look at Dad. When did my hero start breaking down?

He smiles at me. “Your mother’s right, honey bunny.”

Uh, don’t remind me of the bunny.

I know she’s right in this case. I hate it that she is, but I know.

I loop my arm through his. “How’s your blood pressure, Daddy?”

I see Mom’s chest expand like she’s going to answer for him, but then she just expels the breath and doesn’t say a word.

“Fine, I suppose. I take my pills every day.”

“That’s real good.”

“What time is that boyfriend of yours going to get here?” Dad just gets right to the point. “I’m hungry.”

“Um. Actually, Daddy, Brian isn’t my boyfriend. As a matter of fact, I’m not even dating him.”

“Then how come you invited him to dinner?” Dad gives me a wink. “Trying to catch him with your cooking?”

Laini snorts but straightens up lickety-split when I send her the look.

My defenses go up a bit. “I didn’t…”

“Now, Tabitha,” Mom interrupts with a bit too much cheer in her voice—because she knows she’s about to get busted and is doing
her best to deflect blame.

I’d love to know what she was going to say to get out of this, but unfortunately, the buzzer goes off. Laini catches my gaze
as if to ask whether or not she should buzz him up.

I give her a “might as well” wave and decide to take the fall for Brian’s presence rather than cause a scene. Laini waits
by the door for Brian, so I turn my attention back to the only man I love at the moment.

“So, what did my little girl fix her old man for supper? Your mother feeds me rabbit food and baked chicken.” Dad grins and
his chubby cheeks inch upward like a chipmunk. He’s at least thirty pounds overweight (fifty—if you believe Mom about it)
and has hypertension and type 2 diabetes. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so great about my dinner choice.

“Um—” I dart a guilty glance at my mom, “I called out for Chinese.”

Mom’s lips press together. She’s going to blow a gasket soon. She’s not in control of anything tonight, and I doubt she’s
going to put up with it much longer. As a matter of fact, I think she’s . . .

But Dad cuts her off faster than she can pull her objections together. “I don’t think a little decent food every now and then
is going to kill me. Do you, Martha?”

“I surely hope not.”

In those four little words I hear her saying to me, “If this Chinese food worsens his conditions, I will hold you personally
responsible, young lady.”

The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. Suddenly I’m responsible for global warming, the Middle East crisis, the imminent
bird flu pandemic, overpopulation, and oh yeah, the astronomical cost of gasoline.

And to make matters worse, Brian saunters into the room with a cheap bouquet of supermarket wildflowers, winks, and moves
in to kiss me on the cheek. In a move worthy of Charlie’s Angels, I deflect the kiss, and he sort of stumbles. “Thank you
for inviting me,” he says, recovering from my rebuff as though he didn’t even notice.

“You’re welcome, but I—”

Enter Mom, once again. “Brian. It’s so wonderful to see you again. I hope you’re hungry. My daughter has made us a wonderful
Asian feast.”

Brian’s eyebrows go up. “You cooked?”

“I ordered from Mr. Wang’s,” I mumble, not even attempting to carry out this ridiculously unfair ruse my mother somehow feels
she’s entitled to concoct at my expense. She has obviously convinced Brian I’m pining away for him. I’m humiliated, and it’s
going to be that much harder to break it to the guy that I’m honestly not interested.

I know there’s not a thing I can do about it for now, so I lead Dad into the kitchen, pretending neither of us has a care
in the world.

Mom starts in on me the second we sit and start passing around the Chinese cartons. “So, how do you like your gym membership?”
Which means: You’ve gained weight, Tabby. How do you expect to keep a great man like Brian here interested?

“Five pounds doesn’t matter that much,” I mutter.

“You look great, Pumpkin.” Good ol’ Dad. Or wait. Does he mean I look good
for
a pumpkin?

Brian clears his throat—clearly planning to stay as far away from this topic as possible—and slides a chunk of sweet and sour
chicken between his unbelievably white teeth—can you say caps?

“Of course she does.” Laini’s bright voice lifts across the table and for a second I think everything is going to be just
fine.

Until my mother huffs. Then I know we’re in danger of something hitting the fan. “Well, no one thinks she doesn’t look good.”
Mom looks from Laini to Brian (who keeps his cowardly gaze averted) to Dad and finally back to me. “Did I say you don’t look
good?”

Must diffuse potentially volatile situation. Quick. I will revert to proven childhood tactic: agree with anything she says.

I can’t look her in the eye when she’s being indignant. “No, Mom.”

“Of course I didn’t. I merely asked if you’ve been using the gym membership I paid for.”

“You mean the one I never asked for?” Oh bother. Did I say that out loud? I did, didn’t I? What’s wrong with me that I blurt
things like that? Especially to my mom.

And now she looks hurt. Oh bother, again! I can handle Mom when she’s sarcastic or angry, but when she’s hurt… that’s
another story. Guilt slices through me like a samurai sword. “I’m sorry, Ma. I was just thinking today how much I need to
start going to the gym. It’s just that I don’t have that much time.”

Mom reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I understand.”

Oh, the guilt! Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

I glance at the clock. How much longer?

I actually kiss the closed door once my parents leave, Brian reluctantly tagging along behind them.

“Whew.” And that’s all Laini says. I know I owe her big for hanging around. Not that she said much. But when she did, it mattered.

A knock at the door a second later gives us both a start.