License to Shop (14 page)

By the time we grabbed the
kids and headed home, we were exhausted.

“
Thank goodness for the
weekend,” my mother said. “We can relax.”

I looked at her with one
raised eyebrow. The weekends this time of year began with two hours
on the soccer field. From 9-10 for Anna and 11-12 for
Ryan.

I’m not a huge sports
fan—my school memories of playing kickball include a rather
humiliated dash for the ball with my determination screwed up to
kick the ball hard. Kick hard, I did. But I missed the ball.
Kicking air is not terribly impressive to one’s team. When they’re
young, they tend to laugh. And I never even tried to kick the ball
again.

Anna is much more
coordinated than I ever was, and enthusiastic as she runs around
the field. But on defense she tends to turn her back on the ball
and throw grass in the air like confetti to ease the boredom of
being away from the action. Which means she often misses the action
when the ball suddenly heads for the goal she is supposed to be
tending.

Ryan’s team plays much
better, it is amazing the powerful kicks and calculated strategy
that can develop in just a few short years.

I take a book with me to
these games, which Seth thinks is terrible. He watches each move
the players make, shouting encouragement to our children and their
friends.

When they’re young like
Anna, you can’t help but hope the little girl with the big blue
eyes who’s been trying to kick the ball into the goal for a good
two minutes will finally do so—even if she’s on your child’s
opposing team. By Ryan’s age, it is slightly easier to root for
your own child’s team over the other because there’s always a kid
you can root against—the one who is better, faster, strategically
advanced, and who gloats.

It’s the gloating that
invites the negative rooting. At least in me. Some of the other
parents on the sidelines are so busy shouting orders to their
children that they act as if they were playing the game
themselves.

I tried to remind my
mother what life was like with children in the house. “I’m afraid
our weekends are anything but relaxing. Sports in the morning, Girl
Scouts in the afternoon. Don’t forget you’re speaking to the
decorations committee.”

“
That’s nothing, I can do
that in my sleep. I was hoping we could go to Acadia National Park
and walk around Bar Harbor.”

Of course she was. My
mother loved to pick up odd little handmade things in the shops
around Bar Harbor. She also liked to bring her books, and talk the
shopkeepers into taking a few on consignment.

“
I think Bianca is going
to keep you busier than you expected, Mom.” I told her.

My mother
was a hit with the soccer moms. Anyone who hadn’t known Ariadne
Dobbs was in town, now knew.

Everyone she met promised
to come to the school for her program.

She was flattered, and
unfailingly polite to them all. To me she said, “These poor people.
They’re starved for culture.”

Culture? The Hands-On
Homemaker? Really? I thought all those things, but said none of
them. I never tried to deliberately disappoint my mother, no matter
that she thought I did.

“
I’m glad your Girl Scout
troop will be able to attend. I can see that your co-leader Nancy
understands the importance of getting to people when they are young
and can integrate the lessons they need to learn about making the
world a more comfortable and hospitable place.”

“
Nancy is a wonder, I
agree.” I did, but not in the same way my mother meant it. That was
why I had agreed to be co-leader of our Girl Scout Brownie troop in
the first place.If I’d led a sheltered life, Nancy was my polar
opposite. She was driven to make each badge meaningful. Where some
troop leaders gave their girls easy, fun projects like flower
arranging, our girls had projects that were hard, but practical,
like making our own mats to sit on during meetings, and making a
quilt for the end of school year raffle.

Every year our quilt was a
coveted item in the raffle—Nancy was a master quilter and she led
the girls in designing a one-of-a-kind quilt that reflected all the
girls and their myriad personalities. It had been difficult to
narrow down a good one to reflect Myra Warrick, but we’d settled on
a blood red heart—not because little Myra had a heart, but because
she was most likely to wring many hearts dry in her
life.

I tried to be happy that I
wouldn’t have to lead the Girl Scouts in an activity today, but I
admit I felt jealous.

So I did what I did when I
was mad at my mother for something she did in my childhood. I
sniped in the most passive-aggressive manner possible. “I regret I
was never a Girl Scout when I was young. Anna loves to wear the
matching skirt and vest, to be hung with badges for bravery and
archery…not so much for cleaning or sewing.” I laughed.

My mother looked at me
oddly. “You don’t remember?”

“
Remember what?” I asked,
truly puzzled.

“
I tried to get you to the
join the local troop. You refused. You had a tantrum, in fact.
Embarrassed me silly.”

“
When was this?” I would
have accused her of lying except that my mother never lied. She
spun the truth like a consummate spider, but lies were not her
thing.

I remembered that Anna had
balked at first at being a Brownie—she’d liked the green of Girl
Scouts and was not impressed with brown. But me? I don’t remember
even knowing the Girl Scouts existed when I was a child.

I was sure if I did, I’d
have joined. After all, I’d fudged a little when I’d told Anna she
had to start as a Brownie to work her way up to the green of Girl
Scout—which was a pretty big white lie. She could have just started
as a Girl Scout in third grade.

But, if she’d waited, then
I’d have missed a few years of fun as a Girl Scout leader. Or so I
had thought at the time. Sometimes, when it was time to face the
sixteen girls on a Saturday afternoon, I considered letting the
truth slip.

Too late now, though. Anna
will be in third grade in the fall, fully eligible for the green
uniform she had coveted so fiercely. Fortunately, I don’t have to
try leading these monsters…girls…by myself. I have the most
wonderful, no-nonsense co-leader in the world…or at least this part
of it.

“
You really don’t
remember?” My mother had an odd look on her face. I recognized it
as the mind-sweep look that so many of we mothers shared. Like she
was afraid she’d forgotten something important. “I wanted you to
join so badly. I really wanted a little break. Some time without
you looking at me. Judging me. But you would have none of
it.”

My stomach lurched. I
recognized that look on her face, and the feeling that elicited
it.

For the first time, ever,
I realized that my mother was a…mom. My world rotated 180 degrees.
And then rotated back, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. “I
did?”

She nodded. “You said you
didn’t want to hang out with ‘those girls.’”

“
Oh.” Suddenly I remember
‘those girls’ to whom she referred. Mina the Meanie, Tina the
Teaser, Laura the Lippy. They had just been so mean-spirited. I
hadn’t understood what drove them. I hadn’t wanted to give them the
time of day. I didn’t remember actually refusing to join Girl
Scouts, but I could totally see why I would have, in that
context.

“
That makes sense when you
say it. I don’t remember, though. Girls can be mean.” I’d been an
only child, which is why I was so shocked, even now, to deal with
how mean girls could be. Huggy-kissy one minute, and
cold-shouldering the next.

The divisive note could be
prompted by a choice of color, hairstyle, or someone’s good grade.
Let me tell you—if you think a pack of hyenas are vicious, you
should try sixteen second graders fighting over the pink markers (I
wanted to get fifteen of the pink markers—Marissa is a budding goth
and only uses black, red silver and gold—but Nancy said it built
character to learn to share). Nancy was a traditional Yankee frugal
soul.

Nothing put a smile on her
face faster than finding a way to get the supplies for a project
for free. And since she did it so often, we were one of the better
funded troops. She had also taught me to understand that the girls
were just being girls. Not my Anna, of course, I thought. She was
more like me. She didn’t really understand the whole point of being
mean.

My mother smiled, back to
her usual self — disappointed in me. “Of course you don’t remember.
You were a child. You had no idea that all I really wanted was a
few hours to myself.” She laughed. “Or maybe you did. You always
were a clingy little thing. In hindsight, it would have been good
for you if I just signed you up and ignored your
objections.”

Clingy? Me? The original
latchkey kid? In an alternate universe maybe. It suddenly occurred
to me that my mother and Nancy were cut from the same cloth. They
weren’t mean girls. They just understood them better than they
understood people like Anna and me. Who knew?

I saw Nancy, weighed down
with boxes of fabric scraps, markers, and fabric pens. I hurried to
help, trying to be the good co-leader, while really I was just glad
that today we had very light duty — we were making napkin rings,
thanks to Bianca’s turning my mother’s small presentation to the
PTA decorations committee into the event of the week. Maybe even
the month.

My mother was not fazed by the sight of yet another big
crowd, this one full of Girl Scouts eager and ready to fold,
spindle, and mutilate napkins — or, really, pretty much anything —
upon her command.

She took charge, as she
had at the library on Thursday night. Bianca had commanded the gym
for the decorations committee, and my mother led everyone in
setting up tables to her liking.

Our shopping on Friday had
netted her several bags of assorted buttons, frills, fabric
remnants and — of all things — cheap bracelets from the local
discount store.

These she scattered in
piles along the centers of the tables. I’d thought she’d bought too
many, until I saw who had shown up for the impromptu decorating
session—just about every female in town. Thankfully, we have a
small town…if we don’t count the university students. I think I
even saw a few of them in the crowd.

Penny was there, smiling
and looking like she owned the world. I assumed that there’d been
no movement on the job front, because of the murder. But then I saw
Henriette Stubbs come in.

Penny noticed, too, and
made a beeline for her.

I sighed and went over,
too. I needed to do a Deirdre-moment if I was going to do
that.

“
How are you?” Penny asked
Dr. Stubbs.

“
Reeling, as you may
imagine. We were already a person down, and now we need
two.”

“
Are you close to making a
decision?”

“
It will be at least a
week before we can do it.” Her eyes gleamed. “I just had an idea.
What if I spoke with HR and was able to have you fill in
temporarily. Just until we make our final decisions.”

“
Okay.” We both spoke at
once.

She looked at both of us.
“Excellent. Let’s consider this a two-week trial period. If you do
well, it will help you get the job. If not, then you’ll know this
wasn’t the job for you.”

Was it my imagination, or
did she glance at Penny when she gave the first option, and me when
she gave the second? I hoped not.

“
Perfect.”

“
See you at 8:30 sharp on
Monday.”

I watched her head off to
find a seat in the crowded room and realized exactly what I’d done.
I had no after-school child care arrangements made. And come
Monday, I needed some.

I noticed Deb hovering at
the door, in her uniform. “Do we need security?” I
joked.

“
Probably, but that’s not
why I’m here. I wanted to give you a head’s up. James Connery is in
town, and he wants to see what you know about the Admissions
Office.”

“
Me? I went for two
interviews there. What can I know?”

She laughed. “He says you
are very observant and have good instincts.”

“
If I had good instincts,
I wouldn’t have agreed to start a temporary fill-in job at the
Admissions Office on Monday when I don’t have childcare lined up
yet.”

“
Congratulations.” She
looked impressed.

“
Don’t be too premature.
It’s more like an audition than a job. I have the distinct
impression Dr. Stubbs is not a fan of mine.”

“
Okay, well. I’ve
delivered my warning, so be on the lookout for tall, dark, and
FBI.”

“
Will do. I’ll also be
practicing the power of no.”

Deb actually laughed at
me. “Good luck with that.” She glanced toward my mother, who held a
besotted Bianca in thrall, along with the rest of the
crowd.

The
applause was thunderous. And all because my mother had shown them
how to make cute little doggie napkins ringed with ten cent
bracelets. What would they have done if she’d shown them how to
cure cancer?