Rusty Summer (2 page)

I, on the other hand, probably have lost about twenty pounds from skating.

I'm not sure how much exactly; I decided to never weigh myself anymore, because it only makes me feel bad and otherwise I'm not that worried about it. I'm stronger and more active than ever.

And I gotta say, I
love
skating! I love the speed, and the fans, and the team spirit! (Omg, I'm such a team player! Who'd a thunk, right?) I've met a bunch of rawk-chicks and glamazons, and I like 'em a lot! They are funny and badass and they all have my back.

The Rat Lab is hard work, and hilarious. That's where the wannabe Rat City Roller Girls train and are chosen: The Rat Lab.

I want to be a Throttle Rocket when I get out of the Rat Lab. They are one of the four Derby teams of the RCRGs. There are other team tryouts soon, but I've set my heart on the Throttle Rockets. The coach is a babe, a dark-haired hottie! I'm too shy to tell him I think so. Instead, I vow to wow him—by kicking ass and taking names.

So there's that. My beloved Rat Lab, training ground for creative destruction.

But probably my biggest change came when I moved out of my house with Mom and Paul and rented one with Beau.

We rented an admittedly crappy house in the CD (Central District) of Seattle, which freaks out both our mothers, because it is definitely high crime (and loud!), but it's cheap and not too far from our school, which is convenient for us, since Beau and I still attend, though we already have enough credits to graduate. We're staying at Baboon High till graduation—to look out for the ones who come after us.

I moved out from my mom's because I
had
to—I was going too crazy about the whole “go to Mass” thing with my mom. We started to disagree without agreeing to disagree, beforehand.

It got pretty bad.

I'm finally a legal adult and I had told Mom that I wouldn't go to church anymore after I was eighteen.

Seriously, I gave her fair notice. I tried to explain my feelings gently.

It was the first time I stood up to my mom. And I didn't back down. Which went over about as well as you might imagine. Like when she started to cry. Jeez . . . massive raging and wailing.
So
painful for both of us, as I never meant to hurt her. But I broke a little piece of her heart when I made a stand.

Religion is certainly divisive, isn't it? Even remembering all this gets me exhausted.

To her, she was fighting for my immortal soul. Fighting hard. And she was bringing out all her big guns. It didn't help when I explained I didn't feel damned. Quite the opposite—I finally feel free!

No more Original Sin or any of the rest of it. No more nutty notions of sinful babies or weak-ass women. I'm DONE!

I feel good!

I feel like we're good, God and me; God, or Nature, or Grace, or Nothing, whatever you want to call it—I mean, I ain't mad!

I love this crazy world!

Yes, in many ways it's seriously hosed, but I'm so glad I didn't do anything to hurt myself in the drear old dark days. It's beautiful here! It's
so
beautiful, guys. Of course I'm sticking around.

I had no idea how much better it was going to get. Or how soon!

Naturally, my mom is not nearly as elated by my religious opinions as I am.

She rallied, though. My mom is tough. And persistent. She's like a stalker for Jesus.

She has gotten Leonie to go to church with her—and Leo loves it! Saint Teresa has this giant Mary Magdalene/Recovered Fallen Woman thing with Leonie. (Which just pisses me off for
so
many reasons—however, I will not digress any further.)

I tangled with my mom because she always says, “So what? Blah-blah (topic of contention) makes no difference to our everyday lives,” with which then I emphatically disagree, usually at the top of my lungs, because Everything Makes a Difference!

She and I are much better now than when I still lived there. We could be sulky at each other for days, back then, after one of my histrionic little history lessons.

Now I can holler even harder! This is great—free lectures!

And if I do holler, Mom can say, “Oh, goodness me, look at the time! Don't you have skate practice, or someplace you're supposed to be, honey?”

Then I know we both think it's time for me to go back to my house—have us a lil' time-out.

Sometimes, in the saddest, most knuckle-draggin' way, I used to feel that if my mom wasn't my mom and was just some random girl my age, she wouldn't necessarily want to be my friend....

Or vice-versa.

I gotta admit, that Coming of Age crap is a drag.

But now I shrug and cheer up and just am glad she's my mom. Nobody's perfect. She loves me, I love her—a million times around the world. And sometimes that's enough.

Besides, after our time-outs I always come back, the main reason being that I miss her a lot.

And another is because . . . well, laundry is freaking costly!

I'm still into sweats and hoodies. It's just easier. I've got several I've cut off at the knees and elbows for skating and summer, which is quickly approaching. At least it is everywhere else in the country, according to Facebook. Here, it's mostly still frigidly raining, but the days keep getting longer.

And I must say springtime evenings are a very cool thing in Seattle. When it's not raining, when the light returns, the sun sets over the Sound, lingering in these lazy, golden, cinnamon-rose swirls, reflecting across the salt water. Sometimes it doesn't even seem to really get dark; dusk just blends up into the sky from the city's ambient lavender night light.

 

So, any-hoo, I think that brings you up to speed.

Now I'm going to go see Mom, my brother, Paul, and Leo, and do some laundry.

Luckily, I didn't skin my driving leg. I can feel it starting to tighten up already.

 

Mom is putting stuff away when I get there. She just got back from the store. Grocery bags piled high!

And The Bomb is glad to see her auntie Rusty!

She is such a pretty dog. She is all shiny and smiley and healthy and her big wolf teeth are sharp and white. I give her some kisses where the dark fur comes to a little point on her lil' husky forehead and she wags. She gives me some kisses back on my cheek. Good, sweet girl!

I miss living with a pet so much! But I just can't afford one in the city. The special pet deposit is like five hundred dollars (in addition to the regular deposit) when you move into a rental,
if
they'll even let you have one. It's lame! Bommy would never dookie in the house, unless there was an emergency! But try telling a landlord that. When Beau and I rented our house that was one of the first questions. That's how I knew how much the deposit was. And that was only if we had a cat. No dogs allowed at all!

I look to see what else is in the paper bags. So many . . . and so full! Whoa.

Mom is spending way more on food now that she is working. I get a mango out of the bag.

“Dang, Mama, mango? I might move home.”

“Hey, don't cut that yet. I don't think it's ripe till day after tomorrow.”

“No, it's good, I can tell. It's all mushy and yummy.”

“Still—don't. Have an apple.”

Her tone makes me stop.

Saint Teresa, patron saint of control freaks; pray for us.

I put the uniquely unripe mango back in the sack. She bails it out of the bag and puts it in the fruit bowl. Gives me a little look. Fine. Fruit bowl it is, boss lady!

I sigh, as wearily as she ever did when I lived with her.

And she hears me and turns around in genuine concern. She comes over and puts her hands on my cheeks and stands on tiptoe to kiss my forehead. I have to bend down for her to do that now.

“How are you two doing up in that terrible house?” She looks at me searchingly and I feel my annoyance melt. “Do you keep the windows and doors locked
all
the time?”

“Pretty much. We're fine. Beau has to be careful with his bike though. Block watch guys said there had been a few petty robberies recently,” I say.

See, I told her this as a comfort and also to distract her from tripping on our safety. No worries; just petty property crimes. So that she's not to worry. See, Mom, honey, I don't even have a bike and Beau McCarefulbritches brings his inside!

Yeah. So that strategy backfired.

She immediately starts freaking out.

“What?! When?! Were they armed?! Oh, honey!! Do you know anyone who got robbed?! Did any of your neighbors?! Did anyone call the cops?! Oh, why do you guys have to live there?! It's a terrible neighborhood! It's awful! And they litter!”

My mom is so random. I keep a straight face.

“Okay, Mom, I promise to do something about that. The litter.”

She stops and points her finger at me.

“Rylee, you stop making fun of me! It's true! It shows people's attitude! Oh, just never mind, Miss Smarty!” She's getting cranky-face again.

I change the topic.

“I ordered my cap and gown today.”

She stops and switches to the same subject. Sort of.

“Listen, have you heard from your dad yet?”

“No.” Now I'm the one getting cranky-face.

“Huh . . . You know, this is starting to get a little weird. I don't know what his problem is. He used to be very reliable about getting back to people. I don't know what to think. It's strange for him to ignore your graduation.” She glowers with ancient annoyance. He has the power to irritate her, even years later, even from like three zillion miles away.

And I agree this time.

He hasn't gotten in touch with my little brother, Paul, or me in years. I decided not to think about it—after failing repeatedly to get him to visit us—so I haven't been in touch with him either. The graduation card and picture is the first letter I'd sent, since I'm still waiting for an answer from the last time I wrote four years ago, when I sent him a birthday card/long letter and never got a response.

So it's all a giant whatever.

However, it still does make me fume.

“Well, Mom, I don't know! Apparently he isn't too worried about seeing his only daughter get her diploma after all! He can watch it on YouTube, I guess—if we upload it. If he even
has
Internet. Or a computer! Nobody has e-mail, apparently. He won't even text—because he won't get a cell phone! He better not pretend he's too far out for coverage anymore. Because I believe he could have a phone, if he cared enough. So could GramMer. It's like she is avoiding my calls too.”

Mom nods. She starts to say something, but stops and just looks sad. She can still read my thoughts. She knows my pissy tone is fake. She knows inside I'm so hurt.

Suddenly we hear Leonie open the front door. It creaks/rattles and then slams/rattles.

Mom jumps and then starts heating water in the microwave.

“Whoops! I lost track of the time. I should have had this all ready for her.” She pushed the power button just as Leonie rolls into the kitchen.

Leo looks tired to death. She flops down at the table.

She is starving, because she is Leonie.

I watch my mom take a cup, pour the almost boiling water into it, shake a bouillon packet into the cup and give it to Leo. I watch Leo get up wearily, take a long-handled spoon out of the drawer, then, moving to the tall stool by the window, stir the cup for a long time, breathing in the broth, imbibing the steam, like it counted as something to eat. Then she slurps like a starving dog. Like she would chew the feeble bouillon if she could . . . just hammin' on it.

Wow.

I watch in silence.

“So, Leo, how're your classes up at college?” I ask when her slurps grow quiet.

She's going to Seattle Central up on Broadway. I give her a ride sometimes. I love Capitol Hill. It's very festive.

“Good . . . hey, what's a dip thong?”

“Um, it's like two vowels sounding together, I think. I'm not sure. Look it up. Why?”

“Dude said that spelling counted in the final. He said ‘be careful of your dip thongs.' ”

“ ‘Dude' being your prof? And what—you're wondering if it's some kind of underpants?”

“Har, you are so funny,” she retorts, her face deep in the mug for the last drops. Her voice is muffled. “If it was undies I'd know about them!”

We crack up. Leo so rocks.

Ratting out Ratskin wasn't the only big change she made after we came home.

After suffering a lifetime of abuse—at the hands of people who were supposed to be looking out for her, for gawd's sake—she's decided not to date for a while; that maybe she'd just give it a rest till a nice age-appropriate guy comes along.

And she has stuck to her guns. She gets hit on about twenty-five times a day and she tells them all no thanks. And of course my ma is all in favor of this.

She looks over at me with her eyes twinkling. “How's Teeny Skeeze doing?”

That's our ongoing joke since junior year; Leo's going to be CFO of my imaginary business, Teeny Skeeze, a clothing line that sells wildly inappropriate clothing to little girls so they can be all skanky and baffled by kindergarten. I used to think up horrifying new fashions and toys. But now I just report on actual products.

“Oh, Teeny Skeeze is crushing it!” I say. “We got a new shipment of three-inch heels for
eight-
year-olds! Can't keep them in stock! Armageddon is right on schedule!”

We're still tittering at our wit when I hear my brother, Paul, slam the front door. He moves very emphatically these days. He comes into the kitchen. His hair is wet and he looks flushed. He must have just finished practice.