Shannon's Story Read online

  I resolved to apologize to Mom the moment she got home. And to make it up to her by being extra nice.

  My father got home before my mother did.

  “Hey, everybody!” he called. By that time, I’d staked out the corner of the sofa in the den and was watching an old movie called An American in Paris.

  “Hi, Dad,” I called.

  “Where is everybody?” he said, coming in to sit down next to me.

  I kept my eyes on the movie. “Maria is at a post-swim meet practice and Tiffany’s in her garden.”

  The people on the screen began to dance and sing.

  My father cleared his throat. “Oh.”

  “Mom’s shopping,” I added, still keeping my eyes on the dancing, singing people.

  “Oh,” said my father again. “Er … what meet? What garden?”

  That got my attention.

  “Maria’s swim meet!” I said, staring at him. It was so weird. For a moment, just for a moment, he didn’t look like my father. Just a tall man in a cotton sweater and chinos and loafers.

  Some stranger. Some stranger who didn’t know me or Tiffany or Maria at all.

  “Maria’s on the swim team at school, Dad,” I said. “She practices after school practically every day.”

  “I knew that,” said my dad.

  But did he?

  “And Tiffany started a garden. In the backyard. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “No. I mean, not exactly.”

  He sounded just like me when I didn’t know the answer to a question when a teacher called on me at school.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. Then my father cleared his throat again and bounded up. “Better go get changed,” he said and charged out of the room.

  Changed into what, I wondered. He’s already changed so much. I could understand his not knowing, maybe, about one of Maria’s swim meets.

  But how could he not have noticed a whole garden in the backyard?

  Feeling confused and grumpy, I turned my attention back to the singing, dancing people. Paris, I reminded myself. Think about Paris.

  My mother came home from shopping and danced into the den just as the movie came to an end. It was a pretty good movie.

  “Hi, Shanny,” she sang out. I made a face at the baby name I’d asked her not to call me at least a million times, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Hi, Mom. Dad’s home.”

  “Great,” said my mom. “Look, Shanny.”

  She put a box down on the coffee table, opened it, and pulled out a dress.

  “Is that for you?” I said. “It’s nice, Mom.” It really was. A sort of Laura Ashley spring dress, with a lace collar and a drop waist and lots of tiny flowers. The kind of dress that looked good on my mom and would look good on Tiffany, too, I thought.

  My mom whipped another dress out.

  “Here,” she said, beaming. “For you, Shanny.”

  I took the dress with a sinking heart, feeling all my resolve fly out the window. My mom had gone shopping and she had bought mother-daughter dresses for me and her, as if I were a little kid. Or a doll.

  And she hadn’t bought anything like the kind of dress I wore now. But then, I thought hatefully, how would she know? She never listened to me these days, or paid attention to what I asked.

  “Do you like it?”

  What could I say? I didn’t like it for me. My mom must have known I wouldn’t. How could she not? She’d just set herself up — and me, too.

  She was looking at me so eagerly that I couldn’t say what was on my mind. I felt trapped and angry all over again.

  But I said, “It’s a very pretty dress, Mom.”

  Did she notice the lack of enthusiasm in my response? How could she not?

  I jumped up. “I’ll go hang it in my closet and then after dinner, maybe I can try it on.”

  I made my escape and that’s exactly what it was. An escape. I hung the dress in my closet, resisting the impulse to push it as far to the side as I could. I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Not long after, Maria came home. Her hair was dry, but it was slicked back like a seal’s.

  “Heard you did pretty good,” I said, sitting up.

  Maria shrugged, but she was smiling.

  “So?”

  “So, we won,” said Maria. She looked up and down the hall, then said, “Can I come in? Your room, I mean.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Maria closed the door behind her and sighed.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s Mom,” she said. “I mean, I’m glad she comes to the swim meets and all that, but she … she talks to the coach all the time. Coach Williams is a great coach and she’s nice to Mom, but none of the other parents do that.”

  “What does she talk to Coach Williams about?” I asked sympathetically.

  “I don’t know. But I wish she wouldn’t. It’s weird. You know?”

  “Maybe you could talk to Mom about it,” I said.

  Maria made a face. “Maybe. But it’s like she’s not listening, you know?” She sighed heavily and got up. “Oh, well. See you at dinner.”

  I lay back down and resumed my study of the ceiling of my room. Poor Maria. I knew how she felt. Hedged in. Trapped.

  In Paris, I’d be on my own. (Except for the chaperones, of course.) I hated to admit it, but one of the appealing things about Paris these days was just how far I’d be from Mom.

  I woke up Sunday morning still brooding over the dress in my closet. It fit. I couldn’t even make that excuse for never, ever wearing it.

  But I never, ever would.

  Maybe I could take it to Paris with me and lose it.

  The thought cheered me up. Until the Sunday newspaper incident.

  “You should fold the newspaper back when you finish reading it,” said Mom. “Other people might want to read it.”

  “Everyone else has already read it,” I said, digging through for the comics.

  “You don’t know that,” said Mom.

  “Yes, I do. I asked you. I asked Dad.”

  “What about Tiffany and Maria?”

  “They don’t read anything but the comics!”

  “Shannon, I think you should put the paper back in order,” said Mom.

  “Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. I put the paper back in order, then marched pointedly through the house and dropped it into the recycling bin. Then I went on marching, out the door. “I’m going over to Kristy’s!” I shouted as the door slammed shut behind me.

  “Shanny …” called my mother.

  I didn’t answer. I kept going.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Kristy the moment she opened her door.

  “You can tell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My mom’s driving me crazy! She treats me like a baby, she doesn’t listen to anything I say and she’s … she’s acting like a big baby herself.”

  “A big baby, huh? Sounds like a job for the BSC,” joked Kristy as she led the way to her room.

  “Ha,” I said sourly. “Do you have the Sunday paper? I didn’t even get to read the comics.”

  “Sure.” Kristy detoured through the kitchen, grabbed the comics and a stack of newspaper sections off the top of the pile of newspapers scattered (out of order) on the kitchen table, and kept going.

  We went upstairs and scattered sections of newspaper all around the room.

  “Nothing about Paris in the travel section,” Kristy announced.

  “That’s okay. I’ve read a million books about Paris,” I told her. “I can hardly wait.”

  “You are sooo lucky, Shannon. Are you going to get one of those hats?”

  “A beret. Yes. Definitely.”

  Kristy grinned. “Ooh, la, la.”

  We both laughed and scattered some more newspaper sections around in comfortable silence.

  And I wondered if the mothers in France ever drove their kids crazy, too.

  “The unofficial meeting of the BSC will no
w come to order,” Kristy said, and we all laughed. The time had come to plan the BSC Mother’s Day Surprise Extravaganza. So we’d all gone to Kristy’s house and, of course, to keep our energy up, we’d just raided the BSC treasury and sent out for pizza.

  “A business expense,” said Stacey, counting out the money. “Tax deductible.”

  “We have to keep our strength up,” said Claudia. She had come prepared, and since we appreciate the motto, “Life is uncertain, eat dessert first,” we were eating out of a bag of Gummi Worms Claud had brought along — except for Stacey, who was eating an apple.

  “We always fix our mom breakfast in bed,” said Mallory. “For Mother’s Day, I mean.”

  “That’s a nice family tradition,” said Stacey.

  Mallory grinned. “You should see the Pikes getting Mom’s breakfast ready!”

  The idea of all of the Pike kids in the kitchen at once cooking breakfast for just one person was an awesome one. I had a vision of them passing pancakes down a line, like firefighters in those old movies, passing buckets of water along to put out a fire.

  “I bet a lot of kids make Mother’s Day breakfasts,” said Mary Anne, who was making notes in the club notebook. “We could help kids plan the menus, maybe.”

  “Mmm. I don’t know. It’s a good idea, but I don’t think it has the ‘oomph’ we’re looking for,” Kristy said.

  “Oomph?” teased Claudia.

  “What about a Saturday Make Your Own Mother’s Day Giftathon?” suggested Jessi. “That’d be a lot of fun.”

  Claudia said (somewhat Gummi Wormily), “Yeah. We could even help them make wrapping paper and cool gift decorations.”

  “Or the kids could grow a special plant or flower,” I suggested, thinking of Tiffany and her garden. Maybe I could get Tiffany involved that way. She’d have other gardeners to talk to (sort of) and get positive reinforcement for her garden.

  “So what does our schedule look like, Mary Anne?” asked Kristy briskly. “Can we have this Giftathon soon?”

  Mary Anne flipped open the club record book and ran her finger through the pages, and we settled on a Saturday when we could all get together. We decided on Mary Anne’s house, since her backyard is big and we could move to the barn if the weather got bad.

  We were idling along on that idea, talking about the supplies we’d need to get and the kinds of presents the kids could make (like a special decorated menu to go with a special Mother’s Day breakfast). We discussed whether to let the kids take the gifts home with them then, or arrange to distribute them right before Mother’s Day, and congratulated ourselves on how much fun the Giftathon would be, when Kristy got her “Kristy’s Great Idea” look on her face.

  It was a look we all recognized. Conversation slowed down. Stopped.

  Mary Anne said, “Kristy?”

  “Hmmmmm,” said Kristy slowly, staring at the wall.

  We paused expectantly.

  Then Kristy said, “Soooo. What about … what about a mother-kid softball game? Just for Mother’s Day.”

  “Super!” Claudia was immediately and totally into the idea. She went on, “Now that Stacey and I know all about softball, we could really organize this in a big way.”

  Claudia was referring to the time she and Stacey took on the job of coaching Kristy’s Krushers while Kristy played on the SMS softball team. It had been, well, a learning experience for everyone. And Claudia and Stacey had definitely raised the sense of style for Krushers’ softball to a new level.

  “Not on Mother’s Day,” said Jessi. “People should be with their families then. How about sometime after that?”

  “Right,” said Kristy.

  Mary Anne flipped the BSC schedule open again. But the only time that everyone could get together was several weeks later.

  “After Mother’s Day is fine,” Stacey said. “After all, it’ll be even warmer and nicer. And we’ll need good weather for the game.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I can’t make it. I’ll be in Paris. Of course, I could cancel my trip, but….”

  “Oooh, poor Shannon,” teased Stacey. I grabbed a pillow and threw it at Stacey.

  Stacey was about to retaliate when the doorbell rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” I crowed.

  “Saved by the pizza,” retorted Stacey.

  When we’d gotten the pizza and settled down around the big table in Kristy’s kitchen, we talked some more about the softball game idea. Claudia suggested we get some white T-shirts and maybe tie-dye them a special color for the mothers’ team.

  “And the kids can wear their Krushers shirts. We’ve got a few extras, too, for the kids who aren’t on the team,” Kristy said.

  “What about the kids who are too little to play?” asked Mallory.

  “We could make them special cheerleaders,” suggested Jessi. “Or offer free baby-sitting services.”

  The plans went as fast as the pizza. It sounded like so much fun, I really did almost regret I’d have to be in Paris.

  Well, okay, I didn’t regret that! But I did wish I could be there to see the game.

  “I know!” I said. “Maybe someone could videotape the game and then the parents could get copies made. A special Mother’s Day memento.”

  “Super. Absolutely a super idea,” cried Kristy, and Mary Anne made another note in the club notebook.

  We’d just finished most of the pizza and most of the planning when the doorbell rang.

  “More pizza?” cried Claudia happily.

  “Claud, you’re a bottomless pit,” said Stacey.

  “Who’re you calling a pit?” Claudia made a face as Kristy got up to answer the door.

  A moment later I froze, my pizza halfway to my mouth.

  “Helllooo,” called a familiar voice.

  My mother’s voice. What was she doing here?

  “Oh, look, pizza!” said my mom brightly, following Kristy into the kitchen.

  “Would you like some?” asked Kristy politely.

  Silently I willed my mom to say no.

  “Well,” said my mother, hesitating.

  “Come on,” said Kristy, pulling up a chair.

  I was doomed.

  My mom sat down at the table and took a slice of pizza.

  I pushed my pizza away. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “Uh, Mom?” I said.

  “This is delicious,” said my mom.

  “It’s the black olives and green olives,” said Jessi. “That’s key.”

  “And no anchovies,” said Mallory.

  “Uh, Mom?” I tried again.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s going on, Mom?”

  “Going on? Oh!” My mom threw back her head and laughed.

  I frowned. “Is something wrong? Is that why you’re here?” I asked pointedly. And yes, I know, a little rudely.

  My mom didn’t seem to notice. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just need you to come home and watch Tiffany and Maria for an hour or so. I’ve got to go do some errands and I hate to drag them along with me.” My mom made a face. “In fact, I don’t think I could drag Tiffany away from her garden.”

  “Why didn’t you just call?” I asked, exas-perated. The old feeling of being trapped returned.

  “Oh, it was no problem.” My mom polished off the last of her piece of pizza, stood up, and smiled at everyone. “Thanks for the pizza.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Kristy politely.

  We sat in silence for a moment. Then I said, not quite looking at Mom, “I’ll be home in just a minute, okay?”

  At last Mom got that hint. “Okay, Shanny,” she said. “ ’Bye, guys.” She left.

  Shanny.

  “Shanny?” Kristy gasped.

  “Listen, I know my friends are much too sophisticated and kind to go around teasing a person about something like the nickname her mother uses for her,” I said.

  It didn’t work.

  “Of course not. Shanny,” crooned Stacey.

  “Boontsie!
” I shot back. That’s a name Stacey’s father called her when she was a baby.

  Stacey clutched her heart. “I’m wounded!”

  We all laughed. I looked around the table. We’re a great club, if I do say so myself. Even if I was now going to have to hear them use my baby name at probably all the most embarrassing times in my life. Of course, they’d get no mercy back from me.

  I stood up reluctantly. “Gotta go,” I said. “See you later.”

  I was almost out the door when they all called out in unison: “ ’Bye, Shannnnnnnnnnny.”

  In spite of the bad mood my mother’s visit had put me in, I grinned all the way home.

  “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb,” I sang under my breath as I hurried down the hall of SDS on the way to the bus after my last class. Only I was trying to sing it in French. But what was the French word for lamb?

  “Bah!” I said aloud, and then laughed at my own joke. I’d have to tell that one to Greer.

  I raced around the corner, not quite running (running in the halls is frowned on), and skidded to a stop. I reversed and took another look in Dr. Patek’s office.

  My mother was just inside the door, talking to Dr. Patek.

  Huh? Maria’s swim meet schedule again? Or had Tiffany had some kind of doctor’s appointment I’d forgotten about?

  I looked around, but I didn’t see Tiff anywhere.

  Mary had a little lamb. The words came back into my head. What was the French word for lamb?

  Lapin? No, that was rabbit. Mary had a little rabbit?

  I was doing that more and more lately. Trying to remember the French words for everything. Even in math, I made myself count as much as possible in French. I wanted to be ready for Paris. It was much nicer to think about Paris than ma mère (my mother) so I put her out of my mind as I got on the bus.

  Instead I concentrated on practicing my French conversational skills with my friends.

  Have you ever tried to gossip in French? When riding a school bus?

  “Hey,” whispered Meg. She leaned forward. “Un petit beurre …”

  “A little butter?” said Polly.

  We went off into gales of laughter. Then we started playing our own version of that road trip game you play when you’re a kid: we called our version, “I’m packing for Paris.” The way we played was this: Someone started by saying, “I’m packing for Paris and I’m taking an …” and she’d name something that began with “a” (in French). The next person had to say the same sentence and word, then add another item. Only this item had to begin with a “b.” You just kept going until you got through the alphabet.