Shannon's Story Read online

  Unfortunately, since my dress was not (of course) at the cleaners I got caught in the lie when Mom went upstairs right before lunch to put some clean clothes in my closet. I’d hung up the dress and I’d pushed it to one side of my closet, but not far enough.

  “Shannon?” said my mom’s muffled voice as I walked down the hall.

  “What is it, Mom?” I asked.

  “I’m in here. In your room. And so is … this.” Mom backed out of the closet and held up the dress.

  I looked at it. I looked at her.

  What could I say? “I thought it was at the cleaners,” I said.

  Mom didn’t answer. She just turned and put the dress back in the closet. “Your socks are on the bed,” she said, and walked away.

  I could hardly wait for Dad to get home. Anything was bound to be an improvement.

  And this time, I was almost right.

  Dad showed up holding a big, gorgeously wrapped box. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he told Mom. “It was just such a perfect day for golf. But I didn’t forget Mother’s Day.”

  My mother’s face was all smiles. “You didn’t,” she said. “And you’re going to take us out to lunch to celebrate, too.”

  “It’s a deal,” said my dad. “Go on, open it.”

  Smiling, Mom pulled the card out from under the paper and opened it.

  It was as if someone had reached over and wiped the smile off her face. She looked up at my father and said, “Happy birthday?”

  My father’s face turned bright red.

  Mom threw the card in the air. “What is this? An emergency gift you keep in your office in case you forget some occasion or someone gives you a gift and you don’t have one for them?”

  Dad’s face turned even redder and I knew it was true. My mom went on, “You could at least have gotten the card right! Thanks a lot.”

  Mom jumped up and ran out of the kitchen. Dad hurried after her. “Sweetheart, wait a minute. Let me explain,” my sisters and I heard him say.

  “Don’t sweetheart me! You don’t have to explain anything!”

  “I don’t know about you guys,” I said, “but I’m going to go to my room.”

  “I wish I could go to swim practice,” said Maria gloomily, following me, on the way to her room. Behind us, we heard the back door click shut and knew that Tiffany had headed out to her garden.

  We ended up going out to lunch after all. Mom and I even wore our mother-daughter dresses. And Mom wore her earrings, pinned one of the flowers from Tiffany’s bouquet to her dress, and made everyone smell her wrist which she’d dabbed with perfume.

  Dad made a lot of jokes and laughed at everything we said.

  It wasn’t much fun. I was glad when lunch was over. I couldn’t decide which was worse: the long silences, or the way everybody was trying so hard to act as if everything was all right, talking and laughing and being nervous and strange.

  And I hated the way I looked in my new dress.

  It was a huge relief to finally get home and take the dress off and retreat to my room again.

  Until Mom knocked on the door.

  “Thanks for the perfume, Shannon,” she said.

  “You’re welcome, Mom,” I replied (for about the thousandth time). “I’m glad you like it.”

  “You looked lovely in your dress,” she went on.

  “It’s a pretty dress,” I said as neutrally as possible. So I thought it was much nicer on the hanger than on me. So what?

  “Are you studying?” asked Mom.

  I shrugged. “Just reading.”

  “Shouldn’t you be studying for exams?”

  I’d already made my final exam study plans and was about to tell Mom that, but she rushed on, “You need to set up a schedule. You should allow a certain amount of time for each subject. Also, do you have your old tests from your courses? Tests are a very important study tool …”

  “Mom! Stop it! Stop it!”

  “But, Shannon!”

  Goaded, I snapped, “I’ve got a study schedule set up, okay, Mom? I know how to study! Or haven’t you noticed that I make good grades?”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think of anything to say. At least, not that I could say aloud.

  After a long moment of silence, Mom left.

  I closed my eyes and groaned. It had been a rotten, disgusting, horrible day.

  And it didn’t help that I’d been so awful to my mom, who’d had an even worse day than I had.

  A Mother’s Day to forget.

  I couldn’t believe school was almost over. I thought time was supposed to fly when you were having fun, not when you were studying every spare second for finals.

  Which is what I’d been doing, right on schedule. And I hadn’t forgotten to schedule some free time, so I wouldn’t be completely burnt out.

  Of course, Mom found me once when I was lying on my stomach on the rug reading a magazine. She didn’t believe I was taking a legitimate study break. She thought I was goofing off. That really annoyed me. Why would I lie about something like that? I cared as much about school and making good grades as my mom did.

  We didn’t speak for a whole day after that.

  I almost enjoyed it.

  Polly and Lindsey and Greer and Meg were all totally into the Paris trip. It was all they talked about. And the more they talked about it, the more I couldn’t.

  I’d mentioned that my mom was going to chaperone. “Bummer,” said Greer. “But at least your mom’s not some weirdo or something.”

  “But she’s my mom,” I’d cried.

  Lindsey had patted my shoulder sympathetically. “Hey, Paris is a big city,” she said. “You probably won’t even know she’s there.”

  “And we’ll protect you,” Polly joked.

  I smiled wanly. They didn’t understand how trapped and angry I felt and I didn’t know if I wanted them to. I didn’t talk about it again.

  But I never, ever thought I would hate and despise the idea of going to Paris. That I would wake up in the middle of the night thinking, “Non, non, non!”

  I’d dreamed about Paris all year. And now it was turning into a nightmare. I didn’t know what to do.

  Until I had my great idea.

  * * *

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said Madame as she put the French final facedown on the desk in front of me. She gave us our instructions and we turned the tests over.

  Quickly I ran my eyes down the test. And knew that I could ace it facilement.

  I picked up my pencil and began writing.

  Only most of the answers I wrote down were wrong.

  I walked out of my class in a daze. I’d just done something I’d never done before in my life.

  I’d flunked a test. And I’d done it on purpose.

  I didn’t tell anybody I’d flunked. Everyone would know soon enough, when the grades were posted.

  Five days later, as I joined the crowd around the bulletin board in the front hall at school, I heard my name being called over the PA system to report to the office.

  Quickly I found what I was looking for: my final grades were three A’s, two B’s, and an F. The F was in French.

  When I got to the office, I wasn’t surprised to see Dr. Patek, Madame DuBarry, and Ms. Danvers, the guidance counselor, all waiting in the principal’s office.

  “Come in, Shannon, and close the door,” said Dr. Patek, looking serious. “Have a seat.”

  Dr. Patek made a tent with her fingers. “Have you seen the final grades posted in the front hall, Shannon?”

  I nodded.

  “What happened?” asked Madame DuBarry. “You are such a good student — and then to flunk your final so badly!”

  “Are there problems you’d like to discuss?” suggested Ms. Danvers. She had a kind face, but how could I tell her that my mother was the reason I’d flunked my exam — not for any horrible reason, but just so I wouldn’t have to travel with her to Paris, just so I could have some
space?

  “I guess I didn’t study hard enough,” I said at last. It didn’t sound convincing, but it was the best I could do.

  Dr. Patek sighed. “Very well,” she said. “Shannon, you know that going to Paris requires keeping your grades up. You haven’t met that criteria. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but you are not eligible for the trip. You can’t go.”

  It felt bad, but it felt good, too. I tried not to look triumphant.

  But I’d done it. I’d gotten out of the trip. I could spend the time with my friends, hang out, enjoy myself. Without my mother hovering nearby, telling me what to do.

  None of my friends at SDS could understand it, of course. I didn’t try to explain. I just kept saying over and over, “I froze. All the French went out of my head. I guess I didn’t study enough.”

  “We’ll send you a zillion postcards,” Polly promised.

  “And bring you French chocolates,” said Greer.

  “You better!” I said.

  Mom was waiting for me when I got home. I could tell by her face that she’d already heard the news. I told her what I’d told everyone else.

  Studying me intently, Mom shook her head. “I don’t know what to think, Shannon. I find it very hard to believe that you could flunk one subject like that, a subject at which you worked extra hard. But maybe you don’t want to go to Paris, hard as I find that to believe. I also find it hard to believe that you wouldn’t say something.”

  That made me feel guilty, but I didn’t answer.

  Mom shook her head again, then went on. “Well, I’ve promised I’d chaperone. And I still want to go to Paris. So I’m going. Meanwhile, since you are going to be at home, and since you are an experienced baby-sitter, I’ve leaving you in charge of Tiffany and Maria and the house during the day. Your father will be home at night, and the housekeeper will be here. We’ll arrange for her to come over every day and she’ll leave meals for all of you when she’s here. But you’ll be responsible for the grocery lists, the shopping, and making sure that everything goes smoothly.”

  I was stunned. This from my mother, who kept telling me how to do every little thing? Who treated me like a baby? Who spent her whole life, it seemed, interfering in mine?

  “Well, Shannon?” said my mother.

  I found my voice at last. “Fine,” I said.

  Au revoir, Paris.

  The first day of a school year is always exciting. And the last day is always sad, at least for me. Not that I don’t look forward to summer, because I do.

  But I like school, too.

  The last day of school is pretty cool, too, at SDS. We don’t have to wear our uniforms, for one thing. So we wear our scruffiest jeans and brightest, loudest colors and lace bells into our sneakers and all kinds of silly stuff. The teachers get into the spirit, too. Our principal always shows up in a really outrageous hat. This year, our math teacher had on a T-shirt that said, “2 + 2 = what????” Our PE teacher organized a short volleyball game — with balloons — before we cleaned out our lockers.

  Greer and I could hear the balloons popping as we sat in front of our gym lockers.

  “I think this was a gym sock,” Greer reported, holding out a wadded-up brownish-yellowish clump of terrycloth.

  “I don’t think it can be saved,” I answered. I finished stuffing my gear into the plastic bag I’d brought along for the occasion, and put it in the bottom of my backpack.

  We wandered back upstairs toward the lunchroom.

  It was pizza day, just like always on the last day of school. I spotted Dr. Patek’s hat (shaped like a pickle this year) ahead of us on line. Greer and I grabbed slices of pizza and milk (no soda, even on the last day of school!) and we settled down with Lindsey and Polly.

  “Lundi en Paris, oui?” said Polly.

  “No French, no Paris talk,” I warned, only half kiddingly. “And yes, I know you’ll be in Paris on Monday.”

  Some of the teachers got serious and gave us talks about how much it meant to teach us. Our philosophy teacher did; so did our math teacher, who got kind of choked up. It was corny, but it kind of choked me up, too. It’s funny. You don’t expect math teachers to be sentimental.

  It seemed like only yesterday that I started the school year, only yesterday that I couldn’t believe a summer had gone by so fast and that I was starting school again already, only yesterday that Mom was lining us up in our school uniforms for our annual first-day-of-school photograph.

  I’d never see some of these teachers again, maybe. One year, I had come back to school to find one of my favorite teachers, my English teacher, had married and moved to Minnesota, where his wife had found a job.

  We got out of our last class early so we could clean out our lockers. As an organized person, I’d already done a lot of the cleaning out. As a person who wasn’t quite ready for the end of the school year, I still had a ways to go: notebooks with a couple of blank pages in them, notes that I’d never finished, magazines, half packs of gum (not that we’re allowed to chew gum at SDS).

  I tore down a magazine photo of the Paris skyline and wadded it up. I’d had it up in the back of my locker since the Paris trip had first been mentioned.

  At last I was through.

  We walked outside and got on the bus home. Greer and Polly and Lindsey and Meg talked top speed about Monday and Paris. For them, summer was beginning and ending with that trip. I understood that. But I wasn’t a part of it.

  I leaned back and stared out the window. I was sorry school was over. But it was time.

  “See you guys après Paris,” I said as I left the bus.

  “Au revoir! À bientôt, Shannon!” they screamed out the widow as the bus pulled away.

  I waved. Beside me, Maria and Tiffany stopped to wave, too.

  No homework. No books. Lots of unstructured, guiltless free time ahead, beginning now.

  “So what’re you going to do?” I asked my sisters when we got home.

  Tiffany said, “My garden needs weeding,” and whisked around the side of the house. I realized in amusement that the clothes she’d chosen for grunge wear on the last day of school were true grunge wear — her gardening clothes.

  Maria said, “I don’t know. I’ve never liked any sport but swimming. But it’s important that you stay in shape. I was thinking of cross-training this summer.”

  “Cross-training?” For some reason, the idea of Maria voluntarily doing any other sport but swimming did not compute. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Skating. Rollerblading, maybe. Bicycling. I have to think about it first. And talk to Coach.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Maria.

  I looked at my watch. Not even near five-thirty yet. Not even near time for the Friday meeting of the BSC. I sighed. School was over. I could feel my mother hovering somewhere in the house, not intentionally trying to get on my nerves any more than I was trying to get on hers. But it would happen just the same, and most of my SDS friends were headed out for Paris in just three days, along with my mother.

  I wasn’t going to get a vacation in Paris, but I definitely needed a vacation — from my life. And it looked like hanging out with my BSC friends was the closest I was going to get.

  * * *

  “This meeting of the BSC will now come to order.”

  Music to my ears. I took a handful of Cheez Doodles out of the bag Claudia was passing around and settled back blissfully.

  “Any new business?” Kristy went on.

  Stacey said, “I’m pleased to report that the Make-a-Giftathon was a success. And we have some arts and crafts supplies left over.”

  “Like eggs?” suggested Mallory slyly. We all hooted.

  “The response to the mother-kid softball team has been super,” said Mary Anne, consulting the record book. “So far we’ve got Buddy and Suzi Barrett and their mother; David Michael and your mother, Kristy; Hannie and Linny Papadakis and their mother; the Pikes; Haley and Matt Braddock and their mother;
Jackie, Shea, and Archie Rodowsky and their mother; Charlotte Johanssen and her mother; and Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold and their mother.”

  “And my sister Maria — and me,” I said.

  Mary Anne looked confused. “You’re playing?” she asked.

  “Well, Maria wants to play and Mom’s going to be away, so I thought I’d take her place in the game,” I suggested.

  “I don’t see any problem with that,” said Kristy.

  The others nodded.

  “Great,” I said.

  Kristy continued. “This is a terrific response, but it’s going to take some serious organizing.” She didn’t sound worried. After all, she could look around the room and find seven experienced baby-sitters to help out!

  We settled in, between taking calls and booking sitting jobs, to figure out the details, such as who would be in charge of refreshments (Claudia volunteered for that, naturally), who was going to be on what team (the BSC members would have to play on the parents’ team, since clearly the kids were going to outnumber their moms), and who was going to umpire.

  “Bart said he’d be glad to ump,” said Kristy. “I kind of mentioned it to him the other day. I thought he’d be more impartial than any of us.”

  She paused, as if daring us to give her grief about Bart, who is her sort of boyfriend (as well as the coach of the Krushers’ rival softball team, the Bashers), but none of us did. I guess we were still in our mellow last-day-of-school mode.

  “We need at least one more umpire, don’t you think?” said Stacey.

  “True,” said Kristy. “But who?”

  “Logan and his family are going to be away that weekend,” said Mary Anne regretfully.

  “I know! I’ll ask Nannie,” said Kristy. “She’ll make a great umpire.”

  “Perfect,” said Mary Anne, making more notes in the record book.

  We decided on lemonade, popcorn, boxes of raisins, orange slices, and ginger ale, and diet soda at the refreshment stand. Claudia and Mallory decided to take turns running it and keeping the cashbox. Claudia had gotten some T-shirt paint and was going to design a logo that said “BSC Mother’s Day Game” and stencil it on the backs of T-shirts for the mothers’ team to wear. Each family that entered was required to donate a large, plain white crew neck T-shirt. That was the entry fee.