Ch. 2: “The Belly Rules the Mind.” ~Spanish Proverb

The phone call is from a vice principal. I forget her name as soon as she tells me. “Congrats!” she says like she’s had one too many Red Bulls. “You’re receiving an award at the Senior Awards Assembly tomorrow night.”

Big whup. I know I’m getting the creative writing award, anyway. Bryan’s most likely getting the theatre award and I’m getting the creative writing award. Trust me. I’m not bragging, but who else would they give the writing award to? The girl who writes poems on her obsession with Matthew McConaughey movies, the guy who wrote an essay stating that Bigfoot is real, or the twins who always write about themselves on the “turmoils” of being twins?

Glad to see Bailey High is really on top of things by giving us plenty of notice. The last fire drill we had, they came on the intercom and said, “Be prepared for a practice fire drill soon.” Five seconds later, we were holding our ears to make sure they weren’t bleeding from the sirens and high school teenagers yelling as we were all falling over each other in the stairwell to get to an emergency exit.

To me, the Senior Awards Assembly means squat. In a class of 250, pretty much everyone except for the Bohemians who never wear shoes receive a Senior Award. Even the biggest idiots in the school like the dude who wrapped toilet paper around his head on Super Bowl weekend is probably gonna get a “Principal’s Award.” Which really means, “Your parents donated money to the school, and we have to give you something so they won’t gripe at us.”

After I get off the phone with the nameless vice principal, I can’t resist the hearty aroma of stewed tomatoes, beef, onion and a tad of chutney simmering in Mom’s crockpot. Mom is gently stirring with her wooden ladle, and as I sit at the kitchen table, I kinda mention the award to her. It’s that damn chili.

My mom suddenly goes into peppy cheerleader mode and says, “I know! Isn’t it exciting? She left a message yesterday!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She said she’d call back.” She takes a sip from the spoon, licks her lips and turns to look at me. She furrows her eyebrows and shakes her head in disappointment. “Why are you in your pajamas?”

I shrug and twirl my spoon in between my fingers. “Just felt like it.” I spot a new quote written in Sharpie on the pastel-painted table. My mom is so proud of this table. When I was five, she found it at an antique mall and being the crazy artist that she is, painted all over the thing. Cats, hearts, skulls, you name it. Now that she’s divorced, she writes quotes on it instead. She seems to be obsessed with inspirational quotes, like the ones that are in that completely useless quote book she gave me. I lean back in one of four mismatched chairs she picked up at garage sales and change the subject. “So Dad knows about my award, too?” I knew she couldn’t have talked to him just about the chili.

Mom flips her hand like a valley-girl and says, “She called HIM first before us. They all should know full well you live with me.”

I roll my eyes. She never mentions dad’s name. She just puts emphasis on the word “HIM” like everyone knows the HIM she’s talking about. Apparently in her eyes, he doesn’t deserve to be called his own name.

I put up my hands and press my knee up against the edge of the table. “God forbid. They have like 1,000 kids at that school and can’t keep a student’s home phone number straight? Blasphemy!”

Mom takes out grandma’s old vomit-green bowls from the cabinet and spoons out three huge ladle-fulls in each bowl, sprinkling them with her specialty of cut-up hot dogs and shredded Velveeta. “I know. But still.”

She puts the bowls on the table and I rub my chin to make sure I’m not drooling. It’s still bubbling. As I put the spoon up to my mouth to savor my first tangy bite, Mom decides to make small talk. She acts like getting a senior award is like winning the lotto. Sure, the school gives me a Barnes and Noble gift certificate (how convenient—the same place I work), but is that supposed to help me be a successful, Creative Writing student? $25 can maybe buy you one decent book. Bailey High is so pathetic.

My mom attempts to hug me across the table while she yammers on and on, but I quickly get up to get some apple juice.

“Wait!” She reaches over to block the fridge door and grabs a bottle off the counter. “Thought we could celebrate with champagne.” Since my mom lived in France for a year when she was a teen, she’s never been a stickler for under-age drinking.

“Mom, it’s not like I’m getting the Pulitzer.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Nonsense? Why is my mom talking like a character out of Anne of Green Gables?

“Everybody knows that my baby is getting the writing award. It’s about time you get recognized for your creative talents.” She pours me a glass in my favorite Garfield mug as I sit back down.

“Well, I’m sure Bryan’s getting the theater award. Can he come over to drink, too?” Better listening to him than Mom who’s on some kind of happy pill.

She ignores me and delicately puts her napkin in her lap, slowly slurping one spoonful of chili at a time. This is weird. Like me, she usually gobbles the whole thing up in two minutes.

I pinch my wrist to see if this is all a dream. Have I suddenly stepped inside an alternate universe?

She looks up, concerned. “Something wrong with the chili?”

Forget it. I’m too hungry. I gobble up a large spoonful. “No. It’s fine.”

“So, I was thinking that since the assembly is coming up and you and I are off for the rest of the day…”

Oh. God.

“We should go shopping.”

I choke and it’s not from the chili powder. I sip some champagne which makes it worse, so I run to the fridge and drink straight from the milk carton. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and head back to the table. “I’m sorry. What?” I slowly sit back in the chair.

Damn this chili. Damn all the chili.

“We’ll go to the mall. You have heard of that place, right?”

I suddenly feel like I’m falling down a burning death hole. The Jaws theme song pops in to my head. Mom and I shopping together. In the mall. At the same store.

I’m losing the feeling in my legs. My face has gone numb. I slowly start to make the words out. “By we, you mean, you right? YOU should go shopping at the mall.”

“Don’t be silly.”

Here it comes.

“I already know what I’m going to wear.”

Crash. And by crash, I do mean crash. I actually do fall over.

Mom pulls me up. “Oh! Hon, are you alright?”

“This can’t be happening,” I mumble as I stagger back to my chair. I push my chili bowl forward; I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. I cross my arms and continually bump my head against the edge of the kitchen table.

“Peaches, tomorrow is your biggest night since prom. You should look nice. Classy. Elegant.”

 I look up, stunned. “And you’re telling ME this? Who was the one who wore a straw hat and a kimono to my first boy-girl party?”

“You told me you wanted a Hawaiian theme.”

“So you thought a Mexican Geisha was the way to go?”

Mom briefly smiles but turns serious as she tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Please, Peaches? I just thought we could use some mother-daughter time.” She suddenly gets serious. “We haven’t had that in…forever.”

I roll my eyes back along with my head. So this is why Dad wanted to say goodnight to me early. He knew I wouldn’t be in the mood for anyone when I got home.

And this is why my mom made chili–the one and only thing my mom cooks that I actually eat more than one bite of. God, this chili is the devil.

Mom has a pouty-look on her face like a seven-year old boy whose lunch money got stolen. So should I say no and be like the worst daughter ever, or should I do what dad says and try to make the best of it? I say softly, “You really want to do this?” I rub my finger over that quote written in Sharpie, What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

“Of course! Let me be the responsible parent.”

“Well that’ll be a nice change.”

She laughs, points a finger at me like I made some kind of joke and goes back to eating like Lady Mary from Downton Abbey.

She thinks I’m kidding? The day the divorce papers arrived, Mom refused to get out of bed for three weeks. I cancelled her art classes at the studio, made sure she ate, and I also read to her from my American Lit textbook until she fell asleep. During the times when she was awake, I got my ear-full of the same overly-dramatic phrases of, “Why can’t love be enough? I hate men! I’m never dating again!” And after hearing other horror stories of the men she went out with (though I’m not sure if they were all true), I almost considered being a lesbian.

After Mom and I do the dishes, we throw away some of the food in the fridge that could feed ten children in Africa, just to make room to put that godforsaken huge pot of chili. Thank you, growling stomach.

Mom then paces around the house, writing down a list of fancy stores she used to loathe. I stop listening after the words, Sax and Bloomingdales. Being the hippy she was, she used to tell me she wanted to start riots outside of those places. But now?

I need to sit down. And possibly kill myself. I run upstairs to my room and slide my rocking chair in front of the doorknob.

I sift through my closet hoping to find a decent dress I could wear to this thing tomorrow so I could avoid this shopping spree from hell. Other than my prom dress which is sealed up tight since Bryan’s mom made it for me, the only other nice dress I have is my frilly lavender dress I wore to the 8th grade ice cream social so Joey Summers would notice me. He ended up throwing up on my shoes. How was I supposed to know he had an allergy to dark chocolate after I spoon-fed him some chopped-up peppermint patties?

“Dang. I’ll have to go to Charlotte Russe.” Speaking of Charlotte Russe, can I move to U.K.. steal someone’s identity who is part royalty and eat a Charlotte Russe everyday? ‘Cause that sounds like a good plan. 

Knock. Knock. Knock. “You ready to go?” The doorknob rattles.

How is Mom ready to go in the two seconds I was in my room? “We’re going right now?!”

“Yes, we have three hours. We’ve gotta hook it.” She tries to open the door with more force this time.

“Oh, horrors. We’ll never make it!” I say sarcastically. I take the rocking chair away from the door and stare at the doorknob that’s about to be turned. And will make me want to jump out my window. In my head, I can hear the music they play in westerns when two men are on opposite sides and they’re about to draw their guns.

I say a prayer for the first time. “Dear Lord, please watch over me during this trying time.”

When I barely crack open the door, she stands like a kid at Chuck-E-Cheese. She’s missing a button on a pink short-sleeved sweater with a rose pinned near the collar. And don’t get me started on the pencil skirt.

Oh my God. Are those tassels on her shoes? “Going for the conservative look, huh?”

“Just trying something new. Isn’t this how mothers usually dress?” She tugs at her collar.

I smile. “Sure. Why not.”

I grab my purse and try to escape, but she grabs my shoulders. “Wait, aren’t you going to change?”

“Hey if this outfit was good enough for school, it’s good enough for a mall.” I run down the stairs, take my car keys off the hook of the door leading to the garage, and slip on a pair of flip-flops that thank God I leave next to the door for a quick getaway. My mom scares the crap out of me when she says, “But Peach, we’re going to the mall that has some nice places in it. You’re wearing pajamas.”

“We’ve established that! Just get over it! Now we’re taking my car.” How else am I going to have control of the radio?

She grabs her carkeys off the other hook. “No, let’s take my car. I’ll drive. It’ll be safer.”

Talk about a slap in the face. “Mom, I’ve had my license for two years now. I think I know which color on the stoplight means stop and which means to go.” I smirk.

“But honey, I’ve been driving downtown longer than you have.”

“So that qualifies you as the better driver? Dad told me about the time you ran into a parked car when you got distracted by a shirtless guy on a bicycle.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “I can’t believe he told you that. That man makes me crazy.” Here she goes, going into crazy-mode again whenever dad is mentioned. She scratches her head, causing some wavy strands of hair to pull out from the tight bun in her hair.

I put up my hands like stop signs. “OK, Mom. Calm down. Forget I brought it up.”

She and I walk out the door and into the stifling hot garage. “Honey, downtown Dallas is so congested during rush hour; it can be dangerous.” She pushes the button on the garage door opener that is velcroed to the garage wall.

“That still doesn’t mean that if you drive and we take your car, someone won’t stop us, kidnap us, drown our bodies in the Gulf of Mexico and then make us into clones!” I make a face in horror and bite my nails.

She lets out a deep breath and throws her keys in her huge tie-dyed purse.  Well, at least the purse hasn’t changed. “Alright, you can drive. But we’re taking as many back roads as we can.” She then mumbles, “I don’t know what goes on in that brain of yours.”

Whatever. Maybe if I keep making snide remarks, she’ll end things early.

When I put in the keys in the ignition of Susie, my yellow Volkswagon beetle (it may be an old car, but it’s still my Suzie) my mother then mentions, “We’re stopping first at Crystal Rose. I called and they were able to squeeze you in for a haircut.”

I close my eyes. “Of course you did. Golly! This will be loads of fun!”

“Stop the sarcasm, Peaches.”

I take out my sunglasses from my purse and throw it in the backseat. “Yeah. I’ll get right on that.” I put the car in reverse and we embark on the mother-daughter day of doom.

All thanks to that godforsaken chili. I’m never eating that stuff again.