Brownie Points Page 5

  After a moment of silence that seemed like an eternity, Marni shrugged. “I’d cry too. Who wants shit thrown at them?”

  I could have wept with gratitude when Michelle agreed. “She should enroll those boys at Mr. Benjamin’s.”

  There was something deeply incongruous about Marni. I always pictured a documentary filmmaker as someone who wore torn camouflage pants, a ribbed undershirt and Doc Martins. It almost seemed as though Marni was purposely trying to soften her image with all the pearls and the sensible shoes. Every time she spoke, she had such a hard edge, though. And what was with the tattoo?

  “My God, Val, where do you draw the line, anyway? Ellie turned her front lawn into the National Cemetery on Memorial Day weekend and you didn’t say a word,” Marni reminded her.

  “That was done tastefully,” Val replied coolly.

  Michelle looked down, trying not to laugh. “Tastefully?!” Marni returned. “She put forty little white crosses on her lawn. I thought it was Klan homecoming week.”

  “Her display was patriotic,” Val said with the utmost seriousness. “Olivia’s was a self-serving, self-aggrandizing shrine to narcissism, glorifying nothing but herself and her Tasmanian devil child.”

  Oh my God! I thought that too, I thought better of saying aloud. You know, I could actually like Val Monroe if I wasn’t so scared of her.

  During a break from the game, I devoured Anna Dowell’s spinach dip and learned that Val and Olivia were once best of friends. Barb told me that both were among the first families to move to Utopia when it opened its angel-capped gates three years ago. Olivia was even part of the original CC&Rs Gestapo, but the two became bitter rivals when Kendrick and Max competed for the presidency of Cordero Elementary. “Olivia got upset because Val gave kids chocolate cupcakes with the words ‘Vote Monroe’ written in icing,” Barb whispered while refilling my wine glass. I couldn’t say I blamed her. Giving kids cupcakes was an obvious bribe. “Well, that wasn’t the end of it,” Barb continued in a hushed tone.

  Mindy Pritsky joined the conversation, checking over both shoulders before chiming in. “There were emails, anonymous fliers, and someone hung a sheet with Kendrick’s picture on the west wall of the school, full-on Ayatollah style.”

  “So, who won, who won the election?” I asked.

  “There’s the other issue,” Barb explained. “Kendrick ended up winning, and when the principal refused to do a recount with witnesses, Olivia accused her of fixing the vote.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Oh no she is not,” Mindy said. “I thought it was a ridiculous accusation too, but the principal came back from Thanksgiving break with a lot brighter looking eyes if you catch my drift.”

  I didn’t. “I don’t.”

  “Kendrick’s father is a plastic surgeon,” she explained.

  I paused for a moment to absorb this. “You think the elementary school principal fixed the election for a lid lift?”

  Upon further consideration, this seemed to fit the social landscape quite well. When Jason and I went to see the middle school principal after the incident with Max, she assured us that the school would investigate, suspend the boys and hold a sensitivity workshop. She said all the right words, but I couldn’t help notice her staring at Jason admiringly throughout the meeting. Finally, she asked how Jason managed to keep his teeth so white. Was it Crest Strips? Or did he do the blue laser treatment?

  Back at the Bunco game, Mindy concluded, “All I’m saying is that the elementary school principal took ten years off her face over one short holiday.” She nodded her head toward Val and Olivia. “Those two still haven’t gotten over it.”

  Michelle changed the subject, asking if I’d given any more thought to Maya joining the Girl Scout troop.

  “It’s a great resume builder,” said Mindy. “Colleges are all about community service these days.”

  Colleges?!

  “Colleges?!” snapped Val who overheard us, and injected herself into the discussion. “I’ve told you a thousand times that none of that even counts until next year.”

  It doesn’t count?

  Val explained. “You need to keep these kids fresh and hungry for community service so they don’t go into freshman year in high school so burnt out they can’t stand the sight of one more crack baby who needs rocking.”

  “Unbelievable,” Barb retorted, shaking her head with disgust.

  “Yeah,” Michelle said. “There aren’t any crack babies here.”

  Chapter Five

  On the day of Maya’s first Girl Scout meeting, I’d planned to help Michelle with a craft called the “Family Crest” collage. The girls were to use magazine and newspaper images to communicate their family values. The troop supplied paint, glitter and trimmings because no family crest would be complete without rhinestones.

  I called Michelle with desperation in my voice. “Can Logan hang out at the Girl Scout meeting today? I’ve got to run to the city this afternoon to pick up my tire couch. Long story, but I need to get it today, so I need to leave in a few minutes to beat traffic.”

  “Gosh, of course,” she replied. “No problem.”

  “He can do his homework or read a book or something. Is that okay?”

  “Lisa, it’s really no problem at all. Don’t worry. The more the merrier.”

  ™˜

  I walked into the Four Circles Gallery through the studio door in the back and noticed a new artist’s supplies in my space. I felt a pang of jealousy followed by relief when I saw that Jorge hadn’t displayed any of her paintings in the front gallery. It was as petty as Val and Olivia’s elementary school election feud, but I took some satisfaction knowing that I had not been replaced completely. When I returned to the studio, I noticed things I’d stopped seeing over the years, like the rolls of canvas shoved in the corner, a round wicker basket of rags and a stainless steel sink with paint brushes carelessly thrown into it. The clutter had been so familiar it had become invisible to me. But now, seeing it again, I wanted to hug the coat rack draped with smocks. I resolved that when I returned to Utopia, I absolutely had to set up a work space for myself. We had been there nearly two weeks and my hands were starting to itch from the creative inertia.

  Behind me was the voice I’d heard almost every day for years. “The suburbs agree with you,” Jorge said, smacking his lips and extending his hands before grabbing my face and kissing both cheeks. “I expected you to be fat and wearing a muumuu, but you look gorgeous, Li-li!”

  “Thank you,” I said, spinning to let him appreciate my Sistine-Chapel-ceiling pants and way-too-high-for-a-mom pumps. “Looks can be deceiving. The suburbs are definitely not agreeing with me.”

  “Or are you not agreeing with them?” Jorge asked.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Ay, Li-li, you hated that place before you saw it.”

  “Maybe I’m very perceptive,” I said, with a slight concession in my gesture. “I miss you guys so much.”

  “You knew you would when you went all Tammy Wynette and stood by your man,” he said.

  I sighed, relieved and tortured by the sight of what I’d left behind. “I can’t believe I let Jason talk me into this move.”

  “You know what this job means to him,” Jorge reminded me.

  “Yeah, I guess. I just wish he’d work out his issues with his father like a normal person and do some wilderness drum circle or go to therapy. He didn’t have to ruin all of our lives.”

  “Li-li, ruining their family’s lives is what normal people do.”

  “Jorge, you’ve got to see this place. Every house is identical, and these women, it’s like human spam.” He laughed. “And no one has the good sense to hate it. They’re all just happy, happy, happy with their perfect lives, while I’ve got to come here to clear out my couch to make room for something that people actually want.”

  “Li-li, how many times have I told you, stop comparing your insides to everyone else’s outsides? You’re not the only person who’s e
ver struggled.” Jorge gestured at the paintings on the walls as he continued. “If we only did this for the money, we’d be in the oldest profession in the world. Mamita, you’re lucky to have work that you love. Most people never find that.”

  I drank in the sight of Jorge with his mod-male button-down shirt half open, ridiculously large medallion against his hairless caramel chest, and tight black jeans. His hair was gelled into another dimension. More than I missed the way Jorge looked, I missed the way he knew me and loved me enough to tear up the invitations to my pity party. He also had a good sense of when to lighten the mood. “Back to this outfit,” he said, pointing at my top, bottoms, then shoes. “Love it, love it, love it even more!”

  I giggled. “That’s exactly what Logan said.”

  “Who do you think taught him? That boy needs to be bilingual, and that big hunky macho man you married isn’t exactly the right guy for the job. Speaking of Jason, how is that delicious slice of cake?”

  “Jason’s good,” I replied. “How’s Finn? Was his contract renewed?”

  Jorge shook his head. “We knew this day would come, Li-li. It’s the nature of the NFL. Use him up, then kick him to the curb when something younger and faster comes along.” Jorge put his finger to his lips and looked around, feigning secrecy. “That’s what I’m going to do with him too. How can he complain? He’s a grown man who got to run around in spandex pants, playing football for thirteen years. He’s not qualified to do anything other than hit people, and these nice Forty-Niners pay him like he cured cancer or something. Why be upset? My boyfriend is rich, good-looking and stupid. Life is good.”

  “You’re too much,” I laughed. “Help me get the couch into my van.”

  As we lugged the rubber monstrosity into my van, I managed to pant out a question. “How old were you when you knew you were gay?”

  “Ay, Li-li, don’t tell me you’re getting turned on by all those desperate housewives out there in the land of sheep.”

  “The land of sheep?” I asked.

  Jorge smacked his lips, this time with mock disdain. “Learn some Spanish, chica. Los Corderos, it means the sheep.”

  “That’s fitting,” I replied, stepping into the van. “So when did you know for sure? How old were you?”

  “Pretty young, Li-li. I don’t remember exactly, but my first crush was on Mighty Mouse.”

  “Mighty Mouse?!” I said, almost dropping the couch.

  “What?! Mighty Mouse was very sexy. Small, but so muscular in that tight little costume and that ‘Here I come to save the day!’ routine. It made my heart go pitter pat.” Jorge placed the couch down and put his hands over his heart, looking off dreamily. “Why, who was your first crush?”

  “Um, a human,” I said.

  “It’s not unusual for kids to like TV characters. Susan said her first love was Oscar the Grouch.”

  “From Sesame Street?!”

  “How many Oscar the Grouches do you know? Susan said that when she was four years old, she decided she wanted to marry him.”

  “Really?” I said, sitting on the couch, looking outside through the frame of the open van doors. It was like being in a dark room looking at a slide show.

  “She thought a good woman could change his outlook, you know, snap him out of that funk,” Jorge said, again waving his hand as if he were shooing away a silly notion. “Explains a lot about Susan and her moody boyfriends.”

  “Oscar the Grouch, huh?” I pondered.

  “She’s had some close calls. Remember Steve?” Jorge reminded me. “What I don’t understand is where she thought they were going to live.”

  “Susan and Steve?”

  “No, Susan and Oscar. Steve had a great apartment. Oscar lived in a freakin’ garbage can. Where did she think they were going to do it? They’d have to go to the alley behind Mr. Hooper’s store.”

  I cringed at the thought. “Jorge! I’m sure Susan wasn’t thinking about having sex with Oscar the Grouch when she was four! She just wanted to marry him.”

  “Ay, women.”

  “You wanted to have sex with Mighty Mouse?” I asked. He nodded emphatically. “Jorge, you wanted to have sex with a cartoon mouse?”

  He nodded again. “The nastiest kinkiest shit you can think of too, Li-li. I used to get all excited when I’d see mouse traps at the hardware store, just thinking about him with his little tail caught. Guess who’d come flying in then, singing about how he was here to save the day?”

  “How old were you?”

  “I don’t know, seven, maybe eight,” Jorge recalled. “That was one sexy rodent.” Snapping out of his dream state, Jorge asked why I asked.

  “Logan,” I offered.

  “Believe me, Logan already knows.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” I asked.

  “If Logan doesn’t know, he’s the only one.”

  “Well, not the only one,” I said pursing my lips and raising my brows.

  “Still?”

  “Still,” I said of Jason’s benign denial. “He says the jury’s still out.”

  “At least they are,” Jorge shrugged. “Try not to worry so much. What are you working on out there?”

  “Maintaining my sanity.”

  “That’s a lost cause, chica. Take my advice and start a new project that has nothing to do with Euphoria.”

  “Utopia,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. Get back to work. You’re always happiest when you’re working. The rest will fall into place, Li-li. You made a career out of making art from other people’s garbage. If you can’t make a good life out there in Shitopia, no one can.”

  Chapter Six

  Michelle rushed toward me as she saw me enter the industrial green school cafeteria. “Oh my gosh, Logan is a complete delight! He has been such an amazing help today,” she raved.

  Six girls from Maya’s grade were seated at the lunch tables spraying top-coat on their collages. It was amazing how different girls could look at this age. Their height varied by up to a foot; their confidence more. There was magazine-cover-ready Bianca Monroe in her purposely shredded embroidered jeans and a wispy camisole, which was covered by a knotted half-sweater. She had ironed straight blonde hair, a light glaze of pink lip-gloss and a subtle coat of mascara, something any one of the other girls could have done and not looked as cute. It wasn’t that Bianca was a classic beauty with perfectly proportional features and cheekbones pointing toward the heavens. But like her mother Val, Bianca carried herself with the presence of someone who knew she was attractive. And because of that she became more so. She, Maya and Ashley seemed always to be in close proximity of each other and moved about as if their connection went beyond the Girl Scout meeting. Barb Fields’ daughter, Epiphany, looked like an angel with vulnerable blue eyes and white-blonde wavy hair that reached to her back. She wore her uncertainty like a hat that was too big. I wanted to shake the child by the shoulders and ask her why she dragged her colt-like legs as if they were a burden instead of a gift. Cara Manning’s daughter, Spencer, was a genetic replica of her mother, with long dirty blonde hair, thick bangs and a smile that showed her oversized teeth and ample gums. Anna’s girl, Bella, had short red hair and a mischievous face filled with freckles, reminding me of a female counterpart to the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

  Moving among them as if he were at home was Logan, transporting the girls’ work from the spraying station to the drying area. I was glad to see that he was feeling better than yesterday morning, and suspected that the four days of class he’d missed were an allergic reaction to school. I called Logan’s homeroom teacher to ask if there were any social issues I should know about, but she assured me that everything was fine. When I reminded her that Logan was beaten up on his first day of school, the teacher said that the boys had been reprimanded and that the principal had scheduled an anti-bullying assembly for October. Everything was copacetic, she said. The flu was going around, and all of the mothers were frantic about their kids’ attendance records. “Not to worry,
he’ll have no trouble getting caught up,” she said before dismissing me.

  At Girl Scouts, Logan looked like he was in his element. Michelle, looking adorable in her Girl Scout apron, prattled on about Logan. “He was so helpful with the project. You can tell he has an artist for a mother. The ideas he comes up with are so amazing. Wait till you see his family crest.” Leaning toward me, she whispered, “Between you and me, his is the best. When he finished, he had a jillion ideas about balance, color, composition and all that.”

  Logan and Maya noticed me and waved. I returned the gesture, trying not to look concerned about what Michelle had just told me. “Did the girls feel like he was butting in?” I quietly asked. Both of my children were the antithesis of shy, and loved being the center of attention. In fact, they were often purposeful about placing themselves there. Maya’s gregariousness won her a spot in the popular group. Logan got beat up for his.

  “Are you kidding?” Michelle squealed. “The girls love him. Most boys at this age have no idea how to even talk to a girl. Yours is a real Casanova.”

  Quickly unknitting my brow, I forced a smile. “He’s very comfortable with girls.”

  Could she really not tell?

  “I’ll say,” Michelle exclaimed. “He’ll have no problem getting a date for the Harvest Dance.”

  I think she means a girl date. Could others be missing the cues too?

  Michelle smiled at Logan, then returned her attention to me. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I gave him a patch for today’s project. I know he doesn’t have a vest or anything like that, but it’ll be a fun keepsake of today.”

  Running over to me, I noticed that Logan had glued his pink Girl Scout patch onto a piece of green ribbon and was wearing it around his head like a runner’s sweatband. The words “My family crest” stuck to his forehead. Michelle was tickled by this. “See how creative he is!”