Chapter 1 : Part 2

Leave It to Claire
by Tracey Bateman

(Page 2 of 4)

I lift one eyebrow and dip my chin ever so slightly. "Did your shirt shrink?" Oh, that was clever. She scowls. "Don't give me a hard time, Mom. Please? I know belly shirts aren't exactly in the rulebook, but these are standard issue for home games now.We're dancing at halftime." Amazing how a kid's tone can go from "You're too stupid to live" to "I wuv you, Mommy" in a matter of seconds. I feel myself caving. In my mind's eye, I see her very first itty-bitty finger-paint handprint and I want to give in. Then my gaze sweeps her in another once-over. Okay, she did not have that body in preschool.

I fold my arms across my-ahem-ample chest, bracing for World War VI (III, IV, and V have come and gone since puberty hit). My daughter is not going to dress like the latest teenybopper pop diva. Not in my lifetime. "Hmm. Let's go back to the 'I-know-belly-shirts-aren't-exactly-in-the rulebook' part."

She can't exactly argue with that now, can she? I smile. But only on the inside. No use flaunting my rapier wit when she's on the losing end of the argument.

She's not smiling at all-not on the outside, and I'd bet not on the inside either. The girl has no sense of humor anymore. "Mother . . . if I don't wear the shirt, I can't dance tonight."

"Then I guess I might as well get back to my computer." I shrug and move like I'm headed to the stairs. Totally calling her bluff.

"I'm on the third row of the pyramid!" "Then they'd better let you dance fully clothed, or it's going to be a lopsided pyramid." I grin at the image. But again, she's not thinking it's funny.

"Fine, Mother," she bites out. "I'm going upstairs to change."

I nod, sending her a "good choice" look. She rolls her eyes again.

Oh, yeah. High five, me. I am way too cool to be pushing forty.

I'm liking the outcome of this little blip in the road, and it appears all will be smooth riding until Ari turns back around and gives me that look-the one every teenage girl begins to acquire around age thirteen and has down to a science by the time she graduates from high school. Only, my daughter has it down pat at the tender age of fifteen, and I can tell things are about to get ugly.

"I can't believe you're criticizing my cheerleading outfit when you're planning to go out in public like that."

See, the great thing about being a published writer is that I can stay home in my jammies all day if the muse is hot on my shoulder. Usually no one cares-unless it's six-thirty and I forgot to get dressed and my daughter is mortified to be seen with me. But the thing is, I am the mom and she isn't going to get away with talking to me like that.

I open my mouth to tell her so, but she cuts me off. "I'm sorry I was rude. I'm going to change." Score one for her. Can't help but grin at the clever way she avoided being grounded. And she did sort of apologize, although her sincerity is highly in question.

Besides, it's hard to think about holding a grudge when I'm staring at five slices of leftover pepperoni pizza sitting in the box from dinner. Ari was supposed to put those away. Hmm. My mood is starting to improve just looking at the grease spots on the box, and I'm not sure if I should yell at my daughter for disobeying a direct order or thank her for not doing it.

I look at the box. Look away. I'm dieting. I drum my fingers along the countertop, trying to ignore the little crispy edges of slightly overcooked pepperoni.

To divert my attention, I envision my scene with Blaine and Esmeralda. The raven-haired beauty waits breathlessly, heart pounding as Blaine moves in for a bite- A bite? Oh, brother. What, is Blaine a vampire now?

Pizza is the thorn in my side. Every excess inch of my side. Suddenly, I can smell pepperoni. And it smells so good. Walk away from the pizza, I tell myself in no uncertain terms.

I start to, but the power of the cheesy, tomatoey, crusty pie is too strong. I spring back like an extra-large rubber band.

I snatch a slice and bring it to my mouth, my eyes shifting about like one of those tattered, starving people in an apocalyptic B-movie. You know, the ones squatting next to a building eating the last rat on the face of the earth before anyone else can get it? That's me. Sad thing is, even that image doesn't make the pizza less appealing. I'm so weak. "All right, I changed. Let's go."

I jump, guilty as sin, at the sound of my daughter's voice, and drop the goods back into the box. Only one bite gone. Oh, sure, she decides to hurry for the first time in her life. Two more minutes and I would have scarfed that slice down plus another one.

Probably just as well. Who needs a bazillion calories anyway? "Okay, kiddo," I say, following her through the kitchen and out the garage door. "Sorry about the SpongeBob pants, but come on, you should read the great stuff I wrote today. Five thousand words of sheer magic."

Copyright © 2006 by Tracey Bateman

About the Author

Tracey Bateman is a slightly neurotic mother of four, wife of one, and owner of three dogs, two blue bloods and one mutt (the mutt is the only one who will come to her when called). Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream, and frantic late night Instant message chats with friends, who are only slightly less neurotic, keep her moving forward when deadlines loom and insanity is nipping at the heels of her mind. When not franticly pressing toward deadlines, Lifetime movies, chunky monkey ice cream and frantic late night instant message chats with pals give her inspiration for the next project. Being president of American Christian Fiction Writers gives her the chance to give back to a community of writers who have helped shape her career and her writing style.