Chapter 1 : Part 3

Leave It to Claire
by Tracey Bateman

(Page 3 of 4)

"I'm happy for ya," she practically snarls. It's funny how I find the well-placed acerbic remark rather amusing and occasionally brilliant, coming from me. Coming from my sarcastically-inclined offspring, it just burns me up. Is that a double standard?

"Hey, watch yourself or forget the game. I'm trying to be civil here. And you're not at the top of my happy list tonight as it is."

"Sorry," she mutters in an un-sorry tone. Within minutes, we pull through the circular drive in front of Jefferson High School, amid a crowd of teenagers shouting and tossing cups of water on one another just outside the gym. A band member in full uniform jumps out of the way in time to avoid getting his tuba soaked.

Ari reaches with purpose for the handle. Her jerky movements clue me in to her displeasure. Somehow I've completely forgotten to drop her off at the side of the school as promised. I can tell she's seething at the injustice of being forced to step out of her mother's van in front of the building.

I shrug. "Oops.Well, at least you're not late for kickoff." She opens the door and slams it shut without a good-bye, "Thanks for the ride," anything. Resentment cranks inside me as I watch her sashay off toward the building where her half-naked cheerleader friends are packed together like canned fish.

Cool canned fish. There's something satisfying to me about my daughter being one of the cool kids. Rationally, I know that's just stupid, but I can't help but live vicariously through her. I was always in the nerd click. Fodder for cheerleader terrorism. And come on, who doesn't secretly wish to be one of the beautiful people? My Ari is a natural beauty and has a confidence about her that induces her peers to clamor about waiting for her to notice.

Only, at this moment, she's oblivious to her little entourage, because I have her full attention-and the full force of her glare. Apparently I haven't driven away quickly enough to suit her, because she sends me an exaggerated wave.

Sometimes it just burns me up how insignificant I become to my daughter once I've done her bidding. Tonight it really gets to me, especially since I left a perfectly yummy kiss scene and an equally yummy pizza to bring her to the game.

The injustice of it all hits me smack in the middle of my forehead like a suction arrow. In an impulsive moment, I roll down the passenger-side window. "Ari, honey," I call, louder than necessary and in a tone that's just a notch above my normal pitch. I have every intention of making her walk back to the minivan and kiss me good-bye in front of all these people. The little stinker. I remember when she cried every time I dropped her off at school. Okay, so she was five, but still. When did she stop loving me?

Quickly, she turns around and slinks back to the minivan, trying desperately not to be noticed. Only problem with that is the whole popularity thing. Everyone knows her, so when someone calls "Ari" like I just did, kids stare.

However, I'm regretting my rash decision to put her in her place. Because not only are they staring at her, now they're looking at me.My hair isn't brushed, and there's not a speck of makeup on my face. Instinctively, I check out my reflection in the rearview mirror. Big mistake! "Mo-ther," she hisses. "You're humiliating me."

Suddenly needing to get out of there quick, I take pity on us both. "You forgot to tell me what time to pick you up," I say, as a way of covering up the fact that I was about to purposely embarrass her and ended up embarrassing myself instead. My mother would call that poetic justice.

"I have my cell phone. I'll call you when the game's over." She walks away, leaving me to stare after her. Shoot. Why does she always get the last word?

I see her group of followers pointing at me and whispering among themselves. Okay, they're probably looking and admiring her, and most likely haven't even noticed me, but when you have the kind of self-esteem I have, laughing kids translate to "laughing at me" kids. That's the way I feel if anyone is cracking a joke anywhere in the vicinity, and I'm not in on it.

It's something I've dealt with since I was a kid. Full of myself one second, down on myself the next. I probably need therapy. I hear Dr. Phil has a diet book out now. Maybe I should read it and kill two birds with one stone. Get my head and my behind shrunk for one low price of $19.99.

I'm about to pull out of the drive, seriously considering making a detour to Wal-Mart's book aisle on the way home, when I see a woman walking toward me, waving and mouthing, "Stop." I'd love to pretend I don't see her, but eye contact has already happened. Besides, I recognize her as the mother of one of Ari's friends. Linda Myers. She and her husband are new to my church.

That's the thing about living in a small town. Acquaintanceships go beyond work, school, or church. Usually there are at least two common structured organizations in your life to connect you to someone. The sad thing is that Linda and I have daughters who are best friends and a church in common, and I have never taken the time to get to know her on a personal level.

As she approaches, I notice she's wearing a yellow-andblack GO YELLOWJACKETS T-shirt tucked into a pair of button-fly Levis. She looks how I wish I looked. I haven't tucked in a shirt on purpose in a good five years. She reaches the van and I realize she's even prettier than I remember from seeing her across the church.Auburn hair and enormous green eyes give her a romance-heroine beauty. And they say no one really looks like that.Wait until I tell my skeptical editor. Still, I'd rather eat dirt than have to talk to this woman and pretend I don't care if I'm wearing SpongeBob jammie bottoms.

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.