My Life Next Door(33)
What’s the use of being the me I’ve always been when my mother is hardly recognizable?
Chapter Fifteen
The next time I babysit, Mrs. Garrett takes me grocery shopping, so I can entertain the kids and wrestle junk food out of their hands while she scans her stack of her coupons and expertly fields commentary.
“You certainly have your hands full.” She hears that one a lot.
“With good things,” she responds calmly, removing Count Chocula cereal from George’s eager grasp.
“You must be Catholic,” is another she gets time and time again.
“No, just fertile.” She peels Harry’s hands away from the latest Transformer action hero.
“That baby needs a hat,” lectures a severe-looking elderly woman in the freezer aisle.
“Thank you, but not really, she has several nice ones at home.” Mrs. Garrett picks up an economy-size box of frozen waffles and adds it to the cart.
I hand Patsy a bottle of juice, prompting a crunchy-granola-looking woman in Birkenstocks to say, “That baby is much too old for a bottle. She should be on a sippy cup by now.”
Who are these people, and why do they think their own opinions are the only right ones?
“Don’t you ever just want to kill them, or at least swear at them?” I ask in an undertone, steering the cart away from the crabby sippy-cup woman, with Harry and George clinging to either side like spider monkeys.
“Of course.” Mrs. Garrett shrugs. “But what kind of example would that be?”
I’ve lost track of how many laps I’ve done, but I know it’s less than I used to be able to do, and I’m winded but invigorated when I climb the ladder, squeezing water from my hair. I’ve loved swimming ever since I can remember, ever since I was brave enough to follow Tim out of the safe shallows into the bigger waves. I’m going to get back on that team. I dash the towel across my face, check the clock—fifteen minutes till the pool opens, which is usually accompanied by a surge of people through the gates. My cell phone buzzes on my chair.
Take a break, Aqua girl! Nan’s texted me, from the B&T gift shop. Come C me.
Stony Bay is very proud of Stony Bay. The B&T’s gift shop, By the Bay Buys, is chockablock full of items advertising various town landmarks. As I walk in, Nan is already open for business, saying sweetly to a gentleman in pink plaid shorts, “As you can see, you could get this mouse pad of Main Street, and then these placemats with the aerial view of the river mouth, this little lamp that looks like our lighthouse, and these coasters with the view of the dock—and you wouldn’t need to go outside at all. You could see the whole town from your dining room.”
The man appears nonplussed, either by Nan’s soft-spoken sarcasm or by the idea of spending so much money. “I really only wanted these,” he says, holding up some napkins that say One martini, two martini, three martini, floor. “Can you put them on my club tab?”
After Nan rings him up and he leaves, she crosses her eyes at me. “My first day on the job and I’m already regretting this. If all the Sanctification of Stony Bay stuff brainwashes me, and I tell you I need to join the Garden Club, you’ll get me deprogrammed, right?”
“I’ll be there for you, sister. Have you seen Tim? He was supposed to get here ten minutes early so I can show him his uniform and all that.”
Nan checks her watch. “He’s not officially late yet. Two more minutes. How did I get the most boring job with the longest hours in town? I only took it because Mrs. Gritzmocker, who does the buying, is married to Mr. Gritzmocker, the bio teacher who I want to write a recommendation for me.”
“This is the price of your ruthless ambition,” I say. “It’s not too late to repent and work for the greater good—like at Breakfast Ahoy.”
Nan grins at me, her hundreds of freckles already darkening with the summer sun. “Yeah, well, I’m saving my Naughty Sailorette costume for Halloween.” She glances out the window behind me. “Besides, it’s gonna take both of us to babysit my brother if he can get himself fired from a hot dog stand.”
“How exactly did he do that?” I ask, opening one of the sample lip glosses on the checkout counter, rubbing it on my finger and smelling it. Ick. Piña colada. I hate coconut.
“Asked people how hot they wanted their wiener,” Nan says absently. “He’s out there now. By the concession stand. Go make sure he’s not a disaster.”
Given our last encounter, I approach warily. Tim’s leaning against my lifeguard chair, wearing dark glasses even though it’s cloudy. Not a good sign. I edge closer to him. He used to be so easygoing, Nan’s opposite. Now he’s a time bomb who might detonate in your hands.