The Power of Coffee!

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Part instruction, brainstorming, motivation, & critique, our supportive group meets the second and fourth Saturday of the month and is user-friendly, inspirational, and empowering. Every woman deserves a room of her own.

"As soon as coffee is in your stomach, there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move...similes arise, the paper is covered. Coffee is your ally and writing ceases to be a struggle."~Honore de Balzac

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Mom Steps Out

Mom storms my room. “Seen my sequin jacket? Did you borrow it?”

I adjust my iPod phones and nod to the beat in my head. Momma, Momma are you goin’ out tonight?

She slides open the long closet doors and rummages around. Hangers clatter to the floor. “What’s this? What did you do to my Prada?”

I shrug. “Grass at the park was wet.”

She shakes the jacket, a really hot number – black with gold sparkles. “This cost me two months alimony. Where do you get off taking my things? And what park? Where? When?”

I yank off the phones. “Just hanging out with some people.”

She sniffs the jacket. “Pot! You’re only thirteen.”

“No big deal.”

“Now what’ll I wear?” she asks. “I’ve got a date with this new guy.” She tries to brush out wrinkles and stains, but it’s hopeless and she tosses the jacket onto a chair. “Got anything worth wearing?” Sliding clothes back and forth, she finds my best denim. When she puts it on, she can’t snap it shut. “How do I look? Does it go with these pants?”

“Wear my leather,” I say, and I’m really trying to help her out.

It’s an improvement, but not much. Everything’s too tight – the pants, the jacket, the belt.

She rubs blush into her cheeks and runs manicured nails through her latest dye job. “I’m trying my best, sweetie. You could help me out once in awhile.” She glances around. “This room’s a pigsty. Aren’t you ashamed to let anyone see it?”

“Just don’t bring him home, okay?”

“I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

“It wasn’t all Dad’s fault.”

Her brows pinch. “What’s your dad got to do with anything?”

I look at tonight’s homework scattered across my bed. “If I don’t pass algebra, I won’t graduate.”

“Get someone to help you.”

Flipping open my cell, I speed-dial. “Dad’ll be right over.”

“Not tonight. I’ve got a date.”

“Same as every night.” I brace myself. “Guess my mom’s a slut-ho now.”

“What did you say?” When she slaps my face, it hurts so much it feels good. “That’s no way to talk to your mother.”

To keep from screaming, I pull the hood of Dad’s sweatshirt over my head and concentrate on the beat in my brain, the beat in my heart, the beat, beat, beat that goes on and on. I fiddle with my headphones, and then it comes at last. Her words.

“Love you!” She shouts as she goes down the hall. “Love you, sweetie.”

I wait until she’s at the front door. “Yeah, Mom,” I say to the soft flannel inside the hood of the shirt and turn on my iPod. “Love you, too.”

The timing’s right. Dad’s only blocks away. He’ll drive up in his Porsche about the time she gets her key in the ignition. And for a minute, we’ll be a family again.

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