Wife 22

She shrugs. “We have Circus Fantasy.”

“What kind of an idiot would name a perfume Circus Fantasy?” asks Zoe. “Who would want to smell like peanuts and horse poop?”

“Britney Spears,” says the clerk.

“You shouldn’t wear that synthetic stuff anyway, Mom. It’s selfish. Air pollution. What about people with MCS? Have you given any thought to them?” says Zoe.

“I like that synthetic stuff, it reminds me of when I was in high school, but apparently they don’t make it anymore,” I say. “What’s MCS?”

“Multiple chemical sensitivity.”

I roll my eyes at Zoe.

“What? It’s a real affliction,” says Zoe.

“How about Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific?” I ask the clerk. “Do you carry that?”

When did tampons get so expensive? It’s a good thing I have a coupon. I look at the fine print and squint, then hand it to Zoe. “I can’t read this. How many boxes do we have to buy?”

“Four.”

“There were only two boxes on the shelf,” I say to the clerk when we get to the counter. “But your coupon is for four.”

“Then you need four,” he says.

“But I just told you there were only two.”

“Mom, it’s okay. Just get the two,” whispers Zoe. “There’s a line.”

“It’s two dollars off a box. It’s not okay. We’re using the coupon. We are a coupon- using family now.”

To the clerk I say, “Can I get a rain check?”

The clerk snaps his gum and then gets on the loudspeaker. “I need a rain-check coupon,” he says. “Tampax.” He picks up a box of tampons and studies it. “Are there sizes on these things? Where does it say it? Oh-okay. There it is. ‘Tampax, super plus. Four boxes,’ ” he announces to the entire store.

“Two,” I whisper.

Zoe groans with embarrassment. I turn around and see Jude a few people back. It was him. He holds up his hand sheepishly and waves.

After the clerk has tallied up our purchase and given me a rain-check coupon, Zoe practically sprints out of the store.

“I bet your mother never did anything like that to you,” she hisses, walking five feet in front of me. “Cheap plastic bags. They’re practically see-through. Everybody knows exactly what you’ve bought.”

“Nobody is even looking,” I say as we reach the car, thinking how I would give anything to have had my mother around to humiliate me by buying too many boxes of tampons at the drugstore when I was Zoe’s age.

“Hi, Zo,” says Jude, catching up with us.

Zoe ignores him. Jude’s face falls and I feel sorry for him.

“It’s a bad time, Jude,” I say.

“Unlock the car,” says Zoe.

“I heard about your father’s job,” says Jude. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I’m going to kill Nedra. I made her swear she wouldn’t tell anybody but Kate about William getting laid off.

“We’re in a hurry, Jude. Zoe and I are going to lunch,” I say, tossing my bag into the backseat.

“Oh-nice,” says Jude. “Kind of a mother-daughter thing.”

“Yup, a mother-daughter thing,” I say, climbing into the car. Even though the daughter wants nothing to do with the mother.

Once I get into my seat, I adjust my rearview mirror and watch Jude walking back to the drugstore. His shoulder blades jut poignantly through his T-shirt. He’s always been bony. He looks like a six-foot-tall boy. Oh, Jude.

“I’m not hungry,” says daughter.

“You’ll be hungry when we get there,” says mother.

“We can’t afford to eat out,” says daughter. “We are a coupon-using family.”

“Yes, let’s just go home and eat crackers,” says mother. “Or bread crumbs.”

Ten minutes later we’re sitting in a booth at the Rockridge Diner.

“Does it bother you? Jude acting like nothing ever happened. Following you around. Can I have a sip of your tea?” I ask.

Zoe hands me her mug. “Don’t blow on it. I hate when you blow on my tea when it’s already cool. You don’t get to have an opinion on me and Jude.”

“Hair gel and tweezers.”

“What?”

“That’s what was in his bag.”

Zoe snorts.

“Grilled ham and cheese and PB and J,” says the waitress, putting down our plates, smiling at Zoe. “Never too old for a good PB and J. You want a glass of milk, too, honey?”

Zoe looks up at the waitress, who looks to be in her mid-sixties. We’ve been coming to the Rockridge Diner forever, and she always waits on us. She’s seen Zoe at every stage of her life: milk-drugged infant, french-fry- smashing toddler, Lego-building preschooler, Harry Potter-reading fifth grader, dour adolescent, and now thrift- shop-attired teenager.

“That would be really nice, Evie,” says Zoe.

“Sure,” says the waitress, touching her on the shoulder.

“You know her name?” I ask, once Evie has disappeared behind the counter.

“She’s been waiting on us for years.”

“Yes, but she’s never told us her name.”

“You never asked her.” Zoe’s eyes suddenly fill with tears.

“You’re crying, Zoe. Why are you crying? Over Jude? That’s ridiculous.”

“Shut up, Mom.”

“That’s one. You get one shut-up a month and that’s it. You’ve used it up. I can’t believe you’re crying over that boy. In fact, I’m furious you’re crying over him. He hurt you,” I say.

“You know what, Mom,” she snaps. “You think you know everything about me. I know you think you do, but you know what? You don’t.”

My phone chimes. Is it a new message from Researcher 101? I try and mask the hopeful look on my face.

Zoe shakes her head. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, reaching into my bag and grabbing the phone. I glance at the screen quickly. It’s a Facebook notification alerting me that I’ve been tagged in a photo. Oh, goodie. I’m probably wearing a djellaba.

“Sorry.” I shut my phone off.

“You’re so jumpy,” says Zoe. “It’s like you’re hiding something.” She stares plaintively at my phone.

“Well, I’m not, but why shouldn’t I be? I’m allowed to have a private life. I’m sure you’ve got secrets, too,” I say, looking plaintively at her sandwich. Two bites, maybe three-that’s what I’m betting she’ll eat.

“Yes, but I’m fifteen. I should have secrets.”

“Of course you’re allowed to have secrets, Zoe. But not everything has to be a secret. You can still confide in me, you know.”

“You shouldn’t have secrets,” says Zoe. “You’re way too old. That’s disgusting.”

I sigh. I’m not going to get anything out of her.

“Here’s your milk,” says Evie, returning to the table.

“Thanks, Evie,” whispers Zoe, her eyes still moist.

“Is everything okay?” Evie asks.

Zoe shoots a dirty look across the table at me.

“Evie, I owe you an apology. I never asked you your name. I should have. It’s a terribly rude thing that I never