And then I come clean about MC Lenny.
“You little sneak!” Kat declares.
We contemplate that for a moment.
“Huh,” Kat says. “But you’re the rational one.” I thoughtshe’d be psyched for me, pulling that kind of a fast one, but she sounds upset.“I mean, if you go all AWOL, what does that mean for Jodi and me? You’reour Metamucil, our prune juice. We count on you to keep us regular.”
“Well, that’s kind of insulting.”
“It’s a compliment to your normalcy.”
“Kat! Really? Because it feels like a burden.” I mean, Ikeep it together for Doug and the kids. I go to work every morning at 7:30,even on days when I don’t always feel like it, to a tenured job with 100%family health coverage so that Doug can build his company from the ground up. Igo into work when I have a fever so that I can save my sick days for days when Ineed to be home with my sick children. I work evenings and weekends, gradingpapers and creating new and exciting lesson plans for my hundred students. And,unbeknownst to me, it turns out that I have been holding it together for mybest friends, too? Do I have to be everyone’s poster child for stability?
“I’ll see you tonight, Kat. We’ll talk. We’ll figure itout,” I say, trying to sound strong and sure, but only feeling wrung out. Istand and begin to make my way out of the station.
“We’ll drink, smoke and spin down a pole, is what we’lldo,” she says, by way of hanging up.
Chapter 13
I am the world’s worst mom. No one else would be gonefrom her children all day and then blow them off again all night. It isn’tright, and I feel a searing sense of guilt telling me to stop, slow down, playwith them for a while, to be an attentive mommy.
Instead, I kiss Becca and Ben hello, pretend to listen tothem tell me about their day, dash up the stairs, take a quick shower, and pileon the makeup.
When I went back to work, I found that leaving my childrenin the morning was hard, but that coming back at the end of the workday waseven harder. This surprised me. It seems that I need time to transition backinto the setting and the pace of my own home after a day of working with ahundred other children. I have to mentally switch gears, dump the work thoughtsfrom my mind, and settle back in to being a good mom. This is almost asexhausting as the work itself.
But if I’m gone all day and all night, doing completelyself-centered things, then there’s really no need to worry about making thattransition!
“Bye, everyone. I love you guys!” I call down to thebasement, where the kids are playing a Wii game with Laney.
I grab my boa and leave, feeling both sick to my stomach aboutmy behavior and sort of psyched about the night’s upcoming festivities.
Although I took a cab, Leslie’s street is jammed withsuburban-mom vehicles of every shape, size, and color. It seems that everyone Iknow has huge cars for carpooling their three or four children—plus friends ofsaid children—around town. I feel like a real underachiever having only twochildren, as compared with today’s supersized suburbia.
Leslie has four kids. Unlike most of the moms in Hadley,who lose their baby weight and then some, Leslie has proudly added ten poundsof padding for each child, which she wears much in the way some wear necklacecharms for each offspring. At some PTA event a few years ago, she and I endedup seated at the same table and became what I’d call relatively friendly. Interms of ranking our friendship, I’d say Leslie is positioned in the frontmezzanine of my life’s auditorium. Not quite orchestra-seat worthy, like Katand Jodi, but not in the nosebleed section, either.
Another cab moves off the street and I see Kat totteringtoward me up the driveway on her fuck-me pumps, and I pause to wait for her.“Hug,” I instruct, arms wide. She leans in and lets me rock her like a baby.Her head fits in the crook of my neck. “In those heels, you are almost normalsize!” I pronounce.
“Nah, still Lilliputian.” She shrugs. “Though smokin’ hot,if I must say so myself.”
I pull back to inspect her. Her tight black curls areshiny and set off her porcelain complexion. Her green eyes are bright andfierce, probably made more intense by some crying earlier in the day. “Youactually look amazing. I think ‘over the edge’ really works on you.”
“Bitches!” someone shouts, making us jump. We turnto see Leslie standing at the front door of her supersized faux castle underthe glow of a red light bulb, waving us over with something in hand.
“Is that…a whip?” Kat asks, sounding more than a littlebit afraid as we make our way up her flagstone walk and come face to face withthe birthday girl. Four mammoth Grecian columns announce her “porch.”
“Ouch!” I call out, momentarily stung by a slash ofleather against the leg of my skinny jeans. “It’s a whip all right.”
“Bitchaaaaas!” Leslie calls again, making the word lastfor at least six seconds, like some kind of ohm or other mantra.
“Hey! Leslie! You look…” I begin, taking in the patentleather corset, fishnet stockings, and over-the-knee, zip-up stiletto boots.Leslie is wearing tons of makeup, with black kohl eyeliner and ruby-redlipstick. Her black hair is pulled back into a high, tight ponytail. She has anextension woven into it, so that the hair falls well past her back, grazing hergenerous bottom.
The complete effect is not flattering or sexy in any way.She looks more slut than high-end escort, more Britney than Madonna. I startagain. “You look…”
“Completely fucked up,” Kat concludes. I jab her in theside.
“What?” she asks, turning to me but speaking so Leslie canhear. “She does. She’s dressed like a
