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“I want my daughter to be prepared for real life,” Mom
snorts. “Not some fantasy world where men are dogs.”
I gawk. Apparently, my mother reads Aunt Marty’s
column in the Wawa or the Pathmark, too.
“Men are like dogs, apes, bears, lions, snakes,
chameleons, puppies, worms, toads, jackasses, and, if you’re
really lucky”—Aunt Marty winks at me—“stallions.”
Kyle roars. I blush. Mr. Sheeak snickers.
Mom says, “Ruthie, go to your room.”
I don’t budge. “Why?”
Mrs. Latanza clears her throat. “We should get going,”
she says.
Mom pointedly doesn’t invite anyone to stay. Our
neighbors mumble good-byes and slither out the front door.
Outside, I hear Mrs. Maynard say, “I bet that pink dress
could fetch megabucks on eBay now that Martha is
famous.”
The three of us stand in our new living room, eyeing
one another, not saying a word. Suddenly, Aunt Marty turns
to me and asks, “Want to take a drive, Ruthie?”
My eyes dart from my mother’s stone will to her sister’s
stone face.
“We’ll pick up something for dinner in Middletown,”
Aunt Marty adds.
Is this the question I promised to say no to? I hope so.
“Yes,” I say, throwing my shoulders back, feeling
utterly furious with my mother for being so . . . so . . . her.
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