I Liked My Life(4)

He did not just say that. I give him an icy glare. “Pretty sure Mom wouldn’t tell me to bail on a commitment just because it was gonna be rough.” He doesn’t have a comeback, so he grabs a water bottle from the fridge and leaves for work.

I don’t have time to be pissed that my father has the emotional maturity of a toddler, because my ride arrives. I wait for the horn to blare before getting up, delaying the start of this depressing day. It takes Kara all of thirty seconds to lose it. She’s a spaz. On our eighth grade trip to D.C., she jumped in a fountain because she was hot, then freaked when they sent her home for it. She seriously has zero self-control. I ditch breakfast, grab my tennis bag, and head out.

Kara’s ghostlike coloring gives away her hangover, which is strange since we never party before game days. I wonder where everyone met up, then remember I don’t care. John is with his family opening their Cape house for the spring, so I’m not surprised no one thought to call. Mourning a parent is way too heavy for my crowd.

Kara drives while her mom rides shotgun, so at least I have the backseat to myself. Like my dad, they both avoid looking at me. Apparently, not having a mother on Mother’s Day is something I should be embarrassed about. Whatever. Anything is better than the hysteria Kara brought to my mother’s funeral, where she bawled as if she were the one left behind. I didn’t get why she’d make such a scene until my father and I led the procession out and I saw her folded up in Jake’s arm, a spot she’d been jonesing for all year. Always nice to see a tragic death exploited for a high-school hookup.

“Wind will be twenty miles an hour from the northwest,” Kara reports. I nod, not that anyone’s watching. “The end courts will be the worst, especially the side closest to the field.”

Kara always talks up an excuse for getting her ass kicked. When her ball hits the net it’s because of the wind, or a baby crying, or the sun’s glare. It’s never because she tilted her racket too far.

“Good point,” Mrs. Anderson pipes in. “The court we get will matter.”

Kara’s mom considers her and her daughter a single unit, using words like we and our when referring to things Kara will experience on her own. She even puts her hair in a high pony and wears a tennis skirt to our matches, as though she might be called in to sub. My mom hated gossip, but I once heard her rag on Mrs. Anderson, “The coach needs to pull that lunatic aside and break the news she didn’t make the team. Our turn ended three decades ago. Christie seriously needs to get over it.” When Dad joked that my mom sounded jealous she said, “I’m not gonna lie, I’d take her body if it was completely detached from her heart and her brain.” I find the memory particularly funny as Kara and Mrs. Anderson agree their court assignment will be critical.

“They still haven’t fixed the crack on court three. Coach claims it isn’t a tripping hazard, but I took a digger on it yesterday.” Mrs. Anderson clucks like a chicken to show her disapproval. I swear she could be the billboard for what annoying looks like.

They’re talking about this pointless shit because they don’t know what the hell to say to me. It’s the same at school. What no one understands is that it doesn’t matter what’s being said—everything makes me think about my dead mother because that’s all I ever think about. Kara literally breaks out in a sweat when we’re alone, as if suicidal mothers are contagious. I should tell her not to worry; her wannabe of a mom is way too vain to take her own life.

I’ve learned to completely block out my friends. I don’t listen to their words, just the pattern of their speech. Each person is different. Kara doesn’t take many breaths, so her sentences come out in little sprints: There’s-a-sale-at-Nordstrom-today-and-I-need-a-new-strapless-bathing-suit-that’s-not-plain-black-so-let’s-go-right-after-school. As long as you keep a smile on your face, she doesn’t notice you’re not listening. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s opinion anyway. I haven’t yet perfected zoning out Mrs. Anderson—though I’ll be sure to get right on it after this car ride—so it’s hard to ignore when she jumps in with more of a squeal to ask why I’m not wearing my team ribbon.

“Couldn’t find it,” I mumble.

“You should’ve called, dear. We have extras at the house.”

Of course she does. I’m not her dear.

“I might have one in my bag,” Kara says, “but it’s in the trunk.”

I stay silent while the two of them debate whether Kara does in fact have an extra bow in her bag and, if not, whatever will we do? There’s a long list of possibilities here: ask the other girls, Mrs. Anderson running home, going to Jo-Ann Fabrics for a new one.… The topic isn’t dropped until we arrive and Kara uncovers that—praise Jesus—she has an extra bow for me. Mother and daughter sigh with relief, proud of their impressive problem-solving.

I leave them in the parking lot congratulating each other only to discover that the make-believe-it’s-not–Mother’s-Day plan didn’t stop with my dad and the Ribbon Police. I don’t know who coordinated it, but there isn’t a single cheesy WE LOVE OUR MOMS! sign, even from opposing teams. The buckets full of roses we usually hand out are nowhere to be seen. Mother’s Day has poof disappeared, just like my mother.

As people spot me they look to their feet, pausing whatever pointless conversation they’re having. Eventually the uncomfortable silence passes and heads pop back up like I’m a freaking zoo exhibit. They expect a dramatic breakdown, but I refuse to be the entertainment. I change my shoes without a word.