In an Instant(8)

“Wow, that’s, like, hardcore,” Natalie says. “Do you know what my parents are buying me as soon as I get my license?”

Neither Mo nor I answer.

“A MINI Cooper. I’m trying to decide what color, yellow or red? There’s this really cute red one I see all over town. It has a white roof with this Great Britain flag painted on it.”

“You’re not from England,” Mo says.

“So?” Natalie says, clearly not happy we’re not gushing over her choice.

I’d like to say Natalie isn’t pretty, but that would be a lie. She’s very pretty—gold hair, gray eyes, big boobs. It’s only when she opens her mouth that she turns ugly.

We return to silence.

My mom yells over to Chloe, “Chloe, grab one more set of sheets.”

Chloe ignores her and continues canoodling with Vance, only acknowledging having heard my mom by turning slightly so the small black swallow tattoo on her left shoulder that my mother railed against so violently can be seen.

“I’ll get them,” Oz volunteers, dropping the ski bag he’s carrying and leaping toward the house, desperate, as always, to win my mom’s approval.

I shake my head. Someone’s going to end up with SpongeBob sheets, or knowing Oz, he’ll bring down fifty top sheets and not a single pillowcase.

“Oz, no,” my mom says, stopping him, exasperation in her voice as her eyes skewer Chloe. “Forget the sheets; just keep helping your dad.”

With a sigh, my mom pivots and walks toward us. Aunt Karen follows. Painting on a smile for Mrs. Kaminski and avoiding looking at me, my mom says, “Good morning, Joyce.”

“Good morning, Ann. Karen. Thank you for including Maureen. It’s all she’s been talking about for weeks.”

“You know we love having her along.”

There’s a slightly awkward pause, Mrs. Kaminski’s eyes sliding to the Miller Mobile before sliding to the ground. She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her concern. The Miller Mobile looks a bit like a tin can on wheels. Originally it was a sleeping camper with a small kitchenette and a bed, but the artist my dad bought it from had removed all that to transform it into a studio, leaving only the small built-in dinette—a table with booth seating around it. After we kids came along, my dad added additional seating—a pair of Greyhound bus seats and a red leather bench he got from a scrapped Bentley, creating this awesome, strange blend of striped blue velour, plush red leather, and sparkly green vinyl.

Unable to help herself, Mrs. Kaminski says, “There are seat belts?”

Mo tenses. Over the last year, Mo’s frustration with her mom’s overprotectiveness has grown, and I know lately they’ve been arguing about it.

My mom nods. “Would you like to take a look inside?”

Mrs. Kaminski’s eyes slide sideways toward Mo, and she shakes her head. “No. That’s fine. I trust you.”

The last three words hold a hint of challenge. One my mom accepts. “I’ll look after her.”

Aunt Karen chimes in, “We all will. Mo’s like a daughter to us. She’s in good hands.”

With a thin smile and muttered thanks, Mrs. Kaminski gives Mo a peck on the cheek, tells her to have fun, and hurries away to worry in private.

Beside me, Mo sighs in relief, and I nudge her shoulder. “That wasn’t so bad. Not too long ago, she wouldn’t have let you do this at all. Did you promise to call her every hour?”

“Actually, I told her I wouldn’t be calling at all,” she says. “It’s better that way. When I call, she works herself into a frenzy, asking me about every little detail, then obsessing on what I told her and how it can go wrong. The less she knows, the less she has to worry about. It’s three days. She can survive three days without hearing from me. Besides, it’s good practice. In two years I’m off to college, and there will be times when she’ll hardly hear from me at all.”

I believe it. Mo is itching to spread her wings, to soar into the world as far from the nest as possible. While I’m thinking of going to UCLA or UCSD so I can come home on the weekends, Mo dreams of living on the other side of the country or maybe even the other side of the globe. She wants to hike Patagonia, travel across the Sahara, scale Everest. Since she was a little girl, she has sat wide eyed as my dad regaled us with his adventures from when he was young, and he has always said, “That Mo, she’s a pirate at heart.”

“Let’s go,” my dad bellows from the driver’s seat, his face radiating such optimism it almost makes me believe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all and that it might actually be fun.

Mo claps her hands and skips toward the camper. Vance pulls Chloe from the porch, and they shuffle forward. My mom sighs and walks with Aunt Karen, her chin jutted as if bravely taking the dead man’s walk to the electric chair. Uncle Bob pretend boxes with Oz, dancing him toward the door while his eyes slide to my mom to see if she is watching.

“Come on, Finn,” my dad says.

I trot toward him, and he high-fives me through the window as I walk past.

“Seat belt,” my mom says when I climb aboard, but she’s not talking to me. She’s talking to Mo.

Mo groans, then buckles in.

I laugh and plop beside her, beltless and free.

Uncle Bob rides shotgun, and he and my dad immediately fall into a discussion about this year’s Super Bowl. Normally I would listen in and participate, since I love football and know more about the players than either of them, but I won’t abandon Mo with Natalie. So instead I break out a deck of cards and deal hands to the three of us girls along with Chloe and Vance for a marathon game of bullshit that will hopefully last the entire three hours it takes to get to Big Bear. The winner gets dibs on sleeping arrangements when we get to the cabin—a prize worth playing for since sleeping beside Oz is something to avoid if possible.