Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(15)
Candy Tucker is decidedly not the stay home watching public access on a Saturday night type. Say what you will about her lack of romantic success thus far; she is a firm believer in taking control of her own destiny in matters of the heart.
“It might not be your thing. We have a niche viewership.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll love it. I think the world of you and your mama.” She pats me on the cheek in a whiff of Febreze and cherry car freshener. “Bye-bye, Shawna, I’ll see you when I see you,” she says to my mom, giving her a hug and a quick peck on the cheek before fishing her dragon-shaped vape pen from her purse.
We wait until we hear the roar of her engine starting before we say anything.
“It’s bad, huh?”
Mom facepalms and shakes her head. “I told her the truth. Said, ‘Look, Candy, there are promising signs, but I’m not seeing a lasting relationship here.’?”
“And Candy heard: ‘There are promising signs—’?” I keep moving my mouth but don’t say anything.
“Pretty much.”
“Job security for you, at least.”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m starving. There anything to eat?”
“I ordered pizza earlier. It’s in the fridge.” Mom follows me into the kitchen. Under the harsh fluorescent kitchen lights, she looks a lot more spent than she looked in the more forgiving candlelight of the living room. “How was the show tonight?”
“Good. The Idiot Twins brought one of their friends who’s like a karate expert and he did some cool stuff during Dance Party.”
“Idiot Twins?”
“Colt and Hunter. Also, they told us they knew someone with a basset hound for the dog wedding. So they show up with the karate expert and his dog, which is a beagle. And guess what their explanation was? ‘We thought beagles turn into basset hounds when they get older.’?”
“Bless their hearts.”
I pull the cleanest-looking plate off the pile of unwashed dishes, rinse it, put a couple of slices of pizza on it, and put it in the microwave. “Bless them indeed.”
My phone, which I had somehow managed to forget for a few minutes, buzzes. I yank it from my pocket so fast I almost rip the vinyl. (If that’s indeed what these pants are made of. I’m having doubts.) Josie: My Instagram keeps recommending videos of turtles having sex. Why.
Me: OMG HAHAHAA (I HATE YOU RIGHT NOW BTW) Josie: WHY DO YOU HATE ME? IS IT BECAUSE UR JEALOUS OF HOW SENSUAL INSTAGRAM THINKS I AM?
Me: I haven’t heard back on the Thing. I thought you were the Thing.
Josie: Awwww. Sorry boo.
Me: It’s ok.
Josie: How are you?
Me: Meh.
Josie: I feel you. Seriously though, why does IG think I want to watch turtles boning.
Me: I DO NOT KNOW OK. IT’S A MYSTERY. NOW I SERIOUSLY CANNOT DEAL WITH MY PHONE BUZZING AND IT NOT BEING THE THING.
Josie: Ok DeeDeeBooBoo, love u. Let me know when you know about the Thing.
Me: Def will. Love u, JoJoBee.
I pull my pizza from the microwave, excavate myself a space at the table, and sit. I start picking letters off the top of one of the stacks and opening them. “Mom?” I say, reading a bill.
“What is that?”
“From the power company. Says this is our final notice.”
“Thought I paid that.”
“Clearly you did not unless I misread and in this context ‘final notice’ means ‘Hey, we finally noticed that you do a phenomenal job of meeting your financial obligations, so we just wanted to say great job!’?”
“Oops.”
“Yeah, oops. Where’s the checkbook?” I’ve known how to write a check since I was eight. It was not a skill I was happy to acquire. It made me feel like an orphan every time I had to be the mother to my mother.
Mom walks back to her room, returns with the checkbook and a pen, and hands them to me. I start writing the check.
“Boing,” Mom says.
I stop. “What does that mean? Is this check going to bounce?” I ask without looking up.
“Kidding. It shouldn’t.”
“It’s funny because financial ruin!” Her joke would be a lot funnier if our utilities hadn’t been cut off in the past for bouncing checks. But the right corner of my mouth pulls upward in spite of myself.
“I got my paycheck from Target a little while ago, and Candy paid me tonight in cash. Oh! And I sold another piece from my Etsy store!”
“Which one?”
“The necklace with the mouse skull.”
“Blessed are the spooky weirdos.”
If this check bounces, I will feel even more guilty about having paid a PI several hundred dollars to track down my dad.
I finish writing the check, put it in the envelope that came with the bill, and study Mom’s face. “Hey,” I say gently. “You okay?”
She sighs. “I’ve been having bad days lately. Can’t get out of bed.”
“I noticed. You taking your medication?”
She looks away and taps the table, like she can run out the clock.
“Mom. I’m not just going to forget that I asked you a question.”
“I’m on hiatus.”
“You don’t go on hiatus from taking mental health meds.”