After years of effort to raise her children well, Shelley’s major parenting insight occurred at the end of her daughter’s senior year in high school, when it was almost too late to do Shelley any good.
Like all Shelley’s mom stuff, the episode launched itself in the kitchen, where even Mel, who’d made herself scarcer and scarcer in the waning days of high school, sometimes appeared, albeit in lurker mode, silent and recessed within a hoodie, with some kind of small throw blanket draped over that. Neither the late-May heat, nor any heat, ever seemed to bother Mel the slightest bit. “I feel like we haven’t talked in days,” Shelley said. “What’s new?”
“I might go to prom.” Mel’s tone suggested that the conversation now was closed. And yet she’d slowed. She’d taken out an earbud. Shelley, who’d been leafing cilantro, continued to leaf it, but now paid the leaves more than warranted attention. She’d never imagined Mel would go to prom. She felt a little thrill. But it bugged Mel when she got enthusiastic. “I might get an ask.”
That’s what they called it, these days. Securing a prom date now was performative. The boys — or girls, Shelley guessed — the askers — had to come up with some device. A vocal number at the school assembly. An ad in the school paper, with an acrostic spelling out the question. No wonder kids went stag these days. That was a thing now, too. “An ask?” Shelley repeated, cautiously.
“That’s what Tori says.” Tori was Mel’s friend, just lately. Shelley should’ve been pleased. She’d always worried that Mel, a quiet kid, could not connect. But the friendship mystified her. She hadn’t actually met Tori, but at school drop-off — back when Shelley still did drop-off — Tori seemed the buzzing center of a hive, almost an anti-Mel. And the alpha moms judged Tori braggy and aggressive. Of course, the alpha moms found Mel beneath their interest, as a near-mute, short-haired techie girl. “It’s probably Liam,” Mel further allowed.
“I thought he was Tori’s boyfriend?”
“They used to go out.” Mel’s face was impassive, but her toes in their Doc Martens tapped fast under the kitchen island.
“So what happened?” Shelley asked.
“The novelty wore off.” Mel’s fingers swiped Shelley’s knife, secured its load of avocado slices. Chocolate-y spikes of unwashed-looking hair stuck up from her hoodie like points on a tiara.
“Want to go and look at dresses?” Shelley asked.
“I’ll order something.” Mel whirled to pluck the top-shelf Doritos, stirring Shelley’s stymied urge to beautify her.
“I could book an appointment for your makeup…” Shelley offered.
“Tori’s doing it.”
“She’s coming over Saturday?” The question hung in the air as Mel perused her phone, portal to Planet Mel, where life revolved around such mom-proof matters as Japanese manga and programming graphic calculators. Mel never felt obliged to fill a silence.
Shelley filled it herself. “That’s my night to have Dee and Janis over.” Fatigue dropped on her like weight. It’s just dinner, Shelley told herself, but come spring everybody wanted the fresh season’s worth of blooms, and on Saturday she’d oversee two garden installations. Well: I have a competence, she told herself. “Why don’t I do your corsage?”
“We don’t know our colors. Anyway, dates get them.”
“How about a boutonniere? Do girls do those?”
Mel looked up, her strong dark brow cocked satirically.
“No one does those, Mom.”
How was Shelley supposed to know? She’d never gone to prom. No wonder she had no cred with this kid: it was the blind leading the blind. “So what do you think of Liam?”
“He’s a memer.”
Memers were some type of alt-boys. Tori’s friends, and now, apparently, Mel’s. She finally had some semblance of a social group, but was past the age when Shelley could oversee it. See it, even. “Anything we can do to make this happen?” Shelley asked.
“Do we have bagels?” Mel replied.
***
On Saturday Shelley wrapped up her second landscaping job well after five, thanks to nitpicky clients, who siphoned off her every last free moment. She’d tried rescheduling the DeeDee/Janis dinner, but Dee wouldn’t hear of it. Dee’s youngest was a senior, too, and Dee felt that “us moms” with our “imminent empty nests” must “prioritize our friends.”
Covered in sweat and soil — she worked with her crew — Shelley pulled her truck into her driveway, and was bolstered by a brief, celestial pleasure: blue-purple blossom clouds. It was jacaranda time, Shelley’s favorite time in her garden. Funny, because Shelley almost didn’t buy the house, because of the jacarandas. They dropped sticky flowers, had invasive roots, and the hellstrip ones were noncompliant with the city’s Master Street Tree Plan. But how they thrived! They shrugged at Pasadena’s torrid summers. Shelley dithered, then gave in to the trees. She added Agapanthus, Campanula poscharskyana and Convolvulus mauritanicus, and made her yard a blue pavilion, at least for May and June.
Shelley circled through the house, searching for Mel. The ask panned out, per Janis, who had the kind of kid that told her things. Liam collaborated with a teacher, who made the ask part of a classroom Powerpoint. Shelley would’ve liked to be a fly on the wall.
Shelley finally found Mel in the garage. She was deep in flow, soldering a broken body cord for her fencing club, shrouded in her usual hoody/headphone carapace, plus safety glasses, thankfully. Shouldn’t she have gloves? But Shelley liked to watch her clever fingers. Mel’s nails, as always, were polished, today in deep, metallic gray. Her right index finger sported a white skull, and her left one a small symbol cluster, something math-y. Not decals: Mel, uber-dexterous, painted her nails in elaborate ways. The reek of acetone was a signature smell.
Shelley pushed back her hat and unbuckled her pruner holster in hopes of an unobstructed hug. But Mel just yanked down her headphones, glaring. “What?” she said.
“Mel! I haven’t seen you since six o’clock this morning. And you were sleeping then.”
Mel softened slightly. “Sorry, Mom.”
Shelley looked at the foils, the wires, the alligator clips. Fencing, a niche sport on Earth, was big on Planet Mel. She asked Mel once: Why fencing? “Weapons. Duh,” Mel said, with a rare grin. That wasn’t all, though, Shelley could tell. It was the strategy, the French arcana. The masked androgyny, combatants covered, head-to-toe, in white. And the offbeat kids it attracted, kids like Tori.
Mel was looking at her. “Do you want something, Mom?”
Of course. She wanted Mel to glamorize, make alpha-mom jaws drop down to the floor. She wanted Mel cheery and expansive, enfolded in a scrum of decent kids. She wanted Mel to dish her every “deet” of Mel’s whole evening. “Are people coming over?” Shelley asked.
“Tori, probably. Not sure yet.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not really. I want to finish this.” She was back at work, a thin fume rising from the solder. Prom started in two hours. Was there no way this kid could be organized, or rushed?
Oh no: Dee and Jan would be here any minute. Shelley rushed inside to shower and change, but triaged hair and makeup. She scurried through the house, shifting the front-room clutter into other rooms, and closing off those rooms. Already in a sweat, she zipped out back, to her absurdly-pampered peach trees, to determine which individual fruit, if any, seemed sweet enough to cut, test and set before her friends. Janis was a caterer, and DeeDee owned a San Marino cheese shop: it was stressful dealing with their cultivated palates.
“I’m leaving.” It was Kevin, Shelley’s husband, yelling out the back door. He went out whenever Dee and Jan came over. That was good with Shelley, because it was so hard to please them all at once.
Shelley hollered back. “Did you ge—”
“Ye-e-e-s,” bawled Kevin, drawing out the word. “I got the gindara,” he said, referencing the fish he’d picked up for her. “I got the wine,” he continued, as if reciting catechism. She could hear his heavy sigh across the yard. “Should I light the charcoal?”
“That’s ok, I’ll do it.” Shelley scooted over, peaches cradled in her yanked-up shirt. As Kevin reached for one, she clamped her arm over them. “I need these for Dee and Jan.”
“Why are you giving those termagants our peaches?”
“DeeDee thinks our plums are fibrous. I need something good to go with the sorbet. Oh wait. These peaches might not taste sweet enough if I serve them with sorbet. Damn. Damn.”
“Why are you such a pussy?” Kevin said. He pulled an ancient sweatshirt over his ratty “McKinley Mules” t-shirt. Did his look authentically express his current identity of laid-off engineer? Shelley wondered. Or was it carefully tailored to irk such try-hard persons as herself?
“I guess you don’t feel the need to meet Mel’s prom date?” Shelley asked.
“Mel doesn’t need my input,” said Kevin. “Tell her to wear those ass-kicking boots of hers in case she needs to kick some boy’s pimply ass.” He stepped out the back door, then halted. “Does this mean she’ll get dressed up?” he asked.
“I don’t know what they wear to prom these days,” said Shelley. “If she has a dress, I haven’t seen it. She’s still out in the garage in jeans.”
Kevin glanced down at his own hole-y work pants. “The lemon does not fall far from the tree.”
Shelley ran inside to lave the peaches, anxious to finish food prep before Dee and Jan arrived. She didn’t want them in her untidy kitchen — last time Jan said Shelley ought to get a maid. These moms’-only dinners were a longed-for respite when the kids were small; joint vent sessions about juggling child care, their small businesses and husbands. Not so much, these days. A lot can happen in 10, 15 years. Shelley’s husband was downsized; DeeDee divorced and remarried upward; Jan’s husband’s company was bought, ensuing lifestyle upgrades. Dee and Jan tossed Shelley rich referrals, but these days Shelley felt less a friend and more the help.
Shelley heard Mel shriek. Good Lord, there must be something really wrong. She shot round the house to find Mel kicking off flip flops amid fallen jacaranda flowers, on the path between the house and garage.
“I got stung,” Mel said. “It’s in my instep. It really hurts.”
“Oh Mel,” Shelley said, sitting down beside her. “Those damned flowers. I should’ve blown them. Let me see it. I’ll get the stinger out.”
“I’ve got it,” said Mel, with irritation. She’d fished out her multitool and was scraping at her foot.
Oh hell. Dee and Jan were pulling up in front. They rushed over, clucking. “Poor Melanie,” said Janis. “Look at that foot! And you about to leave for prom! I’d have pulled those jacarandas out the day I bought the house.”
“They’re always full of bees,” said DeeDee. “I don’t dare wear sandals here in spring. If nothing else, Shelley, think of the kids.”
Things were always very simple for these two. Mel used to love those flowers. As soon as she was old enough to run around, she was always in them, bees be damned. She’d come out here in some strange assemblage of her own devise — fairy wings, say, and her favorite headband sporting fox ears. She’d place a purple flower on each fingertip, making “witch hands,” and run, cackling, at the neighbor kids. Shelley closed her eyes, holding the image, which, however, morphed into something feral, fox eyes fading into trees. Where was Mel, anyway? Of course: she’d vanished — typical — in the single moment the moms’ attention was elsewhere.
“It’s too bad about the bee sting, but it was so lovely to see Mel,” said DeeDee. “But oh my gosh!” She mimed a look of faux alarm, hands on cheeks and mouth agape. “Her hair!”
Mel’s hoodie’d fallen back during her tussle with the bees, revealing her recently-shaven head. Actually, she just sheared the sides. The top was floppy, sideswept, curly.
“Let’s go in, the wine’s getting warm,” said Shelley, walking, trailing DeeDee and Janis.
“She had such pretty hair,” Jan said. “Did she warn you?”
“Are you kidding?” said Shelley. “She’s been hanging out with Tori Honig. When Tori’s ROTC college brother came home for spring break Mel shaved it off with his electric clippers.”
“What does Kevin think?” asked DeeDee. She poured herself the chilled Roussanne which Shelley’d pre-positioned between Dee and Jan’s customary chairs.
“Oh, that she’s ‘edgy,’” said Shelley, making air quotes. DeeDee’d never had to deal with edgy. Dee’s daughter, Bethany — Mel’s childhood playmate — had Dee’s Town-and-Country look: highlights, pastel lipstick, toned triceps. Though Bethany deployed her mane as artful bedhead, while Dee sported a blonde perma-bob. “These days edgy is Kevin’s comfort zone.”
“Well, it’s just hair, I suppose,” said DeeDee. “But all that black, the dark nail polish. It’s such a contrast to the way she used to look.”
“Hard to believe that my laundry used to include a weekly pink load,” Shelley said. In those days, Mel was “Mommy’s rosebud,” her “bluebell,” her “snowdrop.” There was a moment of silence, as if in memory of the Mel who swanned around in hair ribbons and flouncy skirts. Baby Mel, preschool Mel, so many marvelous iterations were subsumed, like metadata, inside Shelley’s present, cryptic daughter.
“So Mel’s signaling… what?” said Janis. “Is she part of the trans community, or something?”
“Well, trans kids are in her friend group,” Shelley said. “But she doesn’t complain when I use ‘she’ and ‘her.’” Shelley gave an eyebrow shrug.
“Of course you wouldn’t just ask her,” DeeDee said. “That would be too easy.” She looked exasperated. “Why don’t you take her out for a mother/daughter something and have a little talk?”
“Mel does not do mother/daughter somethings,” said Shelley. “Anyway, I’ll just use a wrong term and piss her off. In this family every parental action has an equal and opposite reaction. Or maybe recoil, is the word I want.”
Dee and Jan looked skeptical, but they didn’t get it. They were hand-in-glove with their kids. And with good reason: Dee and Jan pulled strings and called in favors, helped their kids check all the high-school boxes. Hell, they’d taught their daughters how to work a room in grade school. Now Bethany had early-decision to Amherst and Jan’s kid made effing Rose Princess. Shelley didn’t, somehow couldn’t. She was a worker bee. Just not a social animal. The lemon did not fall far from the tree.
“So Mel’s hanging around with Tori’s whole motley crew?” said Dee.
“Yeah, the fencing kids. Plus they’re in most of the same classes.”
“Hard-core STEM, right?” said Jan. “She won’t have job problems down the line.”
“That’s what they say,” said Shelley. She thought of Kevin, hard-core STEM and unemployed. Thank God Mel’s academics had scored her a spot at UC Santa Cruz.
“You know,” said Janis, in a confidential tone, “I heard Tori was holding hands with Mel on campus.”
“Is that so?” said Shelley. Dee and Jan knew more about Mel’s life than she did. Her mind seethed with dated images: first-grade Mel playing doctor with the neighbor boy; middle-school Mel playing highly-physical tag with a scout leader’s son. Shelley felt, not for the first time, the weird logic of the ancient idea of changelings.
“I just wondered if you want Tori to have that kind of influence on Mel,” Janis continued.
“Since when does what I want have to do with anything?” said Shelley. It sounded lame — she knew it sounded lame — but the truth was even lamer. Shelley had no clue if Tori was good for Mel. In fact, Shelley had no clue what was good for Mel, or bad. Shelley’s encyclopedic knowledge of Mel, gained through eighteen years of minute observation, now seemed functionally obsolete.
Shelley took a sip of wine and tried to get a grip. Mel did talk to her. She did. When Shelley picked her up from fencing. But Mel talked about fencing. “She’s going to prom with Liam,” said Shelley. “Does that help?”
“Isn’t he the one with long hair?” DeeDee said.
“Him with shave-headed Mel,” said Janis. “It’s almost comic.”
“Look, you guys,” said Shelley, “I need to light the charcoal.”
“Do you mind if Jan and I walk around a little?” said DeeDee. “She needs to paint some of her interiors, and you have such an eye for color.”
Dammit, Shelley thought. She knows this house is a wreck. “Sure,” she said.
Off they paraded, oh God, toward her husband’s study, which was like an animal’s den. Were they arm-in-arm? It seemed that way, somehow. Shelley felt sure there’d be toenail clippings on the floor, atop some unpaid bills, and dried-up orange peels. Then on they’d go to the “nonpublic” bathroom, and all the other places filled with hairballs, dust balls and Lord knows what else. She could hear them laughing. Shelley suddenly wondered: where in the house, or garage, or yard had Mel squirreled herself away?
When DeeDee and Janis returned, they sat down at the table, seeming a little flushed. DeeDee pointlessly reapplied her lipstick, one of her nervous habits. What had they been up to?
“Find what you wanted?” said Shelley. A tinge of sarcasm got through.
“I forgot Kevin works from home,” said Janis. “Don’t you just hate having him underfoot?”
“I couldn’t possibly stand it,” DeeDee said. “For better or worse, but never for lunch. Oh well, the place just needs a little organization.”
Shelley set down the salad plates. She’d layered the peaches with oak leaf lettuce, feta and candied pecans. “I can’t believe the girls are ready to graduate,” DeeDee went on. “Remember what good friends Mel and Bethany were, when they were little?”
Were they? Shelley thought. When kids were little, their parents picked their friends. In retrospect, Dee picked Mel for Bethany, because Mel was well-behaved and careful. And Dee liked her house free from kid-related clutter, while Shelley’s place, poor in square footage, was rich in dress-up clothes, puzzles and art supplies. Shelley welcomed the arrangement, since Bethany was an extrovert, and she hoped Mel would learn to interact.
Somehow it never worked. Mel was the proverbial late bloomer, slow at everything: talking, making friends, school stuff. Whereas Bethany was reading at age four, by dint, it seemed to Shelley, of Dee’s infusions of M&Ms and manipulation. She’d drill Bethany with baskets full of tennis balls, so Bethany could dominate the other grade-school players. That kind of thing went against Shelley’s grain. She was no tiger mom. As she joked to Kevin, she was more a squirrel mom: lots of obtrusive chatter, and spent all her time in trees.
“So I guess Mel’s back there, getting ready for tonight?” asked Janis.
“Who knows,” said Shelley. “I haven’t even seen the dress. Yet here I sit, gossiping with you ladies, committing mom malpractice.”
“No worries, Shelley,” said DeeDee. “I needed to get out. Bethany’s such a drama queen. It’s so calm here, since your daughter’s so… reserved. You hardly know she’s in the house. I remember Bethany was convinced, when they were little, that Mel really had the power to vanish.”
“I thought they were just playing hide and seek,” lied Shelley. The truth was, by the time the kids were six or seven, if Bethany came over, Mel would disappear. She’d shelter under furniture or an artfully-draped throw, further camouflaged with well-placed cushions, or a stack of books. She’d take books or crayons into her little fortress. She was ingenious, hard to find. One day Kevin opened a large hamper to toss in some clothes, and found Mel inside, with headlamp, working a Rubik’s Cube. Shelley heard his surprised laughter from across the house. “My daughter is an alien probe,” he’d yelled.
“That stage was pretty weird,” said DeeDee. “Mel might’ve benefited from some counseling.”
“I think I’ll get another bottle,” Shelley said. She retreated to the kitchen, although she felt like going straight to bed.
Mel was in the kitchen, and Tori had shown up. The girls were still in jeans, but Tori’s pink-streaked hair was swept into an intricate up-do. She was draped over the counter, snacking on fruit which Shelley always washed and left there, because it was so pretty, and because then people ate it. Today it was Santa Rosa plums, loquats, and nectarines. Sprigs of basil and Italian parsley filled some jars.
“Thanks for growing healthy snacks,” said Tori, saluting Shelley with a half-peeled loquat. “Mel tells me you’re a major plant nerd,” she continued.
“I am,” said Shelley, a little jolted and a little flattered. “Glad you like loquats. Mel prefers processed foods.” She leaned tiredly against the counter. A beat-up paperback lay there, The Custom of the Country.
“I have a paper on that book due Monday. It’s, like, a ripping satire of a social climber,” said Tori. She turned to Mel. “I can use it for a how-to book,” she said, smirking. “Henry’s a good stepping-stone.”
“First-husband material,” said Mel, gesturing to Tori, in attribution.
“A starter husband,” rejoined Tori. She grinned at Shelley, who couldn’t help but laugh. She edged closer, hoping they’d let her watch them for a while, bask in the energy that flowed from them in vitalizing waves.
“You know,” said Tori, “You seem like a cool mom. I just feel like I should tell you. Your friends walked right into Mel’s room, even though the door was closed.”
“Oh yeah?” said Shelley. Somehow it didn’t surprise her.
“Mel just gave them laser eye” — Tori made two pointers with her fingers — “and says, ‘Why are you in my room?’” Tori snorted. “Our fencing coach was on Mel to build up her aggression. I think it worked. They fled. It was amazing.”
Shelley frowned a little. “I hope you weren’t rude to Mrs. Horne, Mel!”
“If you ask me, they should’ve knocked,” said Mel.
“So wait,” said Tori. “That’s Bethany’s mom?”
“Yeah,” said Shelley. “We’ve known them for years. Bethany used to come over here to play a couple times a week, until she and Mel were 7 or 8.”
“She’s such a normie archetype,” said Tori.
“Isn’t Bethany more a tiger kid?” asked Shelley. “DeeDee’s planning on her attending Amherst.”
“Yeah, well. Bethany’s not a drone piloted by DeeDee,” Mel said, shooting a sardonic glance at Tori.
“I can’t see you playing with her, Mel,” said Tori. “Even as a little kid.”
“I think I played with her when I was four or so. After that, I played, and she watched me and criticized how I did it.” Mel gave a mischievous grin. “So I took evasive action. That worked pretty well. But then one day she took my bike.”
It had been a while since Mel put so many sentences together. She didn’t sound emotionless right now, Shelley noticed.
“What do you mean she took your bike?” asked Tori.
“One day she brought over her scooter, but she decided she’d rather have my bike. She tried to make me trade. I didn’t want her scooter. But she grabbed my bike and hung onto it all afternoon, and when it was time for her to go, she screamed and hollered. Mrs. Horne asked Mom if she could have my bike for a few days. And my mom let her take it!”
Shelley grimaced. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said. Kevin was right — she was a pussy. DeeDee had wrinkled her nose and said Oh please, Shelley, it would mean so much to Bethany. And Shelley knew Mel wouldn’t make a fuss. Mel never made a fuss.
Tori’s phone buzzed and she took the call. “Don’t worry, Henry,” Shelley heard her say. “I’m just doing makeup for the Silent Badass.” Shelley’s eyebrows shot up.
Shelley inched over toward her daughter. “If it makes you feel any better, Mel, these days Mrs. Horne drives me as nuts as Bethany drives you.”
“I’d take a break if I were you,” Mel stated. “DeeDee’s a big girl. This is LA. Announce you’re on hiatus.” Mel picked up a plum, examined it critically, and replaced it on the counter. “Oh yeah,” she continued. “I phone interviewed for a summer research job at Santa Cruz. I’m starting in four weeks. Right after graduation. Okay, Mom?”
“Wow,” said Shelley. “I guess. Congratulations.” She felt puny, facing rank on rank of unknown forces. “So you’re leaving in four weeks? For…” Shelley waved her hands around in front of her.
“Indefinite,” said Mel. “I mean it’s basically the start of college, so.” Checking the time, she shuffled off. Shelley stood there, baffled by this child, this emissary — not from another planet, but another time. Some distant future. Sent back to bring Shelley forward. Drag her.
“Come over to Mel’s now.” It was Tori. Still on the phone, still in the here and now, thank God, and summoning boys. “Mel just has to let down a hem.”
“Let down a hem?” said Shelley, trying to rally. “Is there time for that?”
“Of course,” said Mel. Her voice was barely audible. She was somewhere down the hall.
Tori followed Mel, though first she turned to Shelley. “Mel’s very efficient,” she said. “That’s because she doesn’t waste time talking.”
One thing, at least, was clear, thought Shelley: Mel, invisible to many, was distinctly seen by Tori. Then another thought took shape, grew round and satisfying. It was just this: my daughter is no pussy.
She heard a double peal of laughter from the hall, from Tori and from Mel. It acted like a Buddhist chime, or something, prompting Shelley to insight. The key to parenting, Shelley realized, isn’t anything you teach them, or say to them, or try to make them do. It’s about them watching you. It’s about them seeing you screw up. It’s about them learning — hopefully — to do the opposite.
***
It was almost 8:00. Shelley, DeeDee and Janis were halfway through that second bottle. Dee and Jan were talking, but Shelley didn’t hear a word they said. Her mind was on the kids. Would Shelley get to see the dress? Would Mel remain in hiding, take the back door?
“Shelley? Shelley!” DeeDee said, trying to get her attention. “You know, Mel’s a great girl — person, whatever — but her issue is, she just doesn’t have a deep bench, socially. Jan and I could do one or two little things to link her up with some nicer kids.”
“Thanks, guys,” said Shelley. “Mel’s got her own ideas.”
A pair of heels clicked toward them. Tori, at least, would put the schmooze on, fire up that golden radiation that she’d shortly blast on hapless high-school boys. The ladies made appreciative sounds, for Tori was totemic. A scallop of satiny convexities, gleaming hair and cheek, décolletage. Luminous youth, thought Shelley. Good thing for acne and sullen tempers, or we’d worship them as gods.
And, after all, here was Mel. Behind her friend, though silent as a cat. Sans carapace, for once, sans headphones, safety glasses, hoody, mask, covering or cap. How long had it been?
A slender blade she was, an iridescence under cloudy skies. In rain-colored, crystal-beaded satin, columnar, on her long and narrow frame. Shelley suppressed her quivery chin. But she couldn’t stop her foolish hands from reaching.
Mel took her hands, with a slight smile. “Mom. I ran out of time to find an outfit. So I thought I’d wear your dress.”
A beat. Then everybody laughed.
“High time it had an outing,” managed Shelley. “I haven’t worn that thing in 30 years. Where did you even find it?”
“Oh, I know all the nooks and crannies,” said Mel, with a twinkle.
More footsteps: the boys. Liam was nearly unrecognizable: his hair was in a man bun. As Mel walked to him, her fingers dipped to her evening bag. She touched his lapel, and left behind a neatly-tied, blue-purple spray of jacaranda.
“That’s awesome, Mel,” said Liam. “That color is intense.”
“Mel made it herself,” said Tori.
“It looks professional,” said Liam.
“A plantswoman’s daughter,” said Mel, “should know how to make a proper boutonniere.” Some force outside herself tugged Shelley’s face into a violent grin.
“We better go,” said Liam. “I don’t want us to be late.”
“Just a sec,” said Mel. She turned to DeeDee. “So how does Bethany like living in San Diego?”
Now Mel’s making small talk, Shelley thought. Will wonders never cease? Then: Wait. San Diego? It took her a minute, because DeeDee never mentioned him. Dee’s ex-husband lived in San Diego. Bethany’s dad.
“Well.” Dee was flushed again, and rummaging for lipstick. “It’s all about the beach, of course,” she said. “Anyone would want to live right on the water.”
The kids turned to go. Tori gave Mel a long look. “La Belle,” she said, taking Mel’s arm. Down Shelley’s walk they went, their skirts sweeping a path of Elysian blue.
“That was so sweet,” said Janis. “Tori telling Mel how beautiful she looks.”
Shelley nodded and smiled. But Tori hadn’t said anything about Mel’s looks. You’d have to have a kid like Mel to know it, but “La Belle” was just a fencing term. In a tied match, it’s the deciding touch.
Image by Ekaterina Belinskaya on pexels.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- My Rose, My Fox, My Alien Probe - November 11, 2025