Blended 2: The Mother Load

Gurlberg, Florida
1994

Mary Jameson, hair freshly straightened, waits on the sidewalk in a blue slip dress, white Reeboks on her feet. The morning air is so thick that she can drink it. Cars pass as she waits patiently until Jessica Tiffin rounds the corner, performatively carrying her algebra book despite the perfectly good backpack slung over one shoulder. Her overalls are the color of a duck egg, and the plain tee underneath is blinding white. Her well-behaved, golden hair straightens so much more nicely than Mary’s unruly red waves.

“Hey, you,” Jessica sings.

Mary forces a smile, resists looking at her watch, and they set off. It looks like they’ll be on time today, but they frequently aren’t because of Jess’s strained relationship with punctuality. Mary hates that, but Jess will throw a fit that’ll make World War II look like Carebears if they don’t walk together.

Carla Lucera catches up to them, a plaid shirt wrapped around her waist. Mary doesn’t want Carla’s life, but sometimes she envies that Carla can get away with eyeliner and nothing else.

“Where’s Nadia?” Jess asks with a yawn.

“Don’t know,” Carla replies serenely.

“Did Harry call you last night?” Mary asks Jess.

“He didn’t. I hope he dies.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, what the hell?” Jess says, indignant as a shining red Corvette convertible rolls past and turns into the parking lot. “Is that Tiffany?”

That is, indeed, Tiffany Platt behind the wheel. If this car is hers, it’s her second new one since she got her license. Half a dozen guys look like they’re going to start drooling. Even losers like Stef Gibson and Ellen Green stop skulking with their cigarettes around the front gate to gawk.

“Oh, Jesus. Is that Billie?” Mary asks.

A lithe figure lies flat on her back on top of the… thing that overhangs the main entrance. It’s like fifteen feet up. She’s just lying up there like she’s taking a nap.

“Tiffany has a Corvette?” Jess is stricken.

Mary cups her hands around her mouth. “Billie, be careful!”

“What happened to the Mustang?” Carla’s asking. “Hey, Tracy, where’s Nadia?” she shouts at a girl leaning out the science room window to water the flowerbox.

“She’s puking,” Tracy calls down.

A guy grabs another guy’s Walkman cord and yanks it. A punch is thrown, and Mary has to dodge out of the way. “Watch it, dickwad!” She shoves on and picks up the pace.

“Mary, wait!” Jess calls out, tottering after her in her stiff little wedges.

Mary doesn’t wait. She hurries into the school and down the hall to the corkboard, where the varsity cheerleading lineup has been posted. If Tiffany Platt has bought her way onto the team and Mary isn’t on it, Mary is going to pull a Carrie.

She scans the list, and she’s at the top. Captain. Relief floods through her. “Yes,” she hisses to herself, raising a fist.

Jess and Carla catch up. “Did I make it?” Jess asks.

She did, although she doesn’t work half as hard as Mary. Blonde hair and long legs count for a lot. Mary doesn’t care about that right now. She hugs Jess tight, but Jess is more interested in the list. “Oh my gosh. Tiffany’s not on there at all.”

“Who cares?”

“I mean, probably her? Whatever, whatever. What are we doing to celebrate?”

“I want to go see Pulp Fiction,” Carla says, but nobody’s listening to her.

“You call Harry, I’ll call Sam,” Jess says. “We could do Sonic. Maybe drive around a little.” She nudges her.

Mary nods vigorously. “Tonight!”

“Tonight!”

NOW

Mary keeps meaning to ask Piper about the human instinct to use things just because they’re there. She owns an old Calvin Klein bra that she bought shortly after law school that is murder on her armpits. It was expensive, and there are some good memories attached to it, but she should’ve thrown it away ages ago. Instead, she’s wearing it on a workday that’s pushing ten hours.

She sits at her desk in her office, which needs a new coat of paint. Her back hurts, and her bra isn’t the only thing that’s pinching, but she would rather acknowledge weight gain than look at her email. Her sandy eyes burn, and obligations bounce around idly in her skull like screensavers from the old days. How dire is the laundry situation? Who is home tonight and who isn’t? What’s the level in the water softener? What’s going on with that datacenter they’re talking about?

If there’s one bright spot, it’s that the girls have settled down. Mainly Kayla, but Riley as well. Piper’s about the same as always, and she’s so good about picking up the slack. But that, like the tight waist of her slacks, has implications, and Mary can no longer reliably keep herself from going down these rabbit holes. It’s been like this ever since the divorce. She has five voicemails, but she doesn’t touch the phone. She has a hundred emails, but she stubbornly sticks to the printed documents in front of her.

BLENDED

Piper lies in bed under her fuzzy throw, the AC turned up to make the room frigid. Snuggled contentedly on her side, she watches TV on her iPad. Only Ted Lasso can dull the pain of an acute consciousness about the finite nature of summer, and the broader issue that she only has one summer left before adulthood: the great wasteland of no more lazy summers.

There’s a soft knock at her door. Riley isn’t home, and Patty doesn’t knock. Piper reluctantly checks the time. “Yeah?”

Kayla pokes her head in. “Hey, you.”

Piper does the math. Kayla opened at the diner. She came home. Had lunch. Took a shower. Now, here she is, damp and smelling like Olaplex.

“If you’re going to shoplift your mom’s shampoo, at least remember to put it back in her bathroom,” Piper tells her.

“Oh, yeah. I should do that.” Kayla slips inside and closes the door, holding her towel shut.

“Something you need?”

“You could say that.”

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