Naturally, my mother loves brunch.
I will say that the woman can cook. By the time I got up at 10 a.m., she already had a spread laid out on the table on the back deck—popovers, strawberry-flavored butter, mixed berries, scrambled egg whites with local (of course) goat cheese and fresh-squeezed orange juice. She’d done it all herself in the space of about thirty minutes, probably less. She may fall short of the mothering ideal in most regards, but when it comes to whipping up a fantastic meal, she’s just about perfect.
“Hey, Mom,” I said blearily, blinking my eyes in the bright sunshine as I joined her on the deck. “Thanks for breakfast. This looks awesome.”
She turned toward me with a smile that faded quickly as she took in my ensemble (a ratty basketball T-shirt and a pair of paint-splattered drawstring shorts.)
“Still in your pajamas?” she asked, a clear note of disapproval in her voice. I was, but I decided to mess with her a little.
“Naw,” I said breezily, sitting down and buttering a golden-brown popover. “I figured I’d go over to Baxley’s for lunch by myself, then maybe stop by the Marc Jacobs downtown and drop by the Fairweathers for tea.” Her look of horror was so classic that I snorted, cracking up.
“Don’t joke about things like that,” she said, shaking her head and delicately spearing a berry with a fork. “I don’t understand why you can’t just give me an honest answer. I know you think your father just hangs the moon, and you two have always been buddy-buddy, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand for you giving me nonstop attitude for yet another summer.”
“Oh my God, this strawberry butter is so good,” I interjected suddenly. “Did you use that wild strain you found at that farm last year?”
“Yes,” she said, her expression lightening. Nothing brightens my mother’s mood like flattery. It’s like lighting a candle flame in front of a moth: instant distraction.
Her cell rang, and she checked the incoming number and snatched it up.
“Hello, Merilee,” she sang sweetly. “How are you this morning? I’m. . . oh, Delilah. Hello, darling. You’d like to talk to Naomi?” Her eyes lit up with glee, and she snapped her fingers in front of my face, actually bouncing up and down a little with excitement. “Of course, dear, here she is.” She handed me the phone, mouthing unnecessarily, It’s Delilah! For you!
While it’s true that this phone call from Delilah was an unprecedented development, my mother’s freak-out hardly seemed necessary. She stared at me expectantly, a dopey grin stretched across her face. I could tell she was going to hang on every word of this conversation.
“Hey, Delilah,” I said, turning away from my mother the hyperactive puppy. “What’s up?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t have your number, so I just thought I’d call your mom. Teddy and Jeff and I want to go to the club to play tennis, and Jeff needs a partner. Want to come?”
I am not athletic in the least, and while the prospect of seeing Jeff was kind of tantalizing (even though I wasn’t quite convinced he was the nicest guy), the surrounding circumstances would undoubtedly prove annoying and embarrassing. These kids came out of their mothers’ wombs wielding a tennis racket, and I’d only played once, when Skags decided we needed to get more physical activity (actually, she had noticed a hot girl at the public courts in our neighborhood and wanted an excuse to run into her).
And besides, I’d planned to spend the day studying my SAT book and doing a practice test, which takes a few hours. I know that sounds incredibly lame, but (and this sounds even lamer) I’ve wanted to go to Harvard since I was a little kid and saw Legally Blonde, which is the sort of guilty-pleasure movie you wouldn’t think a nerd like me would like, except that it is perfect, and makes me wish the Beasts at our school were anywhere near as kind and awesome as Elle Woods. The unfortunate reality is that beautiful blond popular girls usually are superficial bitches, and not good-hearted humanitarians like Elle.
“Thanks for asking, Delilah,” I said, “but I promised myself I’d study my SAT book today.” I could actually hear my mother go into a conniption behind me. She hurried around the side of the table to face me and glare.
“I know that sounds completely dorky,” I added hastily, averting my eyes from my mother’s gaze, “but I’m trying to get into Harvard early action, so I have to take the SAT at the end of the summer.”
What are you DOING? my mother mouthed. I turned away from her, back toward the backyard, and she let out an audible groan.
“Is everything okay over there?” Delilah asked, sounding concerned.
“Oh, that’s my mother,” I said. “Her cake just collapsed in the oven, and she’s mourning the loss.”
“My cakes never collapse,” Mom hissed at me, plopping down in her chair and folding her arms in a huff.
“Well, I totally understand about the SAT thing,” Delilah said. “You’re not a legacy, are you?”
“No,” I said. “My dad went to the University of Wisconsin.” I didn’t add, “And my mother went to nowhere,” because she was already pissed about the cake crack.
“Well, my father and grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather all went to Harvard,” Delilah said. “And my father is on the alumni board. So if you need any help when it’s time to apply, just let me know. I’m applying, too.” She did not add, “And I will automatically get in,” although we both knew that was true.
“That’s really nice of you,” I said. “I might actually take you up on it.” The thing with rich people is that they often offer to help you with a fancy connection, but you usually can’t tell if they genuinely mean it or if they just want to show off their fancy connections. But I wanted to go to Harvard so bad that in this case, I didn’t really care. It was worth a shot.
“Please do,” said Delilah. “Well, I understand why you’re not coming, but Jeff’s going to be pretty disappointed.”
I blushed. “Really?” I said in a squeaky voice. Then I blushed again, because a squeaky voice is like the number one sign you’re nervous about something, and being nervous about a guy means you’re into him, and I guess I kind of was.
Delilah laughed. “We’ll all get together really soon,” she said. “Every day can’t be SAT day.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I looked at my mother.
“She invited you out, and you said no,” she said flatly. “I put you in contact with these people and provide all these opportunities for you, and you just turn them down, time and time again.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You’re the only mother I know who would get pissed that her daughter would choose studying over playing tennis,” I said.
“She invited you to tennis?” Mom moaned. “And you said no?”
“I just don’t feel like engaging in any activity where balls fly at my nose,” I said, quoting Clueless, another favorite movie.
“Well, you should!” my mother snapped, rising to her feet. “That’s how people make friends in this town!” I cracked up, and she stamped her foot in exasperation. She’s such a child.
“I’m going to town,” she said. “To BookHampton, to sign some stock.” My mother loves doing that—popping into any bookshop in the world to see if they have her cookbook, and then magnanimously offering to sign any copies. I would love it if, just once, a bookshop owner said, “Nah, actually, we’re cool.” But they all flip out like she’s this big star, which I guess she actually is.
“See ya,” I said, returning to my breakfast. She gave an exaggerated sigh and made her customary dramatic exit.