Page 1 of Offside and Off-Limits
CHAPTER 1
CLARA
Balancinga paper bag of groceries on each hip, I slide the key into the front door lock and push the door open with my hip. I’m doing my best to listen to my daughter tell me all about her school day—and I do meanallabout it, thanks to the fact she inherited my lack of conciseness—as my son uses my butt as his own personal drum machine.
Motherhood. Am I right?
“—which is why I told Mrs. Englewood that you would bakeallthe cupcakes and that you would do the fancy thing with the sprinkles that you know me and my friends love so much, right, Mommy?” Hannah says, at long lasttaking a breath.
“You did what?” I ask as I trudge down the hallway and into the kitchen. “Close the door behind you, please, Benny!”
The house rattles as he slams the door shut.
“I saidclosethe door, Benny, not cause roof tiles to drop off.”
He doesn't reply.
“He always does that,” Hannah says, her arms crossed, relishing it as she always does when Benny gets told off.
I place the heavy grocery bags on the kitchen counter and let out a relieved sigh. Being a single mom should come with a warning label.Do not take if allergic to noise, repetition, or having to negotiate peace talks between people under the height of five foot nothing.
“So you'll do it, Mommy?” Hannah asks.
I turn to look at her and see that hopeful smile on her pretty, young face. Her hair is still in the braids I did over cornflakes this morning, the same blonde as both mine and her aunt Keira’s. “How many cupcakes exactly, sweetheart?”
“It's for the bake sale so lots and lots and lots.”
“So, like, twenty?” I ask hopefully as I mentally calculate how long it will take me to bake twenty cupcakes, allow them to cool, and then ice them all. Perfectly doable before leaving the house for school tomorrow morning.
“Oh, more than that. I told Mrs. Englewood a hundred.”
I widen my eyes. “A hundred? Sweetheart, there's no way I can make that many in one evening when we've got to take Benny to hockey practice and you've got figure skating class. It's not humanly possible.”
“Please, Mommy?” she asks, doing that pleading thing she's perfected over the years that I’m almost certain she got while watching Puss in Boots in theShrekmovies. Her blue eyes are the size of saucers.
“I'll do what I can,” I tell her, wishing I could magic up one hundred perfectly frosted cupcakes with a snap of my fingers—and knowing I'll be elbow deep in cake mix until after midnight.
“Thanks, Mommy,” she says with a smile that lights up herentire face, bouncing on the spot as though she has too much energy to contain inside her little body.
Which is about exactly the opposite of me.
Benny charges into the room, wielding his hockey stick as though it's a sword. He comes to a sudden stop when his stick meets the wall, puncturing a hole in the plaster. “Oops,” he says, looking up at me with a grimace.
Hannah crosses her arms and glares at her brother. “You broke the kitchen wall, Benny. You are in so much trouble.”
“I didn't mean it!” Benny says, his voice a high-pitched whine the neighborhood dogs are probably pricking their ears up at.
I blow out a frustrated breath as I inspect the damage. “How many times do I have to tell you not to run around with your hockey stick inside, Benny?”
“Too many times,” mini-me replies.
“I didn’t mean it,” is his repeated reply, like somehow that means the wall won’t be punctured and I won’t have to either hide it up with one of the kids’ drawings or go to the expense of getting it fixed.
The drawing, it is.
My phone rings as I'm running my fingers over the dent in the wall.
“Mommy, your phone is ringing,” Benny tells me, thrusting my phone in front of my face, almost hitting my nose.
