Page 15 of Pucked Up Plans
Friday after Aubrey’s long day at school, I stupidly choose to stand and wait outside. Off to the side of the door and the other parents, I don’t miss the stolen glares or the hushed whispers. Maybe this time it’s because I’m new, not because I’m younger than them. And I am much younger. Especially the one whose youngest of five is in Aubrey’s class. She just turned forty.
Am I judging her for having five kids? Absolutely not, but that’s about three too many for my liking.
The door to the school opens, and kids come pouring out. I notice Lennon first, Aubrey trailing behind her. She talks nonstop about Lennon and a little boy, Isaiah. Whenever I ask her to point him out to me, she gets shy, her face blushing beet red. She’s got it bad for him.
Lennon stops in front of her mother. Crossing her arms across her chest, her little foot stomps twice. “Momma, where’s Keeley? He’s supposed to pick me up today. You said so this morning.”
“Yourfathergot caught up at school.” Huge emphasis on the father. For whose sake, I can’t ascertain. “I didn’t need another late fee,” she adds, further boggling my mind. Sure, the kid isn’t a typical five-year-old, but there are still boundaries to set.
“He gets a pass this time,” Lennon mumbles. “School is important. But I still get to go to Mimi’s now, right?” Her attitude seems to change drastically. For a moment, at least.
“He’s going to pick you up at the restaurant.”
The biggest scowl I’ve ever seen appears on Lennon’s face. If she were my kid, I wouldn’t think it cute in the slightest, but seeing as she’s not, it’s stinking adorable.
“I don’t wanna.”
“We all have to do things we don’t want to do.” She enunciates each word to correct her use of “wanna.”
Rather than get caught up in their drama, I nuzzle Aubrey in my arms. “How was school?”
Her grin reaches her ears. She leans in close to me, bursting with a secret she wants to divulge. Whisper-yelling, she announces, “We had donuts!”
Donuts. The only “sweet treat” my kid will eat. I can’t even stand the sight of them anymore after bingeing them during my pregnancy. It’s the only explanation I have for why she’s so obsessed with them. Although her favorite is old-fashioned plain. Ironically, those were a last resort when I ate them.
“Your favorite,” I enthuse while trying to hide my distaste.
Her expression sours for a moment. “I had to brush off the ’prinkles and frosting. But Isaiah ate them and gave me his donut. So I got two!” Her story finishes excitedly. I can’t tell ifit’s because she got to eat two donuts or because she shared with Isaiah. Probably a little of both.
Before I can ask her, Lennon’s defiant, “No” accosts my ears. My curiosity piqued, my head whips around. She’s standing her ground, feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, arms crossed over her chest, a glower set deep.
“Lennon, don’t make a scene,” her mother hisses at her in a low, growly voice.
“I don’t wanna go to the restaurant. I’ll just wait here for Keeley to pick me up.”
My feet move ahead of my brain. My mouth misses the memo as well because I say, “Lennon, you want to come to our house for a playdate? Then maybe Daddy can pick you up when he’s done?”
My belly coils at my boldness. If I were Lennon’s mother, I would hate to be put on the spot like I did to her. A stranger undermining my authority? No thanks. Since the words are out of my mouth, I can’t haul them back. Nor do I want to. It will finally give me an excuse to not only text Walsh, but also to see him.
“And you are?” Up close, Lennon’s mom is even more gorgeous. Flawless skin, almond-shaped eyes, perfect nose. The only “imperfection” I see is light circles below the eyes.
Standing Aubrey on the ground, I reach my hand out. “Tate Winchester. My daughter Aubrey and Lennon are in class together. We all went to the park last week to feed the ducks.”Stop rambling,my brain advises. In this case, my mouth listens.
Lennon’s mother scans her eyes up and down me. My baggy T-shirt and leggings hardly compare to her flowy skirt and button-down blouse, but there aren’t any visible holes and the clothes are clean. My standards have lowered in the last few weeks while I try to get my act together and settled here in Vermont.
“I’m supposed to let my kid go home with a stranger?” she finally spits out.
“Tate isn’t a stranger, Momma. Call Keeley. Ask him.” Her attitude does a complete one-eighty.
Should I be offended I’m letting this five-year-old stand up for me?
Lennon’s mom’s pouty lips turn into a bigger frown, especially at the use of “Keeley.” Walsh’s perception is spot-on. I stifle my giggle.
She doesn’t address Lennon’s wishes for a few tense minutes as she ponders what to do. Honestly, I have no idea which side of the argument she’s going to land. An exasperated sigh follows a glance at her watch.
“Fine. Go to their house. I’ll have your father pick you up there. What’s your address?” Lennon wraps herself around the woman’s legs at the news, then quickly grabs Aubrey’s hands and starts some little dance and cheer. Aubrey’s excitement mirrors Lennon’s.
I rattle off our address, earning a sneer. I bet she thinks her shit don’t stink either.Bitch.
