start behind my ears and crawl all the way down my back. I suddenly know the ring is hers. Every inch of her room gets cleaned every day. The ring couldn’t have just fallen on the floor. It wasn’t from a fan either. Gifts from fans are opened at the office and donated to charities. Mimi never even sees them.
The ring was in the chair with that picture of Mom when she was a kid. She hid them there.
Why?
I totally give up on the idea of sleep.
I don’t understand her. She’s told the entire world about her nose job, her tummy tuck, her bad relationships, her jujube addiction. So why would she hide some old ring?
Okay, the ring I can sort of see. Maybe there’s some romantic attachment to it. Maybe she was—is?—involved with the guy who owns it.
Yeah. So? Who cares? You can’t pick up a magazine without seeing her “linked” to some new man. Old, young, single, married, funny, boring. It’s always someone—even when it isn’t.
I used to be in the paper a lot too when I was little, when I was cute. I got big and Mimi made a “plea for privacy.” Since I never got around to snorting coke or running off with my tennis instructor or doing anything scandalous like that, the media kind of backed off. The paparazzi haven’t bugged me since Mom spent a wad on that twelfth birthday party for me at the Russian Circus. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t exist any more. I’m not worth the effort. Nobody knows me.
In fact, I probably could have told Kay my real name and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. It’s not like there’s only one Robin Schwartz in the world. It’s not like Kay’d look at me and immediately see that cute little red-headed kid in the chef’s hat. Even the lady at the ticket counter was only joking about my name.
But Kay had the Enquirer spread out on the kitchen table with a big picture of Mom on the cover. (“Oh, Mimi, Oh My! Did you buy yourself some new cleavage?”) She folded up the paper to make room for me and went, “Sorry. Here I’ve been babbling away and I didn’t even ask your name.”
No way I could say Robin Schwartz then. Who knows what they were talking about in the article? I panicked. I did this stuttery thing for a while, then I said, “Opal.” That’s my middle name. I’ve always hated it. It’s ugly.
Most people think it’s Oprah—like Mom was naming me after her hero or something—but Kay got it right away. “Opal. Really? Nice name. You have relatives around here?”
“No,” I said. “No, uh, my family’s from…” I was desperately trying to come up with some lie when the grilled cheese sandwich started smoking.
Kay jumped up to deal with it. When she sat back down, all she wanted to talk about was Levi again.
Every time she mentioned him, I pictured myself sucker-punching him in the face.
“Saving myself” from his advances. It makes me cringe. I think of me saying have your way with me as if I’m some dainty damsel-in-distress and I cringe even more. I’m so embarrassed.
Is Mom embarrassed? Is that it? Is that why she hid the stuff?
No. This is a woman who’s had her Pap smear done live on-air. What could be more embarrassing than that?
Some blurry old photograph?
No way. She’s had a picture of herself as a kid on her show. I saw the episode. Why would she hide it now? Hide it inside a chair ! I mean, that’s not like throwing it under your mattress or anything. That takes work.
It almost makes me laugh. Unless a camera’s aimed at her, Mimi doesn’t do anything for herself. I can’t imagine her down on her knees with a hammer and nails—you know, squirrelling the pictureaway. It’s so out-of-character. Like she’s going to risk chipping her manicure for something like that?
So maybe Anita did it for her. Maybe Anita’s in on the secret. Maybe that’s why she went so berserk when I knocked the chair over.
I don’t think so. Anita did go berserk, but that’s, like, normal for her. If I’d stumbled
The ring was in the chair with that picture of Mom when she was a kid. She hid them there.
Why?
I totally give up on the idea of sleep.
I don’t understand her. She’s told the entire world about her nose job, her tummy tuck, her bad relationships, her jujube addiction. So why would she hide some old ring?
Okay, the ring I can sort of see. Maybe there’s some romantic attachment to it. Maybe she was—is?—involved with the guy who owns it.
Yeah. So? Who cares? You can’t pick up a magazine without seeing her “linked” to some new man. Old, young, single, married, funny, boring. It’s always someone—even when it isn’t.
I used to be in the paper a lot too when I was little, when I was cute. I got big and Mimi made a “plea for privacy.” Since I never got around to snorting coke or running off with my tennis instructor or doing anything scandalous like that, the media kind of backed off. The paparazzi haven’t bugged me since Mom spent a wad on that twelfth birthday party for me at the Russian Circus. As far as they’re concerned, I don’t exist any more. I’m not worth the effort. Nobody knows me.
In fact, I probably could have told Kay my real name and it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference. It’s not like there’s only one Robin Schwartz in the world. It’s not like Kay’d look at me and immediately see that cute little red-headed kid in the chef’s hat. Even the lady at the ticket counter was only joking about my name.
But Kay had the Enquirer spread out on the kitchen table with a big picture of Mom on the cover. (“Oh, Mimi, Oh My! Did you buy yourself some new cleavage?”) She folded up the paper to make room for me and went, “Sorry. Here I’ve been babbling away and I didn’t even ask your name.”
No way I could say Robin Schwartz then. Who knows what they were talking about in the article? I panicked. I did this stuttery thing for a while, then I said, “Opal.” That’s my middle name. I’ve always hated it. It’s ugly.
Most people think it’s Oprah—like Mom was naming me after her hero or something—but Kay got it right away. “Opal. Really? Nice name. You have relatives around here?”
“No,” I said. “No, uh, my family’s from…” I was desperately trying to come up with some lie when the grilled cheese sandwich started smoking.
Kay jumped up to deal with it. When she sat back down, all she wanted to talk about was Levi again.
Every time she mentioned him, I pictured myself sucker-punching him in the face.
“Saving myself” from his advances. It makes me cringe. I think of me saying have your way with me as if I’m some dainty damsel-in-distress and I cringe even more. I’m so embarrassed.
Is Mom embarrassed? Is that it? Is that why she hid the stuff?
No. This is a woman who’s had her Pap smear done live on-air. What could be more embarrassing than that?
Some blurry old photograph?
No way. She’s had a picture of herself as a kid on her show. I saw the episode. Why would she hide it now? Hide it inside a chair ! I mean, that’s not like throwing it under your mattress or anything. That takes work.
It almost makes me laugh. Unless a camera’s aimed at her, Mimi doesn’t do anything for herself. I can’t imagine her down on her knees with a hammer and nails—you know, squirrelling the pictureaway. It’s so out-of-character. Like she’s going to risk chipping her manicure for something like that?
So maybe Anita did it for her. Maybe Anita’s in on the secret. Maybe that’s why she went so berserk when I knocked the chair over.
I don’t think so. Anita did go berserk, but that’s, like, normal for her. If I’d stumbled
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