Odd Mom Out by Jane Porter Page A

who have three-plus-carat rocks on their fingers.
    The kind who wear size two clothes and call themselves fat.
    The kind who dress their children in miniature designer duds.
    I find the only empty seat, the piano bench pulled away from the baby grand in the corner, and sit down, still smiling and nodding, first to the woman on my right, a woman whose long hair hangs well past her shoulders, falling in soft Grace Kelly waves, a tiny bobby pin holding back the first sleek wave in a new-old school preppy sort of way. She’s wearing a snug tangerine knit tank cropped at a flat waist, belted dark narrow-legged jeans, and dark stylish expensive loafers. The bling-bling on her wedding finger sparkles so brightly, I turn to my left.
    The woman to my left wears her dark blond hair just above her shoulders, and she’s got one side tucked behind her ear, revealing a diamond stud the size of my left nostril. She’s dressed in a sleeveless silk turtleneck, pencil slacks, and leather loafers.
    Glancing down at my nineteen-dollar flip-flops, I realize I’m way underdressed for this meeting.
    “Would you like something to drink?” Taylor offers.
    Actually, I could use something to drink. Like a shot of chilled vodka or a good dirty martini. “Just show me where to go. I can help myself.”
    “Absolutely not!” Taylor cries in mock horror. “Sit. I’ll bring it to you. What would you like?”
    What would I like? I’d like to go, that’s what I’d like, I think, glancing around the enormous living room with the antique beams and the huge arched window with the multitude of true-light divided panes. I feel like a total fraud. This whole place is too pretty for me. This whole world is everything I never wanted.
    I am not like these women. I don’t belong here. I don’t fit. And it’s not my flip-flops or the camo pants. It’s not that I rode a skateboard in high school or used to work on my own muscle car.
    It’s me.
Me.
    I feel too rough, too raw, too strong, too emotional, too intense, too passionate. I feel real, wild, bordering on out of control.
    And these other women, these neat, fashionable, slim, tanned, toned women, aren’t out of control. They’re together. They’re organized. They’re orderly.
    “What do you have?” I ask, feeling increasingly awkward.
    “We’ve everything,” Taylor answers as one of her friends appears at her elbow and hands her a cocktail. “Nathan’s made sure we have lots of girls drinks—pitchers of watermelon cosmos, chilled white wine, iced tea—it’s green sun tea—and sodas. Regular and diet.”
    “Iced tea,” I say, going for the safe over sorry choice. Even though part of me would kill for a drink, I’m not comfortable enough here to have one, not at four in the afternoon and not when I still have work to do later.
    Taylor’s friend disappears to fetch the drink, and I try to sit on my piano bench and look confident and comfortable.
    When Taylor’s friend returns with my iced tea, the tall glass ornamented with a thin lemon slice, I thank her, smiling as widely as I can, trying to be charming. I keep thinking charming thoughts, pretend I’m Maria from
West Side Story
rather than one of those tragic circus sideshow freaks in the novel
Geek Love.
That’s a sad book, very twisted, and not the thing to be thinking about as I sit here trying to look as if I belong.
    Finally Taylor calls the meeting to order, and everyone applauds her. I’m not sure why they’re applauding, but I clap once or twice, too. Then Paige’s mom—Lani? Dana?—reads the letter sent to the school superintendent along with all the families who signed the bottom. There must be at least twenty signatures, and some of the names are familiar from the school bulletins and the notes from Eva’s room mother, but with the exception of Paige’s and Jemma’s moms, I don’t know who is who.
    Must get better at this.
    Must make a bigger effort.
    It was fine to be a stranger when we first moved here. It