to a fashion show fund-raiser the night before, saying we needed some “mother-daughter bonding time.” It wound up being really fun, and in fact we bonded so much that I even asked her sweetly on the way home if she’d reconsider giving me my allowance. She said no. That led to another heated argument, and by the time she pulled up out front, we were crabby at each other all over again.
And now I had crabbiness on top of crabbiness. “
I’m
having a sleepover!” I protested. Lauren and I have sleepovers about once a month. We take turns between houses, but we both know that my house is better, since my bedroom isbigger, my music’s better, my makeup is better, and I have better low-fat snacks.
Mom was making brunch, still in her bathrobe. There was a pile of dirty dishes on the counter with bits of food crusted all over them, left there by Lenny and Squiggy the night before. “All they had to do was rinse them and put them in the dishwasher,” Mom muttered to herself. “Is that so hard?”
“Mom! Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
She sighed. “Yes. I heard you. So you’ll both have sleepovers. So what?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I just want to state for the record that I feel like I and my wishes are being seriously taken for granite lately.”
“For
granted
,” she replied just as the doorbell rang. I followed Mom into the foyer. A dark-skinned but equally geeky-looking version of Stewart stood at the door, a duffel bag in his hands. “Hello, I’m Alistair Singh. You must be Caroline and Ashley. Pleasure to meet you.”
“You too, Alistair. Stewart’s in his room. You can go on up. It’s on the left at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks.” Alistair slipped off his shoes, then nodded toward the living room. “I see you’ve found a home for Janice’s painting.”
“Janice?” I said.
“Stewart’s mom,” he said before he took off upstairs. Mom and I looked at each other, puzzled. We peered into the living room.
I almost screamed. And totally one hundred percent no joke, my mom almost screamed, too.
A massive oil painting hung over the fireplace. The space had been empty since Dad moved out; he took very little with him, but he did take the painting that used to hang there, because he’d bought it before he and Mom were married. It was an
abstract
, meaning it looked like a kindergarten kid had thrown paint at a canvas.
This thing was not abstract. It was very, very lifelike. And it was unmistakably Stewart’s dead mother, breastfeeding her baby. Who was unmistakably Stewart. And the breasts were
bare
!
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
Mom looked pale. “No. I mean, yes—I’ve seen it at their old house. But no, I didn’t realize they’d brought it here. I thought it had gone into storage.” She pulled her bathrobe tight, hugging herself. “They must have hung it up last night. I don’t know how we missed it when we came in.”
“Mom, it can’t stay. You know it can’t stay! It’s practically pornography!”
“Ashley, breastfeeding is perfectly natural—”
“
WhatEVER!
It doesn’t mean we should have to look at it twenty-four-seven in our own house!”
Mom was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “It’s not to my taste, either. I’ll talk to Leonard when he’s back from his fencing class.”
Yup. Uh-huh. Lenny
fences
. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if, after my dad left and before she started dating
her boss
, my mother had a mini-stroke, something that affected the “who I’ll be attracted to” part of her brain. Then again, she married a guy who turned out to be gay, so maybe the“who I’ll be attracted to” part of her brain never worked all that well.
Before we’d even left the foyer, the doorbell rang again. It had to be Lauren. “Oh, no,” I groaned. “If Lauren sees this painting, I might as well never go back to school ever again.”
“Sweetheart, she’s your best friend. I don’t think you give her enough credit. I’m
And now I had crabbiness on top of crabbiness. “
I’m
having a sleepover!” I protested. Lauren and I have sleepovers about once a month. We take turns between houses, but we both know that my house is better, since my bedroom isbigger, my music’s better, my makeup is better, and I have better low-fat snacks.
Mom was making brunch, still in her bathrobe. There was a pile of dirty dishes on the counter with bits of food crusted all over them, left there by Lenny and Squiggy the night before. “All they had to do was rinse them and put them in the dishwasher,” Mom muttered to herself. “Is that so hard?”
“Mom! Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
She sighed. “Yes. I heard you. So you’ll both have sleepovers. So what?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I just want to state for the record that I feel like I and my wishes are being seriously taken for granite lately.”
“For
granted
,” she replied just as the doorbell rang. I followed Mom into the foyer. A dark-skinned but equally geeky-looking version of Stewart stood at the door, a duffel bag in his hands. “Hello, I’m Alistair Singh. You must be Caroline and Ashley. Pleasure to meet you.”
“You too, Alistair. Stewart’s in his room. You can go on up. It’s on the left at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks.” Alistair slipped off his shoes, then nodded toward the living room. “I see you’ve found a home for Janice’s painting.”
“Janice?” I said.
“Stewart’s mom,” he said before he took off upstairs. Mom and I looked at each other, puzzled. We peered into the living room.
I almost screamed. And totally one hundred percent no joke, my mom almost screamed, too.
A massive oil painting hung over the fireplace. The space had been empty since Dad moved out; he took very little with him, but he did take the painting that used to hang there, because he’d bought it before he and Mom were married. It was an
abstract
, meaning it looked like a kindergarten kid had thrown paint at a canvas.
This thing was not abstract. It was very, very lifelike. And it was unmistakably Stewart’s dead mother, breastfeeding her baby. Who was unmistakably Stewart. And the breasts were
bare
!
“Did you know about this?” I asked.
Mom looked pale. “No. I mean, yes—I’ve seen it at their old house. But no, I didn’t realize they’d brought it here. I thought it had gone into storage.” She pulled her bathrobe tight, hugging herself. “They must have hung it up last night. I don’t know how we missed it when we came in.”
“Mom, it can’t stay. You know it can’t stay! It’s practically pornography!”
“Ashley, breastfeeding is perfectly natural—”
“
WhatEVER!
It doesn’t mean we should have to look at it twenty-four-seven in our own house!”
Mom was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “It’s not to my taste, either. I’ll talk to Leonard when he’s back from his fencing class.”
Yup. Uh-huh. Lenny
fences
. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if, after my dad left and before she started dating
her boss
, my mother had a mini-stroke, something that affected the “who I’ll be attracted to” part of her brain. Then again, she married a guy who turned out to be gay, so maybe the“who I’ll be attracted to” part of her brain never worked all that well.
Before we’d even left the foyer, the doorbell rang again. It had to be Lauren. “Oh, no,” I groaned. “If Lauren sees this painting, I might as well never go back to school ever again.”
“Sweetheart, she’s your best friend. I don’t think you give her enough credit. I’m
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