My Mother was Never a Kid by Francine Pascal

Author:Francine Pascal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon Pulse
Published: 1977-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ten

By now you probably figure I’ve flipped my lid. Well, so do I, but it doesn’t change things. Right this minute I’m looking straight at my mother, only she’s fourteen years old. I mean it’s fantastic that I’m looking into the very same yellow-brown eyes that I’ve looked into thousands of times before. I don’t know how come I didn’t recognize that special look they have. I think I even see it now. Her hair throws me a little. My mother’s is blonder and curlier now, but I guess a little bleach and some curlers handle that pretty easily. And her chin. It sticks out just like my mother’s. Hey, jerk, it isn’t just like —it is my mother’s chin.

Well, so far so good. I mean they’re just standing there. Nobody’s attacking me so maybe it’s not going to be so bad. In fact I think I feel a little better now. Not so scared. After all, it is my mother and grandmother, and even if they don’t know who I am, still, they’re not exactly killer monsters. Actually they’re terrific people. All my friends think they’re super. Whenever I go to visit my grandmother’s country club, everybody is always telling me how sensational she is. And my mother? I told you before I’m the only one who doesn’t like her. Except now. Now she turns out to be my best friend. So why am I still shaking?

“Aaah!” Cici says, making a grab for the overflowing malted machine. I jump a foot straight into the air. I guess I’m still a little scared.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to fill it so high,” my grandmother says, sounding more like my mother than my grandmother. “Here.” She hands Cici the sponge. “Before it drips on the floor.”

Cici wipes the counter and fills two glasses with mostly foam and hands one to me. I’ve got to make myself talk or they’re going to think I’m some kind of a moron.

“Thank you,” I say. It isn’t much but it’s all I can manage now in my condition. I really hope my grandmother, or Mrs. Lyons (I guess that’s what I’ll have to call her now), just thinks I’m shy, not unfriendly. I know she’s not going to love me in a day, but I do want her to like me.

“Victoria, would you like to try your house again?” She sounds like she likes me okay.

“Yes, please,” I say, squinching my mouth in smile formation, I hope.

“Felicia, let Victoria use the hall phone.”

We finish our malteds.

“After you’ve called, Felicia will introduce you to her brother.”

An “ugh” sound plus an “ugh” look is Cici’s answer.

“I don’t like that, Felicia.” That’s exactly what my mother says to me when I do something like that about Nina. But what’s really incredible is how my mother is about her brother now. I’m talking about the 1970s. I told you how close they are, practically like twins. Uncle Steve can do no wrong. And she’s always saying how she would do anything for him and he would do anything for her.

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