Читать книгу Best Babysitters Ever - Caroline Cala - Страница 7

Jingle-jangle. Jingle-jangle.

The first thing Dot saw upon waking was her mother standing over her, waving her hands in sweeping circles just above Dot’s body. Her mom’s frizzy red hair formed a halo around her face as her long beaded necklaces jangled like wind chimes in the presence of a very powerful ceiling fan. The sleeves of her tunic billowed in the air as she hovered the palms of her hands to rest just above Dot’s eyes.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Dot asked through gritted teeth.

This was not a normal way to wake up. Unless you were Dot. In that case, you were pretty much used to it.

“Dot, honey, there’s no reason for an attitude. I was just doing a Reiki attunement.”

Dot groaned and pulled her pillow on top of her head. Her sheets and pillowcases were black – much like the decor in the rest of her bedroom – and thus excellent for blocking out both unwanted sunlight and the antics of eccentric mothers.

“Your energy is feeling a bit orange right now,” her mom continued. “Are you stressed about something?”

A perfectly innocent question. Like being jolted awake via crazy witchery was not inherently stressful.

Dot let loose a monotone groan loud enough to drown out whatever statement came next. Dot heard her mom rummaging around somewhere in the room, no doubt disturbing the highly organized chaos Dot had worked so hard to achieve. Her bedroom was super tiny, so everything – from her expertly styled bookshelves to the painstakingly placed collage that occupied the entire wall above her desk – had its place. She could always tell if anything was moved by even an inch. For a few blissful moments, Dot heard no sounds. Perhaps her mom had vacated the premises. Perhaps she would be permitted to sleep for a few more moments, to escape the heinous reality that was being twelve.

“WHAT is THIS?” her mom yelled.

No such luck.

Dot slowly removed the pillow to discover her mom standing in front of the immaculately colour-coded bookshelf, brandishing a stick of deodorant. She waved it in the air like Excalibur, her face filled with a disgust that would be more appropriate had she just unearthed the limp carcass of a recently deceased rodent.

“That is deodorant,” Dot said matter-of-factly. After all, she was fairly certain her mom already knew what it was.

“This . . . this . . . chemical cesspool is a known carcinogen!” she spat. “Why is it in our house? What happened to the rock crystal deodorant I bought you?”

“Puberty happened. And then the crystal didn’t work anymore.” Dot was grateful her mother hadn’t yet stumbled across the stash of other contraband products hidden in the closet: lipstick, tinted moisturizer, dry shampoo, and – most controversial of all – spray-on bronzer. Her mom exclusively used natural and organic products, many of which she made herself, like some kind of suburban shaman. She insisted Dot do the same – otherwise risk unimaginable peril – but there was only so much that coconut oil could do. “I mean, the youths of America are out there stealing things and doing drugs. Wouldn’t you rather my only vice be proper grooming?”

“NO!” Her mom flung her arms into the air, prompting a whiff of patchouli to waft across the room and assault Dot’s nostrils.

Dot staggered out of bed, any hope of a peaceful morning now shattered.

“Mother, maybe you should learn to pick your battles.”

“One day you’re going to have babies of your own, and then you’ll understand,” she cried, clutching her hands to her chest. “Unless they come out having three heads because you continue to slather this poison all over your body!”

Dot had often thought her mom missed her calling as an actress. She could easily win an Oscar for her dramatic reactions to all things. Instead, she was a yoga teacher. A very, very theatrical one.

Dot calmly exited the room, though she knew her mom would just follow her around the bungalow. Their home was so freakishly tiny it often felt impossible to get away from her. Dot continued down the narrow hallway, over the layered vintage rugs, past the five-foot-tall amethyst geode, and into the kitchen.

Some kids had parents who made them breakfast, and entire families to eat it with. But her mom had never been much of a cook, and Dot had no siblings to speak of. Ever since her dad left when Dot was little, she’d been expected to rummage through whatever organic, gluten-free goodness they had lying around and fix something for herself. Dot supposed she was thankful for the independence. It would help when she lived on her own one day, far away from the sleepy beach town that was Playa del Mar.

Dot opened the cabinet to survey the goods: hemp flakes (scary); cashew spirulina algae balls (so scary); sugar-free, vegan peanut butter cookies (not quite as scary, but not appropriate for breakfast). She settled on some kind of gluten-free rice flakes that had a picture of a friendly manatee on the box. Why would they use such a benevolent animal to market something so awful?

She poured some flakes into a bowl with the phases of the moon painted along its rim, and drowned the whole thing in cashew milk. They never kept any dairy products in the house, something her mom insisted upon long before it was trendy.

“These flakes taste like nothing,” Dot said. “They are truly impressive for how little flavour they possess.”

Her mom filled a copper watering can and proceeded to water one of what felt like three thousand ferns dangling from hooks above the counter.

“That’s better than if they had a bad taste, no?”

“At least that would provide some sort of experience.”

Dot started plotting which snack she’d purchase from the school cafeteria to serve as the second half of her breakfast. Something completely forbidden, like a huge chewy cookie, made with gluten and sugar and dairy, encrusted with M&M’s.

“Just so you know, I’m having my crystal healing group over this afternoon for a full-moon meditation. If you come straight home from school, you’re more than welcome to join us. I think Jamie is bringing her Wiccan spear!”

“That sounds, uh, magical,” Dot said. “Too bad I’m supposed to meet up with Malia and Bree after school.” Her mom’s face fell. “But please tell everyone I said hello.”

“We’ll be sure to do a visualization for you,” her mom said. “Is there anything you’ve been particularly wanting lately?”

Other than the ability to freely purchase the things normal parents kept in the house – like, say, body wash – only one thing came to mind. All Dot wanted was to live in New York City, in an apartment of her own, wearing all-black clothes and talking about interesting things with interesting people – writers, designers, researchers, inventors, entrepreneurs. People who stayed up until the wee hours because they were bursting with ideas and entire worlds they wanted to bring forth. People who wanted to change the world by the sheer will of their passion. The kind of people who just didn’t exist in this tiny town. But of course Dot couldn’t tell her mother that. That dream was still years away.

In the meantime, though, Dot did have one slightly more practical wish: to throw a birthday party to rival her classmates’.

“Well, Malia and Bree and I are trying to plan our annual joint birthday party . . .” Dot started, hoping her mom’s psychic powers might kick in before she had to straight up ask for a budget. Her mom nodded supportively but said nothing, so Dot was forced to continue. “This year is a big one, since everyone is turning thirteen. Charlotte Price had Drake perform at her bat mitzvah.” Her mom showed no sign of knowing who that was. “And Sheila Brown had an actual elephant at her party.”

“An elephant! Where on earth did she get an elephant from?” Her mom was indignant. “That’s exploitation! Not to mention irresponsible. Did they have a proper handler?”

Dot realized she would have to change her approach. “Of course, we don’t want to do anything like that. We love animals! We also love parties. So we’re hoping to have a really good one this year.”

“I’d be happy to read tarot cards, if you’d like!” said her mom. “Ooh, or I could have my friend Patricia do aura readings.”

“Sure!” said Dot, not wanting to hurt her mother’s feelings. “I mean, maybe. I’d have to talk about it, you know, with the other girls.” She stalled for a moment before continuing. “We were thinking that since this year feels so special, maybe we could do better than the usual bag of crisps on a table. Like, maybe we could host it somewhere exciting, at an actual venue.”

“A venue?” Her mom wrinkled her nose. This wasn’t going the way Dot had hoped. “Why do you girls need a rented space? Filled with the energy of who knows how many people have hosted parties before you.”

“We just thought –”

“Dot, my love, I want you to have the best birthday party ever. But I don’t think it takes an overpriced location to accomplish that – not to mention all the sugar and artificial colouring and wasteful plastic utensils that often accompany such a bash. Celebrations are about togetherness. You can have that anywhere!”

Dot sighed. This was a lost cause.

“Is there anything else you’ve been hoping for lately?” her mom asked.

“Well, it might be nice if my armpits could magically stop producing sweat.”

“Very funny,” her mom said, swooping in for a hug. “I love you, my little Dot.”

Legend has it when Dot’s mom first saw her on the sonogram, she said Dot looked like . . . a dot. The name stuck. Dot wasn’t sure if her mom had been joking when she told her that story, but Dot didn’t care. One day when Dot was famous and important, it would make for a wonderful line in her memoir.

“I love you, too, Mom,” she said, and actually meant it. At the end of the day, it was the two of them against the world. As kooky (and messy, and flaky, and eccentric) as she was, her mom was basically everything to her. She worked incredibly hard so the two of them could be comfortable. Plus, she had spawned Dot, after all.

“But I’m keeping this poison death stick!” her mom said, snatching the deodorant off the counter and slipping it into the pocket of her tunic.

Only six more years, Dot reminded herself, as she did each morning. Six more years until she turned eighteen and could live an independent life.