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A week later, I come home from the mall and find Marty’s Jeep in our driveway. It’s blocking my entrance to the garage so I pull around to the front and carry my new dress inside. It’s a strapless satin thing in baby blue – the color of the unhappiness I feel in attending another one of Mom’s receptions. It was also the first thing on the sales rack that fit me. I have never been more unenthusiastic about shopping. Except maybe for that year Mom’s bridesmaid dresses were puke green.
It’s Friday afternoon and Mom thinks I’m leaving early tomorrow to spend the weekend with her and attend her reception on Sunday. I haven’t even packed. My plan is to leave Sunday morning, stay as little as possible and then make the drive home that afternoon. It would be eight hours of driving and two additional hours of partying misery. If this doesn’t show her how much I disagree with her lifestyle - nothing will.
Voices drift in from the kitchen. I roll the garment bag into itself and tuck it under my arm. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it up the stairs without Molly noticing. If she sees me, she’ll want me to model the wretched thing, spinning around like a child for her amusement. She would probably throw in some more guilt trips for not allowing her to shop with me today.
I turn the handle on my door, taking care to be quiet. Dorothy’s voice catches me off-guard. “We want to donate our pay this weekend. We ain’t got much money but that’s the least we can do.”
I lean over the banister and listen to the voices below. Why are they donating their paycheck? Curiosity takes over and I toss the dress onto my bed and rush down stairs to find out. They’re all seated at the dining table around an empty pizza box. Molly takes notes in a spiral. She sketches something like an advertisement or flyer.
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“We’re organizing a fundraiser race for the Carter’s,” he says. Molly asks if I got a dress and I pretend not to hear her. “What’s a fundraiser race?”
“It’s something we do when a valued member of our motocross family gets seriously injured. We hold a race and donate all of the money,” he explains. Marty and Dorothy nod in unison. “Our last fundraiser race was for Davie Hicks who is now paralyzed for life.”
“We raised enough to pay for his hospital bills and get him a motorized wheelchair,” Marty says. Dorothy adds, “And we set up a college fund for him. Just because he’s paralyzed doesn’t mean he can’t get an education.”
“So now you’re raising money for Shawn’s medical bills?” I think of their shabby home and how Shelby was so embarrassed about it. Ash won’t even accept free admission in the track. Will they even accept help? Sure they accepted Molly’s dinner, but you’d be insane to turn down her cooking. The last time I counted the money at the races it was over fifteen thousand dollars. Most families feel awkward accepting that much money.
“They lost their insurance and poor ol‘ Rick’s been taking day labor jobs to supplement the engine repair shop.” Dad says.
Molly fills in the bubble letters drawn at the top of the flyer. RIDERS DOWN FOUNDATION. Further down on the page is Shawn’s name and a square. Inside it she had written, PHOTO HERE.
Marty frowns, his eyes far away. “It’s a damn shame,” he says. “Those are some good kids.” Everyone agrees.
“I’ll donate my pay too,” I say, taking a chair next to Molly.
“That’s sweet of you, but you won’t be working that day.” Molly pats my shoulder.
“What?” Like I would miss this. She’s out of her freaking mind.
She shakes her head. “You’ll be in Dallas.”
I pace my room staring at my cell phone. I have to call Mom and let her down. There is no other option. Mom is good at disappointing me. She’s fantastic at it. She totally forgot about my eight, twelfth and fifteenth birthdays.
When Felicia’s cousin asked me to his junior prom, Mom promised to take photos of us in front of the fireplace but then never came home from work. Things went downhill after Grandma died. Mom has been letting me down for sixteen years. But somehow, it feels different when her shoe is on my foot.
It’s not like I want to disappoint her on purpose. But I can’t miss this race. Mom will get divorced within the year and remarry again so what’s the big deal if I miss one lousy reception? My face burns thinking of the slap she’d give me if I ever said that out loud.
I need to call Mom. I have to call Mom. Why am I so scared? I’m more scared to call my own mother than I was to text Ryan. Now it seems so pathetic that I would ever break a sweat over someone as repulsive as him. Screw. Ryan.
And screw being scared. I hit the speed dial button for Mom’s cell and listen while the phone rings.
“Hi sweetheart,” Mom sings into the phone. Jazz music plays in the background.
My chest tightens. “Hi Mom.”
“I miss you so much sweetie. I can’t wait till you’re here.” Ugh, she isn’t making this easy. I have to break it to her now before I chicken out. “I’m really sorry but I can’t make it tomorrow.”
“So you’re leaving Sunday morning?” She sighs. Holy crap, it sounds like a real motherly concerned sigh. I almost feel guilty. “Make sure you get here extra early so we can get Maria to do your hair.”
“I can’t make it Sunday either, Mom.”
There is a full minute of silence before speaks again. “What are you saying?” Every ounce of love in her voice vanishes. She always likes to make me repeat myself when I’m telling her something she doesn’t want to hear. It’s as if she wants me to suffer saying it as much as she suffers hearing it.
“Something important – really important – came up.” I sit on my bed. I know she’ll give me the silent treatment, so I try to elaborate, “I’m really sorry but my friend-“
“Friend?” I pull the phone a few inches away from my ear. “I can’t imagine anything – any – thing – on this earth that would be more important than your mother’s wedding party.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “So why don’t you enlighten me and tell me what this important thing is?”
