Can You Say Catastrophe? Read Free Page A

and Mom and Dad are taking it, but there’s not a chance I’m going to serve pie to my friends in a tricked-out jacket.
    â€œNO WAY!” I yelled at Mom. Then I kept on going, even though I knew by the look on her face that I should stop. “I’m thirteen now, and you can’t keep telling me what to do.”
    It wasn’t the first time I’d had this kind of talk with Mom. Just this morning before school, I was at the kitchen table trying to finish my math homework, and Mom kept standing over me asking why I hadn’t finished my homework last night. I could hardly think to do my math, so I stopped trying to divide fractions and looked up at her.
    Me: Do you know what a helicopter parent is?
    Mom: Do YOU know what a helicopter parent is?
    Me: I asked you first.
    Mom: Don’t get fresh with me, young lady.
    The conversation with her completely ruined a perfectly good plate of frozen waffles.
    So this afternoon, I crossed my arms and waited for the full effect of my words to sink in. I waited for Mom to say something reasonable like, “I’m sorry, April. Of course, you’re a teenager now and you deserve to make your own decisions.” But all she said was, “Young lady, this is not a democracy. Now go get dressed. Tonight is an important night for your father, and we’re leaving soon.”
    Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. On a scale of 1 to 10, I think tonight is going to be a -44.
    10:35 P.M.
    I was wrong about tonight. It was a -3,456,789.
    It was the most embarrassing night ever. When Mom, May, June, and I got to the diner, Dad was already setting up. There were tables of food, racks of pies, and strolling musicians. The whole place, which is already heavy on the hearts motif, was decorated with extra hearts. There were hearts hanging on the walls and stuck to the windows and printed on the napkins. Dad even had heart-shaped candles and heart glitter confetti he gave to May and June and me to sprinkle across the tables. The whole thing looked like something Brynn and I would have made up to play when we were seven. The only kind-of cool thing Dad had was a blackboard by the front door with the pie and quote of the day written on it, kind of like they do at Starbucks. I love finding cool quotes, and the quote he had written on the blackboard tonight was one that I found and gave him.
    Anyway, when we were done sprinkling confetti, Dad lined us up and gave us what he called our “marching orders.” Serve pie. Be friendly. Make sure people enjoy themselves. More blah, blah, blah about how we are the Ambassadors of Love at the Love Doctor Diner, and it’s up to us to make people want to come back and eat here again.
    The Ambassadors of Love? What planet is my dad from?
    Before I could beg him to shutter up before he opened, people started pouring in. Everyone I have ever known was there. My grandmother, my aunts, my cousins, my friends, my teachers, my neighbors, my pediatrician, our vet, the lady who works at the dry cleaners, the man who runs the concession stand at the baseball park, the lifeguard from the pool, even the crossing guard from my school.
    â€œGo!” said Dad, like it was time to spring into action.
    He handed May and June plates of what he says will be his world-famous pecan pie. He tried to give me one. “Take this pie to Mrs. Wallace,” he said.
    I didn’t budge. I rolled my eyes in the direction of my overweight neighbor. “I don’t think Mrs. Wallace needs pie.” But Dad seemed to disagree. He took my arm and gave me an I-don’t-like-your-attitude look. “Young lady, I expect you to be pleasant around the customers.” Then he stuck the plate in my hand and sent me off.
    There were lots of things I wanted to say to Dad, like: Do I look like I’m wearing a T-shirt that says waitress on it? Did I ask you to open a restaurant with a neon sign of a heart with a stethoscope wrapped around it right in the