Leave It to Claire Read Free

slinks back to the minivan, trying desperately not to be noticed. Only problem with that is
     the whole popularity thing. Everyone knows her, so when someone calls “Ari” like I just did, kids stare.
    However, I’m regretting my rash decision to put her in her place. Because not only are they staring at her, now they’re looking
     at me. My hair isn’t brushed, and there’s not a speck of makeup on my face. Instinctively, I check out my reflection in the
     rearview mirror. Big mistake!
    “Mo-ther,” she hisses. “You’re humiliating me.”
    Suddenly needing to get out of there quick, I take pity on us both. “You forgot to tell me what time to pick you up,” I say,
     as a way of covering up the fact that I was about to purposely embarrass her and ended up embarrassing myself instead. My
     mother would call that poetic justice.
    “I have my cell phone. I’ll call you when the game’s over.” She walks away, leaving me to stare after her.
    Shoot. Why does she always get the last word?
    I see her group of followers pointing at me and whispering among themselves. Okay, they’re probably looking and admiring her,
     and most likely haven’t even noticed me, but when you have the kind of self-esteem I have, laughing kids translate to “laughing
     at me” kids. That’s the way I feel if anyone is cracking a joke anywhere in the vicinity, and I’m not in on it.
    It’s something I’ve dealt with since I was a kid. Full of myself one second, down on myself the next. I probably need therapy.
     I hear Dr. Phil has a diet book out now. Maybe I should read it and kill two birds with one stone. Get my head and my behind
     shrunk for one low price of $19.99.
    I’m about to pull out of the drive, seriously considering making a detour to Wal-Mart’s book aisle on the way home, when I
     see a woman walking toward me, waving and mouthing, “Stop.” I’d love to pretend I don’t see her, but eye contact has already
     happened. Besides, I recognize her as the mother of one of Ari’s friends. Linda Myers. She and her husband are new to my church.
    That’s the thing about living in a small town. Acquaintanceships go beyond work, school, or church. Usually there are at least
     two common structured organizations in your life to connect you to someone. The sad thing is that Linda and I have daughters
     who are best friends and a church in common, and I have never taken the time to get to know her on a personal level.
    As she approaches, I notice she’s wearing a yellow-and-black GO YELLOWJACKETS T-shirt tucked into a pair of button-fly Levis.
     She looks how I wish I looked. I haven’t tucked in a shirt on purpose in a good five years. She reaches the van and I realize
     she’s even prettier than I remember from seeing her across the church. Auburn hair and enormous green eyes give her a romance-heroine
     beauty. And they say no one really looks like that. Wait until I tell my skeptical editor. Still, I’d rather eat dirt than
     have to talk to this woman and pretend I don’t care if I’m wearing SpongeBob jammie bottoms.
    A bright smile is splitting her beautifully made-up face and I wish I could crawl under the seat. Instead, I press the button
     and roll down the window.
    “Hi,” she says. “You’re not staying for the first game of the season?”
    I stare blankly.
Shoot
. I should have.
    “I’m uh… on deadline.” I give her a you-know-how-it-is smile, although we both know she doesn’t. For some reason, I really
     hope she won’t think little of me for being a horrible mother and not supporting my cheerleader daughter like she supports
     hers.
    “I understand,” she says. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”
    “It’s okay.” I continue to smile tightly, hoping this is the end of the conversation.
    No such luck.
    She leans against my van and I start worrying that she’s going to get a ton of dust down the front of her. When was the last
     time I had this thing at the car wash?
    She pulls me from