My Soon-To-Be Sex Life Read Free Page A

should have broken a leg or something. How hard is it to break a leg? You’re a nurse.” I flashed my mother an encouraging smile. “You could break one for me.”
    She gave me a look and kept folding clothes. “Grace is on her way over.”
    â€œAnd?” Grace, my mom’s best friend since forever, had just married a guy she met on the internet, and things were not going well.
    â€œ And …” Mom drawled, “I asked her to be here tonight. There’s something I need to tell you.”
    â€œSo you asked Grace here for moral support?” I plucked my bra from Mom’s hands before she could try to do that thing where she aligns the cups and fusses over the straps. She has a special method for panties, too. Don’t ask. “Mom, she’s a nutbar. We’re the ones supporting her drama queen meltdowns, remember?” I had a thought. A decent plot twist.
    â€œAh, Christ, are you two coming out? You’re lesbos? Is that why Grace keeps a toothbrush here? I can picture the trailer.” I chortled. “Long pan of house on crescent. Then the voiceover… when a small-town widow gets lonely, she starts experimenting…” I paused. “You know, I might be able to use this to my advantage. This could be why I destroyed my diorama. In fact, I bet I could get out of a bunch of assignments if I play this right.”
    â€œCharlotte Webb!” Mom yelled.
    I cringed away from her like a vampire being sprayed with holy water. Mom knew I hated when she used my full name. Growing up being named after a kid’s book was a stigma in itself. Being named after a gross little spider that ends up kicking the bucket was just plain mean.
    â€œI should wash your mouth out with Windex.” Mom shoved the laundry basket across the table, knocking her folded dishcloth tower to the floor. “You just disrespected me, your father’s memory, and my dearest friend. Not everything’s fodder for one of your films, Charlie. This is real life.”
    From Suzie Homemaker to the Antichrist in a heartbeat, such was life with my mother. “What’s the crisis now? Go on, tell me already. I’m listening.” I picked up a plaid square that smelled vaguely of spaghetti sauce and lobbed it in her direction. “Tell me.’
    She caught the cloth and tossed it into the basket. Her eyes were sad and angry all at the same time. “You’re moving in with your grandfather.”
    I’d heard this threat before, but the look on mom’s face - her complete silence after the fact -- made this single utterance anything but idle. This was no usual, wink-wink-nudge-nudge, I’ll send you to your Grandfather’s to live, how’d you like that? Similar to the universal, I’ll let the [gypsies, boogieman, etc.] get you, parents use with impunity.
    Mom was beyond serious. My heart flopped around in my chest like a fish out of water. I struggled to maintain the nothing-you-do-can-break-me smirk I’d fixed on my lips, but suspected it had slipped into a pained grimace.
    Basket in hand, Mom kicked the fallen dishcloths down the hall to the laundry room. I remained in the same spot when she returned to fill the kettle with water and plug it in. The coil heater hummed a perky ditty.
    I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look up from the floor. Move in with the old fart who had ignored us for years? What the hell was going on? There was always drama in our lives but this…was Mom finally giving up on us? Admitting we’d never be the epic game of Let’s Play House we were before Dad died?
    What a joke. What were we back then but one epic game of “Let’s Play House” that none of us could ever hope to win? Because it was all pretend. They say the truth will set you free, they don’t tell you it burns like an open wound.
    Many a tense minute of uncomfortable silence had passed by the time Grace entered the