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Then six months ago, Dad bailed on us, and Mom’s Stepford-wife act went with him.
She traded her sleek, straight copper-colored bob for a riot of overteased and sprayed platinum-blond curls and hid her warm-brown eyes behind heavy kohl eyeliner and false lashes, straddling the gulf between Jennifer Coolidge as Stifler’s mom and Bugs Bunny in drag. Between the hair, the makeup, and the cleavage-baring thrift store outfits, she looks like she’s riding the Cougar Express straight into MILF Town.
And her appearance is only half the problem. In the weeks right after Dad left, I discovered my mom couldn’t cook to save her life—or mine. She burned every meal she made and even managed to ruin our best pan in a failed attempt to boil water. And who the hell burns water? My mom, apparently. Growing up, I had no clue that the delicious fettuccine Alfredo she passed off as her own actually came from the little Italian place in town. Or that the French cooking class she supposedly attended every Tuesday afternoon was just a cover story for the premade local-harvest dinners she brought home for the rest of the week. Even her famous chocolate chip cookies came in a half-gallon tub, straight from the grocery freezer section. Dad’s money may have afforded her the luxury of paying for fancy home-cooked meals from the best chefs in town, but with her current budgetary limitations, I’m stuck with Betty Crocker’s evil twin.
Mom groans in defeat, and I think maybe I’ve won this round.
“Have sex. Don’t have sex. All I ask is that you get out there and date. Open your mind to the possibilities.” She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward, giving me an unobstructed view of her ample cleavage. “When I was twenty, I thought saving my flower—”
“Ugh.” I wince. “Please don’t call it that.”
“Fine.” She sighs. “I thought saving my virginity for the man I married was the ultimate gift. And look where that got me.”
“I’m not you.”
“Thank God for that!” She starts crossing herself over her heaving bosom but lowers her hand midway through. “You hold all the power here, but don’t forget about the countless women who came before you . . . who fought against the status quo so you could choose for yourself. You’re a modern woman, Kennedy. Start acting like one!”
Mom’s rant reaches a crescendo, and I half expect her to break into a Beyoncé song.
“Just promise me you won’t put your eggs in one basket—hang all your hopes on some theoretical man you haven’t even met yet.” She sags into her chair with another exaggerated huff. “Trust me. You don’t buy a car without kicking a few tires and taking a few test drives. I wish someone had given me that advice when I was your age. I had to learn the hard way.”
I gape at her. “What does that even mean?”
I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. According to Mom 2.0, I can either fail the women who came before me—living my life like the flavorless gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe in the used car lot of life. Or worse—accept my fate as the sacrificial cow, begging someone to milk me. When do I get to be this “modern woman” figuring out the world for myself?
She pushes herself to standing, a huge sigh blowing past her lips. “It means, I don’t want you to end up like me.”
And that’s what all her bluster boils down to—rewriting the wrongs of her past with my future. “Mom . . .”
She brushes a fiery lock of hair from my cheek. “You’re a beautiful woman. You should have admirers lining up around the block.”
I shift in place, heat stinging my cheeks. I know I’m pretty—in a quiet, studious way—but my looks have never been the problem. I’ve been holding out for someone who’ll make my palms sweat and my heart race. The guy who’ll fall head over heels for me despite my quirks and flaws.
The biggest of which may be my total lack of foresight.
“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe I’m still a virgin because my underwear comes from Grannies R Us?”
She cackles and waves her hand around her head as if shooing away a hornet. “Nothing wrong with practical underwear.”
I might’ve agreed back when she was preaching nonstop about abstinence and modesty. Because what’s the point of pretty panties if no one will see them? But now . . .
Mom rolls her eyes. “If you really want something else, no one’s stopping you.”
“My bank balance begs to differ.” When I had money, I didn’t think I needed fancy underwear, and now that I do, Dad’s money is long gone, and there’s no room in my budget for the expensive stuff.
Unfortunately for me, Mom’s sudden change of heart didn’t come with a Victoria’s Secret gift card. Instead, I got the Hanes Factory Outlet twelve-pack in my stocking just like every other Christmas.
“If I ever do find the perfect guy, I’ll have to undress in the dark. I can’t exactly get naked with someone if I don’t even own decent underwear.” If only I’d foreseen Dad walking out and Mom’s epiphany, I would’ve gotten a truckload of lingerie when I had the chance.
“Trust me.” She laughs. “Once he gets your pants off, the last thing any red-blooded man will be thinking about is your underwear. Silk is silk.”
“Silk is a natural fiber. These”—I hook a finger under the lacy waistband of my sky-blue panties and tug them out of my jeans—“are nylon. I could burst into flames if I move too quickly!” And I’m not about to let just anyone stick his hands down there to test the theory. I’m sure my physics professor would agree. Vigorous friction equals spontaneous combustion.
In her own display of spontaneous combustion, Mom bursts into a fit of laughter and walks off humming Kings of Leon’s “Sex on Fire,” effectively putting an end to our conversation, for now. But if I know her, she’ll only become more determined to see me check off the missing items from her bucket list as time passes. The only way it could get worse is if she put an ad on Craigslist.
Wanted: One moderately endowed man between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four for the ceremonial deflowering of one Kennedy Jane Beaman.
I shudder at the horrifying image of my mother interviewing suitors like the evil patriarch in a Regency romance novel. My stomach tries sending an unsolicited refund, and I swallow back my breakfast. No way can I let that happen. If my so-called virtue has an expiration date—and unless my destiny follows the path of Dickens’s Miss Havisham, it has to—I should at least choose my own partner. I’d sooner sleep with Andy Sutton’s telescope than settle for someone my mother picks for me.
