We have a friend of Kallan’s staying with us for the next week.
She arrived last night, and here she is with Kallan this morning . . .
“Tell your mom we have to leave at 8:30.”
“She knows what time we have to leave. You have the same schedule I do.”
“But she hasn’t made us any breakfast.”
“Welcome to my world. You want cereal or scrambled eggs? There’s some fruit in the bowl there. Want an English muffin?”
“You make your own breakfast?”
“It’s not that hard to pour cereal and peel a banana.”
“What if we want scrambled eggs?”
“There’s a pan under the counter there. Hold on, let me grab some eggs.”
“We have to make our own eggs? My mom always cooks my eggs.”
“You should probably try to keep your mom away from my mom, then. My mom is very persuasive, and before you know it, you will be making your own eggs.”
“My mom likes making my eggs.”
“You mom might think she likes making your eggs, but trust me . . . my mom will convince her that what she would like even better is watching her big-girl daughter make her own eggs.”
“Big-girl daughter? Your mom calls you her big-girl daughter? That’s hilarious!”
“Only with huge sarcasm in her voice . . . as in . . . Oooooh, let me just watch my big-girl daughter figure out how to do her own laundry.”
“Tell me you do not have to do your own laundry.”
“Sometimes. Do you want pepper in your eggs?”
“A little bit. Where is your mom, anyway?”
“Probably in the living room filled with giggles.”
“She’s listening to us?”
“Newsflash . . . we are not exactly stealthy in our talking.”
“True.”
Both girls peer around the doorway, and I wave from my spot on the couch, “Hello, ladies.” They retreat giggling into the kitchen and carry on the rest of their conversation in whispers.
“Ummm, your mom is still wearing her robe.”
“So?”
“So we need a ride to school. Doesn’t she have to get dressed?”
“Yeah, here’s the thing. All last week, I asked her to drive me to school in the morning, and I promised that when you were here, you and I would ride the bus.”
“Why did you promise that? I hate the bus!”
“I know. Me too . . . but it won’t be so bad if we ride together, right?”
“I don’t want to ride the bus. I want your mom to drive us.”
“That’s probably not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because my mom made me a deal, and my end of the deal involves no rides to school this week.”
“That kind of stinks that you got to make a deal for me when I wasn’t even here.”
“Hmmm . . . maybe she will buy that argument.”
“So let me ask her.”
“No, wait! You know what I think might happen?”
“What?”
“I think she might agree to drive you to school but not me.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know, right? But I can so see her driving you to school and leaving me here to ride the bus. I can so see that.”
“Let me ask her.”
“OK, but if you end up being driven to school and I have to take the bus by myself, that is going to be bad news for you.”
“Why bad news for me?”
“Because I will kill you.”
“You are not actually the friendliest best friend I have ever had, Kallan.”
“Yeah, well . . . best friends don’t come live in your room for a week and then ride off to school with your mom and leave you behind.”
“But I hate the bus!”
“Fine. Ask my mom for a ride and then die.”
“Kallan, you are not being reasonable.”
“Murderers don’t have to be reasonable. It’s in the handbook.”
“The murderer handbook?”
“Exactly.”
“But what if I ask your mom so sweetly that she says that she will drive us?”
“My mom is not actually that weak for sweet. Trust me. I have tried sweeting her.”
“I will bat my eyelashes and thank her for letting me stay here and then I will tell her that she looks way too young to be your mom. Moms like it when you say they look too young to be a mom.”
“Oh my god . . . yeah, say that. Please say that. I so want to hear you say that.”
“She’s going to mock me, isn’t she?”
“It’s going to be awesome. Pleeeeeeeease go tell my mom she looks 25. Pleeeeease?”
“You just want your mom to do your dirty work.”
“There’s a whole chapter on that in the handbook.”
“The murderer handbook?”
“Obviously.”
The girls appear in the doorway, and Kallan’s friend speaks sweetly, “Mrs. Wehrmeister?”
“Yes?”
“Could you pretty please drive us to school?”
“Nope. I drove Kallan all last week, because she promised she would ride the bus during your visit. I would offer to drive just you, but then there’s the whole bad part where Kallan murders you. Hard to explain that to your parents.”
“Mrs. Wehrmeister?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for letting me stay here for this week.”
“You are very welcome. It’s a pleasure to have you come visit.”
“Mrs. Wehrmeister?”
“Yes, babe?”
“If I told you that you looked more like Kallan’s sister than her mother, would that convince you to drive us to school?”
“Awwww . . . I am all flattered and foolishly happy at this incredibly heartfelt compliment, but I am unable to drive you to school.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have my driver’s license.”
“Because you are . . .”
“Kallan’s 14 year old sister . . . exactly.”
“But Kallan and I don’t want to take the bus.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Because you have been so sweet and because you have made me feel incredibly young and beautiful, I will let the two of you walk to school.”
“You will?”
“Sure. I am feeling all young and giddy. I will throw caution to the wind. Walk to school with my blessing.”
“YAY! Kallan, your mom will let us walk to school!”
Kallan and her friend high-five and hop joyfully about the kitchen, “YAY! We’re walking to school! Yay!” They dance and twirl and end up staring out into the back yard at the wind and the rain and the cold.
Kallan’s face drops, “Hey. It looks icky outside. Only a fool would want to walk to school in this weather.”
“Are you calling us fools?”
“So it’s settled.”
“Your mom is evil.”
They walked to school.
Fools.
