“I actually have another commitment.” One that can’t come soon enough. We’re going to practice hitting today for the first time, and I could use the physical outlet, seeing as I’m filled with equal parts irritation and abject lust.
“What is it?” she asks as we settle into the car.
Well, I guess now is as good a time as any to get this out in theopen. I imagine a few carefully placed new thorns as I tell her, “I joined a roller derby team.”
She looks at me like I’ve said I joined the circus. “A what?”
I throw the car into reverse and back out of the parking spot, thankful I have something else to focus on while we have what I’m sure is going to be a deeply irritating conversation.
“Roller derby,” I say. “It’s a women’s sport.”
“Isn’t that like wrestling? Where the girls hit each other?”
“It’s not like wrestling, it’s more like…rugby on skates. It’s full contact, but it’s a real sport with rules.” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. I cannot wait to throw my body around today.
Mom, as expected, tuts. “Hitting people on skates? Oh, Carson, that seems dangerous,” she says. “I thought you joined the Women’s Auxiliary at the church.”
Oh, I joined the Women’s Auxiliary. I went to exactly one meeting. Their next service project was ministering outside the Planned Parenthood. I stood up and walked out.
“It wasn’t for me, Mom,” I say. “And I really like this. It’s great exercise.”
“You’d really rather risk your body hitting other women when you could just do Zumba?”
“Yes, Mom. I’d really rather do this than Zumba,” I tell her through gritted teeth.
We pull into the driveway, and not a second too soon. If I have to keep having conversations with my mother about the way I should be living my life, I might just snap and shout,Dan brought me to a screaming orgasm using only his tongue last night, so maybe it’s time to treat me like an adult!
I unload the groceries from the trunk and follow my mother into the house, falling into the familiar rhythms I remember from when I was a kid. We move around the kitchen like a ballet, unpacking groceries and putting them in their places. My mother acts baffled about where to put the Lucky Charms, but I simply pluck them from her hand and place them on top of the fridge. When the unloading is done, I put the reusable bags inthe cabinet by the back door and wad up the receipt to throw away. But when I open the lid of the trash can, I spot a flash of yellow.
My wallpaper sample.
It’s in the trash.
I pull it out, brushing toast crumbs off of it and smoothing out a bent edge. I clutch the paper as my heart ping-pongs from my gut to my throat. There’s a noxious combination of sadness and rage simmering inside me.
“Mom? Did you throw this away?”
My mother looks up from her place at the kitchen table, where she’s already paging through a new copy ofPeoplemagazine.
“It was on the floor. I just assumed it was trash,” she says.
“It’s not trash. I was—am—thinking about putting up this pattern in here.”
“Oh, honey, that yellow is much too bright,” she says, flipping to the crossword in the back of the magazine. She barely gives the wallpaper sample a glance, and somehow that infuriates me even more. “With the sun you get through that window, you’d be blinded every morning! You know what would be nice? A calming blue. You could do a Wedgwood pattern! I saw some on Martha Stewart’s Instagram. That would look gorgeous with the cabinets. I’ll order a sample for you.”
She continues to chatter on about Martha and east-facing windows, but I can’t hear her anymore. Or maybe I just refuse to. All I can do is stare down at the yellow lemons in my fist, picturing the sample sitting in the trash can. She’s wrong about the sun. This yellow might be a smidge bright on the sunniest of summer days, but during our long, cold, gray winter and the rainy days of spring, it’s going to be an absolute balm. I have plans for these lemons to get me through from October to April.
I have plans.
Don’t I?
The lemons should already be on my walls.Mywalls. Why haven’t I hung the wallpaper yet? What am I waiting for?
“Do you have time for lunch before you go? I could whip up some egg salad,” Mom says.
“No,” I say, clutching the wallpaper sample to my chest. “I need to get ready and head out.”
I rush out of the room before she can say anything else. I throw on my derby clothes: a pair of short spandex shorts, knee socks, and a cropped T-shirt with the Bloomington Brawlers logo on it. I braid my hair into two pigtails so it’ll stay out of my face beneath my helmet, then grab my duffel bag from the corner of my room.
