Dear George Clooney: Please Marry My Mom (6 page)

“Mom says you run a bathroom store,” I said, cutting him off. I picked up a small notebook and pen from the side table, where I’d placed them before supper.

“A bath shop. That’s right. It’s at Main and Eleventh.”

“Do you own it? Or do you just work there?”

“I own it,” he said.

I wrote that down. “How long have you owned this business?”

“Four years.”

“I see. And what did you do before then?”

He shifted in his seat again. “I was in the insurance business, selling household insurance, car insurance, you name it.”

“Why did you leave? Were you fired?”

“No, I chose to leave. I got tired of working for a big faceless company. I decided to go into business for myself.”

I nodded. “What do you earn in a year?”

Dudley squirmed again. He took a deep breath. “Let’s put it this way, I do just fine.”

“And yet you buy previously worn clothes at yard sales.”

He smiled. “Your mom likes yard sales, too.”

“My mom is a single parent raising two kids with very little support from my dad. What’s your excuse?”

He shrugged. “I guess I love a bargain.”

I wrote the word
CHEAP
in capital letters.

“Do you have any debt?” I continued.

“No.”

“Mortgage?”

“No. I rent an apartment. I used to own a house – why am I telling you this?”

Just then Rosie dashed into the living room and plunked herself beside Dudley. She beamed up at him. “Hello,” she said, adjusting her glasses.

“Hello,” Dudley replied.

“Are you married?” I continued.

Dudley almost choked on his wine. “No, Violet. I am not married. I really think this has gone far enough –”

“We’re almost finished. Are you an addict of any sort? Alcohol, drugs – illegal or prescription?”

Dudley took a deep breath. “I see what you’re doing, and I think it’s admirable. But these questions, they’re awfully personal.”

“So you do have an addiction.”

“I didn’t say that –”

“It’s a simple question.”

“No, I don’t have any addictions. I’m a pretty normal guy, all in all.” He squirmed in his seat again.

“Then why do you act like a man who’s got something to hide?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You keep squirming.”

Dudley stood up. He lifted the couch cushion and pulled something out. It was one of Rosie’s dolls. “
That
’s why I’m squirming.”

Rosie giggled. “I got tired of carrying everything upstairs, so I putted Roxanna under the cushion.”

Dudley handed Rosie her doll. “Sorry to disappoint you, Violet. But there aren’t any skeletons in my closet.”

“Skeletons? Closet? What are you guys talking about?” Mom asked as she entered the room with dessert. She looked from me to Dudley, smiling anxiously.

The Wiener glanced at me. And I have to give the guy a bit of credit because he didn’t rat me out. All he said was “Oh, just this and that. Violet has been keeping me quite entertained.”

——

“What are they doing, what are they doing?” Rosie said, trying to squeeze in beside me. The Wiener had just left, and Mom was walking him to his car, which was pretty stupid since his Corolla was parked right across the street and our neighborhood was not exactly a hotbed of crime.

“They’re just talking,” I told Rosie. Then, because I was in a generous mood, I shoved over a bit so she could squeeze in beside me. Now we were both crouched down on our knees, peering out the living room window. The curtains were drawn on either side of us, leaving just the tiniest opening for our heads. The windowsill, which hadn’t been a part of our cleaning spree, was thick with a layer of dust, so I wrote my name in it to pass the time.

After what felt like an eternity’s worth of small talk, Dudley reached into his pocket for his car keys. His car was so old, he actually had to insert the key into the door to unlock it.

Maybe he got his car at a yard sale too,
I thought, making myself laugh.

Dudley turned back to my mom and held out his arm, like he was about to shake her hand. Then, without warning, he lunged at her, planting his lips over her lips like a toilet plunger and awkwardly pulling her into an embrace.

I waited for Mom to push him away, maybe even slap him across the face like they did in the movies. But she didn’t. In fact, kind of the opposite. She threw her
arms around
him,
too, and started kissing him back.

“Ew!”
Rosie giggled, her thumb flying into her mouth.
“Ew!”

This wasn’t the first time post-divorce that I’d seen my mother making out with a man she’d practically just met. But as far as I knew, it
was
the first time the Brights had seen it. I saw them now, coming up the street with their little dog, Benjamin. I could tell they were trying not to look. But it was like passing a car accident. You know you might see something disturbing and gross, and yet you look anyway.

“Violet, why are you crying?” Rosie said to me, pulling her thumb out of her mouth to pat my hand.

I took my glasses off and wiped my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said. “It must be allergies. Let’s go to the basement and find a movie.”

We traipsed downstairs. I found
Toy Story 2
among our huge assortment of videos and put it in the machine for Rosie. Then I pulled the rest of the videos off the shelf. Last time, I shelved them alphabetically by title. Tonight I arranged them alphabetically by star.
F. Murray Abraham, Ben Affleck, Kirstie Alley.
Whenever I came across a star whose last name was in the second half of the alphabet, I placed the video into a separate pile.
Bruce Willis, Patrick Swayze, Brad Pitt, Wedding.

Wedding.
My mom and dad gazed up at me from the cover, twelve years younger, cheeks touching, grinning
smugly like they were in on their own little secret. A cheesy heart framed the picture. The video had been a wedding gift from one of Dad’s friends, a cameraman who’d shot all kinds of footage of their happy day.

I threw it like a Frisbee across the room, and it skidded to a halt near the opposite wall. Then I continued rearranging the videos.
Jennifer Aniston, Alec Baldwin, Drew Barrymore.

I loved my mom so much. And I hated my dad for turning her into a woman who’d let practically any guy kiss her because she was so desperate to find a replacement for him – someone who would love her the way he’d loved her, but for real this time.

Jeff Bridges, Gabriel Byrne, George Clooney.

She deserved a man far, far better than The Wiener, or The Cheater, or The Unibrow, or The Creep.
We
deserved better.

I glanced down at the video I held in my hands. And that’s when it hit me. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Rosie.

I dashed upstairs and called Phoebe, even though it was pretty late. She answered on the second ring. “George Clooney,” I said to her.

“What about him?”

“He’s the perfect man for my mom.”

T
he next morning the phone rang at nine, just like it did every Sunday. I was coming down the stairs, showered and dressed in my favorite jeans and a blue T-shirt that said NO LOGO on the front, and yes, I saw the irony. I’d tried spiking my hair up with some gel for an edgier look, but it was already starting to droop because Mom still hadn’t had a chance to trim it and it was getting too long. She and Rosie were in the kitchen, putting frozen waffles into the toaster oven.

“Hi, Daddy,” I heard Rosie say from the kitchen.

I’d managed to avoid talking to him since the Turd Incident, and I had no intention of caving in. Plus, I was dying to get Phoebe’s perspective on my idea, which, in the cold light of day, seemed kind of far-fetched and possibly even delusional. So as Rosie settled into a long
monologue, telling him about her week in minute detail, I wandered through the kitchen, said hi to Mom, poured myself a glass of juice, drank it, and strolled to the front door. I was slipping on my rubber boots and my rain jacket when Rosie approached, carrying the phone.

“It’s Daddy.” She held the phone out to me.

“Tell him I’m not here.”

Rosie hesitated, still holding out the phone. “But you are here.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are – you’re right in front of me. He knows you’re here. I told him you were here.” She added in a dramatic whisper, “He can probably hear you telling me you’re not here.”

I just shrugged and raised my voice. “I’m not here.”

Rosie’s brow furrowed. She lifted the phone to her ear. “She says she’s not here.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I love you too, Daddy. Bye.” Rosie hung up. “He sounded mad that you wouldn’t talk to him.”

“Whatever.”

Rosie sighed heavily. “You shouldn’t have fed poo to our sisters, Violet.”

“They’re not our sisters,” I said. “They’re our half sisters. And Dad’s chosen to be with them instead of us because he loves them more. So do you think he really cares if we visit him or not?”

Rosie’s face crumpled. Then the waterworks started – great big tears rolled down her cheeks. “He doesn’t love them more! You shut up!” She picked one of my Converse shoes off the floor and threw it at my head, missing me by inches. Then she ran upstairs. A moment later, our bedroom door slammed.

“Violet, what’s going on?” Mom called from the kitchen. “You’d better be talking to your father!”

“I’m going to Phoebe’s, bye!” I shouted, as I dashed out the front door.

I knew I’d be in for it later. I knew Mom would probably ground me again for not apologizing to Dad and Jennica and the twins, and I knew she’d force me to apologize to Rosie and tell her I didn’t mean it.

But I also knew that what I’d said to Rosie was the truth.

And sometimes, the truth hurts.

Cathy answered the door at Phoebe’s house. She was dressed head to toe in spandex, just back from a run.

“Violet, hi. Günter’s made pancakes. Come join us.”

I slipped off my shoes and followed her inside. Frozen waffles were okay, but Günter’s pancakes – homemade, thick, and fluffy – were superior in every way.

Their house was the exact opposite of ours, well-maintained and immaculate. Decorated in beiges and
browns, all the furniture matched and none was secondhand. The rooms – even the kitchen, where Günter had just made pancakes – were sparkly clean and clutter-free.

After breakfast, Phoebe and I headed to her bedroom. Unlike the other rooms of the house, it looked like a bomb had exploded. All the clothes she’d worn for the past week littered the floor. Books were stacked in piles around the room. Three of her drawers were open, their contents spilling out. Her parents had given up trying to get her to keep her room tidy a long time ago, and now they just asked her to keep the door shut so they didn’t have to look at it.

Two of her walls were covered with giant collages of skinny models from magazines. “Something to aspire to,” she would say, which was crazy. Phoebe is gorgeous. She has long, straight, shiny black hair, perfect skin, and dark brown almond-shaped eyes. I would kill to have her looks. But Phoebe just couldn’t see it, and it was all thanks to Thing One and Thing Two.

What happened was this: Phoebe and I had been hanging around the swings at recess in sixth grade when we’d heard giggling nearby. Ashley and Lauren were sitting at a picnic table, checking us out. Claudia was with them. Ashley leaned into Lauren and Claudia and
whispered something, and Lauren burst into a fit of giggles. Claudia just rolled her eyes.

After school, we caught up to Claudia at her locker and asked her what Ashley had said about us.

“She gave you nicknames,” Claudia told us as she blew an enormous bubble with her gum.

“What nicknames?” Phoebe asked.

“You really want to know?”

We nodded, but our stomachs clenched.

“Piggy and Pancake.
Pancake
, as in
‘flat as a.’
And
Piggy
, as in … well. You know.”

Claudia hadn’t told us to be mean; she’d told us because we’d asked. But we felt like we’d been punched in the gut.

Phoebe even cried a little on the way home that day. “It’s baby fat,” she said. “Cathy says it’ll disappear when I have a growth spurt.”

“Your mom’s right. And anyway, you’re not fat. You’re super-pretty.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true. And at least you didn’t get called Pancake,” I said, gazing down at my flat chest.

“Piggy is worse,” she sniffed.

That night we’d nicknamed Ashley and Lauren Thing One and Thing Two. It didn’t change anything, but it did make us both feel a little bit better.

——

Now that we were alone in her room, Phoebe agreed that my idea was a long shot. “George probably gets all sorts of proposals every day. Some might even include photos. You know – ones that leave nothing to the imagination.”

She grabbed her laptop from under a pile of clothes on her bed and turned it on. “But, on the other hand, as Cathy likes to say,
nothing ventured, nothing gained.
And you have an ace up your sleeve: Your mom’s already met him.”

Phoebe punched
George Clooney
into the Google search engine. We got four million, four hundred thousand hits. This is what we learned.

GEORGE CLOONEY FACTS

1. Not only is George C. a great actor, he is also an environmentalist and an advocate for lots of good causes.
   

2. He loves animals and had a Vietnamese pot bellied pig for years. He was heartbroken when the pig died.
   

3. He’s been voted sexiest man alive by People magazine, twice.
   

4. He is friends with that other over-forty hottie, Brad Pitt.
   

5. He is a practical joker.
   

6. He likes to ride motorcycles.
   

7. He has a second home on Lake Como, in Italy.
   

8. He’s been married once, a long time ago.
   

9. He’s dated lots of women since then, mostly models.
   

10. He’s vowed he will never marry again.
    

Number 10 was discouraging. “As Cathy also likes to say,” Phoebe said philosophically, “
never say never
.”