After my mom finished icing the nasty lump on her forehead, she came into my room to look over my (way amazing, btw) report card.
I had already kicked my feet up onto my desk and leaned back in my chair, figuring that this one should be worth at least fifty bucks. I got six a's (gasp) and one b-. When mom's jaw dropped open (probably overwhelmed with joy), I extended my open palm toward her, ready to receive my accolades and my cold, hard cash.
Those gothalicious ankle boots I've had my eye on are so mine, I thought.
My Mom's brows knit together in a (faux) blonde slash of ire. "Kathi Jo Roberts, I thought I'd taught you better than this."
My chair fell backwards onto the carpet, taking me with it. "What? Whaddid I do? And did you just call me Kathi?"
Mom breathed so deeply that her shoulders rattled with the effort. "It's obvious, by the looks of these grades that we still have a lot of work to do."
Her pink-tipped index finger wagged before my nose. "Your head is clearly not in the right place, young lady."
Is mom lecturing me?, I wondered. My mom?
No way. I scrambled to my feet and snatched my report card out of my mother's freshly manicured hand, thinking that Gert and I surely must have gotten our stuff mixed up.
I don't get it, I thought as I scanned the grades. This clearly was my report card, and these were clearly my awesome grades that I'd busted my butt over so I could get to the Juilliard Auditions without a fight.
"Mom? I made the Dean's List!" I cried, shoving the card back under her nose."
"I know, Kathi Jo." Mom crossed her slender arms over her chest and lifted her chin. "You certainly don't have to rub it in.""
"It's Katya now, Mom. Or Kat. Anything but--brr--Kathi Jo!"
"Honey," Mom said as she reached out and clasped my hand into hers. "A new name is not going to solve your boy problems."
"Mom?" I said as I took in the blonde hair, the pink t-shirt, the maribou trimmed mules. "Maybe we should call a doctor..."
My mother reached out to smooth my hair away from my face. "Let's not fret, now, sweetie. No doctor can fix what's wrong with you. It's not like being smart is a t-terminal disease.
My knees turned to jello about then and I sank down onto my bed.
"We'll just have to b-buck up and work harder..." Mom went on.
I could see tears--actual honest to God tears--welling behind her false lashes as she spun around to face me.
"What needs fixing, Mom? My good grades? My free ticket to the Juilliard tryouts?"
My mom signed as she wrung my report card between her hands. Her blue gaze dropped like lead weights to the floor and a huge, fat tear dropped off the end of her trembling chin. "Sweetie, you'll never, ever get a date to the prom with these grades."
"The prom?" I scanned my mother's face, looking for the evidence that one of those cackles that so often marked the punch lines to her jokes was about to erupt.
The vacant oceans of her eyes stared back at me.
"The prom?" I repeated, unable to believe that my brilliant, bohemian, bizarre mother thought I'd even consider such an anti-goth rite of passage.
Not a single muscle quivered on her face. She just looked pissed beyond reason. And sad---truly heartbroken. And did I mention really, really blonde?
Cold fingers of fear began to work their way through my gut as I backed away from my mother...
Monday, April 16, 2007
Meet my new business cards! The text printed beneath my Logo says "Move Over Blondie, Black is the new Pink"
Yes, folks, its official. I'll be at Romantic Times, plugging my wares (books, ya'll, BOOKS) from April 25-April 29th. Hope to see you there.
In celebration, I'm posting a picture of my new business cards. I LOVE them. :)