The Sideways Glance
(Note: I am now married. This was somehow put aside during the dating game).
E told the girls (ages 10 and 14) that we are getting married. I was in hiding at a hair salon getting my hair colored, high-lighted and cut. That was planned. I needed it, anyway.
The older one, we will refer to as S, said, “That’s Awesome!”
The younger one, we will refer to as M, said, “Does this mean we get to keep Mo?” Mozart is my dog. That was easy enough. I was expecting tears and fits.
You know, kids say the darndest things. I remember the first time I stayed here at E’s house, or “our” house now that I am officially an insurance beneficiary. Before the visit, I asked how many bedrooms there were. I hadn’t even met the girls.
“Three,” E said.
“Huh,” I said, doing the math. “I will sleep on the couch, then.”
“No,” E said. “They won’t notice.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I said. Boys just don’t get it.
I was sitting on the couch when I heard the car pull up. When the girls walked into the house, I got the sideways glance from M. I know that glance. I should note that it was not the “sideways bitch glance,” but the “I’m checking you out glance.” She walked straight down the stairs not realizing I could see no white in her eyes from the right side, only large pupils highlighted in bright blue. I know what kids at that age think: She’s pretty. She’s cool. I wonder if she likes dogs. I wonder if she will give me candy and a dog. (Six months later, I give her anything she asks for–except cats because I hate cats–and trips to Golden Corral because it tastes like shit). She always asks for stuff when her dad isn’t around. Smart kid. Anyway, I veered off track, here.
We watched a movie. A cartoon movie with some green dudes running around doing something I slept through. I remember they looked like Sponge Bobs, only green. I hate animated shit. I hate movies in general. After the flick, E told the girls that it was time to go to bed. They’re military children so they obey. They’re also airline children so they are model children.
M’s feet hit the third stare going down into her basement bedroom before she paused. A brief sideways glance followed by a curt, “And, where are you sleeping?” She had done the math. I gave E the “see, I told you so” glance.
“Right here,” I said. I thumped my hand on the couch and curled my binkie to my chest. With that, she continued on her way as if that was an acceptable non-prepared answer.
It was the only night I slept on that couch, having been convinced that the children slept long and hard and until we drug them out of bed for lunch.
Six months pass. I thought they knew. E and I bought new furniture and were selling the old. An old mattress was stacked against the panneled living room wall. The girls decide it’s the perfect opportunity for a slumber party.
“Hey, Beth!” M says. She’s got her sleeping bag and pillow and Mo all piled up on the mattress. He even looks at me sideways now like, “is this okay that I’ve chosen the kid with the beef jerkey habit over you?” glance. Traitor.
“Yes?” I say.
“Want to sleep on the mattress with us?” She’s excited. She’s serious. I’ve just been invited to the slumber party. I’m flattered. I feel like the popular girl.
I’m unable to respond. I have no retort. Do I sleep there to make friends–to be one of the cool kids? I look to E.
“No, M. She’s not going to sleep on the mattress with you.” He’s only passing by.
“Well. It’s got to be better than the couch,” she says to E. She says it like there’s no other alternative, like he isn’t being fair to me, like he’s been forcing me to sleep on the couch. She’s giving him the sideways bitch glance. I’m giving him the startled “I can’t believe this is happening” glance.
The realization has hit us both. She thinks I’ve been on the couch all along. We laugh, but get it under control quickly. The mind of a nine-year-old. Now I know that I can tell her all the same shit my dad has told me for thirty-nine years. Awesome.
When I was six or so, I woke up too early on Easter morning. My dad was still hiding the eggs in the back yard. The slugs had not even found them yet. I ran past my mother into the yard. She didn’t move as I busted past her out the patio door. My dad was standing in the middle of the yard with the “Oh, shit. How will I explain this” glance. He didn’t have too. I never questioned if there was an Easter Bunny. I dropped my arms and began screaming, “Momma! Daddy’s finding all my eggs!” With that, he began picking up the ones recently hidden. The competition was on.
My turn!
“Hey, S?” I say.
“Yes?” she says.
“Would it be okay if I slept in your bed tonight? That way, y’all can stay up and watch movies.”
“Sure,” she says.
They go to the movie shelves. M retrieves one of my bootlegs from Peru. “Do these movies from Lima work?” she says.
“Usually, they do,” I say.
“Bee Movie didn’t,” she says.
“Well, test one then,” I say.
She inserts the DVD into the player and turns it on. Within a few seconds, a head darts by on the camera. The movie is in Spanish. Fail.
Sideways bitch glance followed by “Madagascar.” I don’t think I will be invited to another slumber party.