Love at 11

Chapter Six



FROM: “Diane Madison” <[email protected]>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Hello from Japan!



Hi Sweetie!



Sorry this comes by e-mail, but you know those foreign phone charges can really add up! I’m at a Tokyo Internet café having a grand old time and I thought I might drop you a line. So, how are you? How’s Lulu? Hope you are all doing well.



Not sure when I’ll be home—having way too much fun! I can’t believe all these years I sat around wasting time raising children (no offense, Sweetie), when I could have been traveling the world!!!! Now your father will soon be stuck changing diapers again and I’m free to do whatever I want—all on his dime!!! I may NEVER come home.



Make sure Lulu is doing her homework. And remind her that skipping school just ain’t cool.



Love you to pieces, MOM



I couldn’t believe my mom was traveling the world and I was stuck taking care of my crazy sister. You had to understand, my mother was the most non-travel-the-world type you’d ever meet in your life. And she never, ever shirked from the smallest parental duty, never mind getting up one day and abandoning her teenage child. It didn’t make any sense.

I couldn’t mother Lulu. I could barely take care of myself. Like tonight. I had a date with the surfing Czech. Did I have to now make dinner first? Get home in time to check if she made curfew? I didn’t want that kind of responsibility. I didn’t even own a goldfish for this very reason.

Still, what could I do? She was my sister, after all. And despite what a pain in the butt she could be, at the end of the day, I loved her dearly. What was I supposed to do, kick her out on the street? Sure, her being here would cramp my style a little, but we were sisters. And sisters stuck together when their parents went off the deep end as ours had.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Lulu was in diapers and needed constant surveillance. She was sixteen. Mary from Little House on the Prairie got married at sixteen. And she was blind! Lulu had perfect twenty-twenty vision—surely she could figure out how to use a stove or call for takeout.

So after laying out a few ground rules, I headed to my bedroom to find an outfit to wear on my date. Ted, the surfing Czech had called me yesterday, soon after I sent my e-mail. We talked for about three minutes—he said he was impressed by my profile—and ended the conversation by making dinner and movie plans for tonight. To avoid potential future stalker issues when I inevitably dumped him, I said I’d meet him at the Old Town Mexican Cafe, a fun restaurant in San Diego’s historic Old Town. We’d have dinner. We’d have drinks. (Though not too many. I was so not having a repeat of Thursday with Jamie.) Then, we’d go to the movies in Fashion Valley and at some point I’d take a photo for proof. This way, I could prove to Jamie that I wasn’t: a) lying to him and b) pining over our one-night stand. He’d know that I, Maddy Madison, had a full, active social life with cute surfer boys.

Then I could tell Ted it wasn’t working out and move on. Hopefully the surfing Czech wouldn’t be too broken up about losing me, poor desperate online-dating-service guy.

The only problem now was what the heck I was going to wear on the date. After a brief closet assessment, I resigned myself to the fact that everything I owned was hopelessly worn and/or ugly. Not that it mattered. After all, I was only using Ted for a quick photo op. But what if he turned out to be really cool? What if by some rare stroke of luck, he was The One and I had worn such an awful outfit that he ran away screaming and I ended up living out the rest of my life as the crazy cat lady because I didn’t dress appropriately for the date? It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.

Finally, I decided on a swishy black DKNY skirt, a red strappy tank top, and cute little flip-flops I’d gotten from Urban Outfitters. The outfit said fun and flirty, but not to expect too much. A quick brush of eyeliner and a dab of lip-gloss and I was ready.

At first, Lulu wasn’t too happy to learn that I was ditching her on our first night as roommates, but she seemed somewhat appeased after I handed her twenty dollars, a pizza menu, and the telephone. I promised myself that I’d spend some quality time with her the next day. See how she was doing. After all, this divorce was a major life change for her and I wanted to make sure she was okay with everything.

Thanks to traffic and zero parking, I arrived at the restaurant fashionably late and scanned the place for a blond-haired surfer-looking guy. No one in sight.

Maybe he decided to be fashionably late as well and was simply a bit more fashionable than me. As long as he didn’t stand me up. That would be unbearable. To be stood up by a guy you were just using to prove to the guy you just slept with that you weren’t a loser. Ugh.

Calm down, Maddy. Go get a drink.

After checking in with the hostess, who told me there’d be a half-hour wait for a table anyway, I hit the bar and ordered myself a nice glass of Chardonnay. I would have much rather had one of their delicious margaritas (they had eighty different types of tequila here), but this was a first date which meant I had to behave myself. I had to seem grown-up and sophisticated.

I took a sip and then (in a very un-grown-up fashion) managed to spill half the glass of wine down the front of my tank top. Great. Thank goodness I didn’t order a Merlot.

“Are you Maddy?” a male voice asked as I frantically tried to dab my soaking breasts with a napkin. I looked up.

“Yes, hi,” I said brightly, pleased to see the Czech surfer (okay, I was going to have to start referring to him as Ted from here on out) was actually pretty cute in real life. Had the total surfer look going on. Tanned, in good shape. And of course blond hair and really intense blue eyes. Why the heck was he on an Internet dating service? I mean, he could surely get real life women. Then again, I was on it, too. Though that was sort of for a different reason.

I realized he was staring at my chest and was about to be of ended when I remembered I was still holding a napkin over my right boob. Oh yes. Great way to make a first impression. I lowered the napkin, painfully aware that the combination of cold wine and napkin rubbing had made my nipples stand at attention. He probably thought he turned me on or something. Bleh.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Ted.” He held out his hand. He had nice hands. Not too callused, but not too femininely smooth either.

“There’s like a half hour wait for a table,” I informed him, after we shook. “I put our name in.”

“Cool.” He had an American accent and didn’t seem Czech or German at all. But that was okay. I just needed a photo, not a voice memo, to prove our date. Though that brought me to my next question. How the heck was I going to snap a photo without him thinking I was a freak of nature?

He ordered a Corona and paid with a Platinum card. Ooh, that meant he had money. Not that I was some gold digger, but still … very interesting. Maybe this date wouldn’t be such a wash after all. Then again, he failed to ask me if I wanted a refill, which wasn’t exactly a good sign.

“So,” he said after getting his beer, “do you use Match dot com often?”

I felt my face heat. Did he think I was some pathetic creature who couldn’t get a date? Then I remembered he was on it, too, so he probably wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.

“Nope. I’m a Match dot com virgin.” I chuckled. He didn’t.

“My brother signed me up as a joke a couple weeks ago,” he said. “We had a good laugh over some of the photos.”

Or maybe he was trying to insinuate something. I withheld a grimace. Who did this jerk think he was? He wasn’t that good-looking. In fact, if you lined him up side by side with say, Brad Pitt, he’d seem downright ugly.

“So, then, why did you decide to go out with me?” I asked, realizing my voice sounded a little huffy. “If it was all, you know, a joke.”

“Well, duh. You’re a major babe. Not like some of the other women on there.”

Okay, he was redeeming himself a bit. A lot, actually. I smiled and flipped my hair back behind my ears in what I hoped was a “major babe” manner.

“Also, you said you loved European football on your profile. Do you know how hard it is to find an American girl who likes football?”

Uh-oh.

“So, what team do you support?” he asked.

Was it too late to run screaming from the restaurant? “Um, team?”

“Yeah, you know. Football team.”

“Oh, right.”

Think, Maddy! Think! My brain went completely blank. Actually “went” was probably the wrong term since it wasn’t exactly full of European football team names to begin with. In fact, I wasn’t even positive if European football was football at all. Something told me it might be soccer.

“England?” I said as half a question, praying that since England was a country in Europe they’d have a football team.

“Ah, you follow the national teams, eh? Should have known. Probably were a Man-U fan, too, before Becks crossed the pond, right?”

“Um, yes?”

“Can’t say I blame you. I’d much rather see the old skipper in his natural habitat, too—rather than tune in to a pathetic Galaxy match that he probably won’t play in anyway.”

What the hell was he talking about? I took a big gulp of my wine. I knew he was speaking English, but I had no idea what anything coming out of his mouth meant. Oh, why had I written that I followed football on my profile? This was going to be a long date.

Definitely time for a subject change. “So, um, you surf?”

“No.” He laughed. “Sorry. My brother put that on my profile ‘cause he said girls dug surfers.”

Of course. The football thing (which I had no clue about) was real and the surfing thing (which I could at least hold my own in a conversation) was fake. I didn’t want to even broach the topic of the ten kids. So now what did we talk about?

Luckily at that moment the waitress announced our names and we were ushered past other diners to our table in the back of the restaurant. Unluckier, when we got there, The Date From Hell turned the conversation back to football. He was like a mad dog with a bone. Who cared how many goals this player scored last night? Or how so-and-so was probably going to get traded because he screwed up royally in the midfield? Or how this other guy was always diving? I mean, diving? Was there a pool or something?

He paused only for a moment, as the waitress took our orders and then launched back into his incomprehensible spiel.

I desperately wanted him to shut up. But what could I say? I mean, I was the liar who initiated the date under false pretenses, not him. Now I simply had to sit back, enjoy my food and get through the night. Then I’d never have to see this football bore again.

Oh, and I had to get a photo. Might as well get that over with now. Then maybe after dinner I could feign a headache and get the hell out of Dodge.

“I have to make a quick phone call,” I lied, reaching into my handbag for my cell.

“Is that a fake Kate Spade?” he asked. “The label looks funny.”

Oh, nice. My counterfeit bag was evidently so counterfeit-looking that even a macho guy who had been delivering a sports monologue stopped long enough to notice it. I sort of gave him a half laugh which he could interpret as he would, ditched the bag back by my feet, and flipped open my camera phone. Needed to get this over with ASAP.

Pretending to dial a number, I turned on the camera and framed him up. I felt like a secret spy. A double agent. I was on a stealth mission to get photographic evidence of an international conspiracy.

I clicked.

SNAP!

Oh, shit. I forgot to turn the fake camera snapping sound off. I would definitely be fired from James Bond duty. Maybe Ted wouldn’t notice.

“Is that a camera phone?” he demanded, looking a little pissed off. You know, between the handbag and the cell phone, he’d become suddenly become quite observant.

“Oh, ha, yeah,” I said quickly closing the phone and stuffing it in my bag. “I guess so.”

“Did you just take a photo of me?”

My face flamed. “Uh, I think maybe? It went off? By accident?”

“Did you delete it?”

“What?”

“Did. You. Delete. The photo. That you ‘accidentally’ took?” Now Ted looked seriously angry.

“Um, yeah. I did. It’s gone.”

“Let me see.”

I was in hell. Seriously in hell.

“What? Why? It’s fine. It’s gone,” I said. “Give. Me. The. Phone. Now!”

Reluctantly, I pulled the phone from my bag, hoping to delete the photo before he could see.

Unfortunately, he grabbed it out of my hands before I could manage to flip it open. And when he did his own flipping, of course he saw his own mug staring back at him.

He pressed “delete” and threw the phone back at me. It landed with a loud clatter when it hit my bread plate and several diners turned their heads in interest.

“You’re psycho,” he said. “Completely and utterly psycho. Who does that?” He rose from the table. “No wonder you need a f*cking service to find a date! You’re pathetic!”

Before I could protest, he stormed out of the restaurant, leaving me to face the stares from the other patrons. “She took a picture of him,” whispered an elderly woman at the next table. “On a first date?”

“Those camera phones should be illegal. I heard once that some people take them into locker rooms and then post naked photos on the Internet.”

I had never been so humiliated in all my life. I wanted to stand up and scream and inform the whole restaurant that I wasn’t a camera phone pervert, that I just needed a picture to prove to my engaged coworker with whom I’d had sex that I wasn’t a loser with no life. But unfortunately, as willing as I was to make that speech, I didn’t think it would change any diner’s opinion of me. In fact, it might sway the few holdouts in the opposite direction.

Now what did I do? We’d already ordered dinner. Did I sit in my seat, suck up my pride and eat my meal? Would I have to pay for his? Did I even have enough cash on me for that? My credit cards were maxed and I hadn’t deposited my paycheck yet. I’d come prepared to pay for my own meal, if it’d come to that, but not someone else’s. What if they made me wash dishes? Let’s see, I had sixteen dollars probably left on my MasterCard. Maybe seven fifty on my Visa. If I combined those two cards with the cash I had …

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Why did I always end up crying? It was my body’s first reaction to upset, anger, fury, whatever. So embarrassing. Especially when it happened in public places. I angrily swiped at my eyes with my arm.

“Maddy?”

I looked up at the voice addressing me. Into the eyes of an angel. Jamie stood at my table. How did he find me yet again? It was like we were two soul mates, destined to keep running into each other.

“Jamie!” I cried, overjoyed to see him. I didn’t care if he had a fiancée. I didn’t care if our relationship stayed platonic forever. At that moment I simply needed a friend. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you on your date?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. “Do I get to meet the famous blond-haired, blue-eyed Czech surfer in the flesh?”

Shit. I was hoping he’d forget about that.

“He, uh, had to leave early.” I grimaced. “I did have a picture, but …”

I waited for him to tease me, but he didn’t.

“Didn’t go as planned, huh?” he asked sympathetically. “Not exactly.” I sighed. “But he ordered before he took off, so if you’re in the mood for a chicken fiesta burrito, you’re in luck.”

A ray of hope peeked through my dark evening clouds. This would be great. Jamie and I could have a nice meal. We could become friends. Other diners would see that I wasn’t a loser who got walked out on by her date.

Jamie smiled. “I would but …”

“Jamie! Our table’s over here. Did you get lost?” A tall, anorexic-looking blonde came up behind Jamie and slipped her arm around his waist. Protectively.

Oh. Jamie wasn’t alone.

Of course he’s not alone, a jeering voice in my head taunted. Who eats at a restaurant alone? Well, except for you, you loser. I suddenly realized this was the second time in a week Jamie caught me drinking by myself.

“Uh, Maddy. I’d like you to meet Jennifer. My fiancée.” Jamie said, succeeding to unintentionally rub salt on my wounds. “Jennifer, this is Maddy. My new coworker at News Nine.” He introduced us so casually, as if I weren’t the other woman. The one who, just days ago, he’d accidentally had sex with.

“Nice to meet you, Jennifer,” I said in my best new-coworker voice. If he could be cool and grown up, so could I. “I didn’t realize you had moved to San Diego yet.”

“She came down from LA for the weekend to surprise me,” Jamie explained. I studied his face. Was he even the least bit bothered by the introduction?

“To check up on him, more like,” Jennifer said with a saucy grin. She poked him in the ribs. “Make sure he isn’t succumbing to the charms of some San Diego beach babe.”

Ah-ha! There was the uncomfortable look!

“Well, it’s great to meet you.” I held out my hand. “I’m looking forward to working with your fiancé.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jennifer’s hand reminded me of a dead fish. Bony and cold. “Jamie, they’re going to give away our table if we don’t get over there. And I’m not going to wait another forty five minutes.”

“Maddy, would you like to join us for dinner?” Jamie asked, ignoring or not picking up on her tone.

Would I what? No way. No way was I going to torture myself by going to dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. I would be a third wheel. I’d have to hear about their wedding plans. I’d be nauseated when they called each other pet names.

Then again, I realized, this was exactly the kind of thing I should be doing if I wanted to get over my silly crush and develop a good working relationship with Jamie. After all, I’d agreed to be friends with him, and friends had dinner together. Simple as that.

“Sure,” I said with a big, overly cheerful smile. “I’d love to!” I rose from my seat to join them at their table.

It wasn’t really that bad actually, having dinner with Jamie and Jennifer. Not half as bad as eating alone would have been anyway. Jamie insisted he had planned to order the same chicken fiesta burrito Ted had (even as Jennifer questioned him about suddenly preferring chicken over steak) and proceeded to tell the waiter he’d eat my dearly departed date’s meal so it wouldn’t go to waste.

“So, what’s it like to be a TV producer?” Jennifer asked after we had gotten our meals. She stabbed her salad with a fork. A plain garden salad. That was all she ordered, making me feel like a heifer for having gotten the fried chicken quesadilla. But screw it. After the embarrassment I’d suffered, I needed major carbage.

“It’s okay, I guess.” I shrugged. What else could I say? That it was a hideous job with hideous people? That it proved on a daily basis that journalism was truly dead? No. People didn’t want to hear that. They only wanted to know what anchor X was like off the air and where reporter Y got her hair done.

“I’m actually trying out for this role of a TV reporter in a new Penny Marshall film,” Jennifer told me. “Maybe if I get it, I can interview you. Kind of get into character. I love method acting, don’t you?”

I had no idea what method acting was, though I was pretty sure it had something to do with Marlon Brando and James Dean.

“Uh, yeah. Method acting’s cool,” I agreed, a little hesitantly.

“Method acting’s for freaks,” Jamie interjected, taking a sip of his Corona. Damn. I so wanted to change my answer.

“Oh, I suppose you’re going to tell me that the great Lee Strasberg was a freak, too, huh?” Jennifer demanded, dropping her fork with a clatter. “And that we actors are simply empty vessels, on set to illustrate an illustrious director’s vision and not artists in our own rights.”

“You said it, not me.” Jamie said with an easy grin. “To me, method acting is nothing but mental masturbation. Feels good, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Why don’t you use your imagination instead? You don’t have to experience something to act it.”

“Tell that to Mr. Robert DeNiro. Dennis Hopper. Some of the greatest actors of all time have been method actors.”

I forked a piece of quesadilla into my mouth, trying to follow the conversation without much luck. It was suddenly painfully obvious that I knew nothing about Jamie and Jennifer’s Hollywood world. They seemed so glamorous, sitting there, dressed to the nines, chatting about filmmaking, acting, and the rest. What did I have to contribute to this kind of intellectual discussion? I was a fool to have thought Jamie would ever like me or relate in any way to my pathetic common existence. I couldn’t have conversations about who directed this or what 1939 film dealt with that. I didn’t even go to foreign films ‘cause of the subtitles. I always said that if I wanted to read something, I’d hit the bookstore.

I watched as Jennifer pressed her point, hands gesturing, eyes flashing with passion. She had a dream. A goal. She studied her craft. She’d probably be a famous actress someday. She certainly looked the part. Real pretty, with watery blue eyes, pale skin and straw-colored hair. Kind of Paris Hiltonesque. No wonder Jamie was in love with her.

And Jamie—I glanced over at him—how his eyes were alight as he bantered back, easily countering her statements with intelligent ideas of his own. I felt bad for him, being stuck at News 9 until the economy cleared up. He must feel so stifled, shooting brainless news video. He had this whole world. This whole life that he had to leave behind.

“Uh, Jen? I think we’ve put Maddy to sleep,” Jamie’s voice brought me back to the present.

“I’m sorry, Maddy,” Jennifer said. “It must be so boring for you to have to listen to us drone on and on about filmmaking.” She didn’t sound too sorry, actually, but I let it slide. After all, I was the one barging in on her date.

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I straightened up in my chair, suddenly realizing I’d almost been asleep.

Jennifer excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once alone, Jamie turned to me and smiled.

“Sorry about that. Ever since she took Acting one-oh-one at Hollywood Community College she thinks she’s Cecil DeMille.”

Argh. I didn’t know who that was. I mean, of course I’d heard the name but I couldn’t place it to an occupation. I was so subscribing to Variety when I got home.

“It’s okay. It was interesting.” I tried to sound convincing.

Jamie laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re a good sport. But Jennifer’s like a pit bull when she gets on a rampage like this. She loves to argue. And I can’t help egging her on, she gets so pissed.” He took a bite of his burrito and chewed. “It’s how all these Hollywood types act. They memorize a few directors’ names, throw in a couple obscure film references and they think it makes them sound all intellectual. And then at parties they sit around and argue points that don’t even make sense with one another. Each has no idea what the other is talking about, yet out of fear that they’ll be labeled wannabes, they pretend to.” He took a sip of Corona. “I can’t stand when Jen acts like them, so I always call her on it. If she’s going to spout of filmmaking nonsense around me, she’s got to at least know what she’s talking about. I don’t like being around pretentious fakes.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I admittedly know zilch about Hollywood,” I said, making a zero out of my fingers and thumb. “In fact, I don’t even like artsy movies.”

“You know, most of these snobs don’t like art films, either. They simply pretend to so they’ll seem cool, intellectual.” He grinned. “If they knew my secret love of cheesy eighties movies I’d probably be banned from LA.”

My eyes widened with interest. “You like eighties movies?”

He looked sheepish. “Not very manly, huh? Combine that with my love for eighties music and I might as well go around wearing a skirt.”

“Actually, I think it’s very manly to admit you like something unmanly. Shows you’re sexually confident. So what’s your favorite eighties movie?”

He thought for a moment. “Probably The Breakfast Club.”

“I love The Breakfast Club.” I tapped a finger to my chin, thinking. “But my favorite would have to be Some Kind of Wonderful.”

“Some Kind of Wonderful,” he repeated. “Yeah. I never got that one. I mean, why would Eric Stoltz spend the whole movie drooling over the boring, popular girl, even though he had that smoking best friend all along? I mean, he made poor Watts actually sit through their date.”

“Right,” I said, suddenly realizing the movie’s parallels to our present situation and hoped he didn’t think I’d brought it up on purpose. Time to change the subject. “And then there’s Pretty in Pink.”

“That’s worse.” Jamie groaned. “At least in Some Kind of Wonderful he ends up with the right girl at the end. Molly Ringwald screws poor, faithful Ducky in favor of that sissy Andrew McCarthy.”

“Hey, watch what you say about my boyfriend!” I laughed. “In third grade I was going to marry him, you know.”

Who would have thought I’d ever end up at a Mexican café debating the endings of John Hughes movies with a hot guy? Now if only the hot guy in question wasn’t on a date with another girl, I’d be all set.

“What are you guys talking about?” Jennifer asked, returning to interrupt our debate.

“Eighties movies,” Jamie said. “What’s your favorite, Jen?”

She rolled her eyes and turned to me. “Oh Maddy, don’t get him started. He’s like a girl with that stuff. You’d think he was gay.”

I laughed. “It’s okay. I like them, too.”

Jennifer shot me a sympathetic smile, as if to say she understood I was just humoring her deluded fiancé and then launched into another tirade about acting in independent films.

At the end of the meal, Jamie insisted on paying for ever one. I protested, of course. But he laughingly forced my money back in my pocket. Then we headed out into the balmy San Diego night air and for a moment everything seemed all right with the world. The two of them walked me to my car and both hugged me good night.

I got into my car and waved to them as they walked away. What a weird night! Definitely not how I planned it. But somehow it all seemed okay.

Still, I was exhausted. Trying to be ultra-charming through a whole meal proved more than a bit tiring. I couldn’t wait to go home, crawl into my cozy IKEA platform bed, and go to sleep.

I pulled into my neighborhood about ten minutes later. Unfortunately, there was no street parking to be found. Sometimes this happened on Saturday nights in Pacific Beach (known to the party-loving locals as PB). One resident would invite fifty of their closest friends over for a little get-together and there’d be no place to park for the poor slobs who actually lived there. I didn’t mind walking ten blocks back to my house as much as I minded the noise, and prayed that the party was on the other end of the street.

Unfortunately, this time around the party noise seemed to be coming from my apartment building. Worse, as I got closer, I realized it seemed to be coming from my actual apartment.

“What the hell?” I muttered as I fit the key in the lock. The door swung open. There was a rave going on in my house.

Techno music blared from my stereo. Kids in baggy pants, bright-colored T-shirts and even brighter-colored hair packed the place to the brim. People were dancing on my beige sofa. They were smoking and flicking ash on my carpet. There was even, I realized in horror, a smoke machine puffing out billowing clouds. The neighbors were going to think the place was on fire!

“Lulu!” I screamed, slamming the door. Like one of those ‘80s movies we’d just been discussing, someone turned down the music. Everyone stopped dancing. And stared. At me. The evil adult, come home to ruin the party. As I fielded their disgusted glares I suddenly felt very, very old.

“What?” demanded my sister, coming out from the kitchen. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and a lollipop in the other.

“Outside. Now,” I said, pointing to the front door. She grudgingly complied.

“Who are these people?” I asked as I shut the door behind us. I could hear someone inside requesting the music get turned back on, now that the “wicked witch has left the building.”

“Just some friends,” Lulu said sulkily. She popped the lollipop in her mouth and sucked. “We were at this rave and, like, the cops came and busted it up. So I figured you wouldn’t mind if I had some people come by for a little after-hours …”

“I wouldn’t mind?” I asked. “Since when did you think I wouldn’t mind?”

“Well, you had a date. I figured maybe you’d get lucky and not come home.” Her rationality was truly amazing. “What’s the big deal anyway?”

“The big deal is that I’ve had a long night and all I want to do is go to sleep, but there are fifty freaks sprawled around my living room.”

Oh, man, I sounded like my father. I, Maddy Madison, was officially a party pooper.

“They’re not freaks. They’re my friends.”

“And you’re drinking! Is anyone here even of age?” Lulu shrugged. “I think Bill is. He bought the beer. Though I guess he could have a fake ID….”

I couldn’t believe this. I had to stop the party. Now. The cops could come and bust me for allowing underage kids to drink in my home. And they probably wouldn’t believe me when I told them I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

“What’s your problem?” Lulu whined. “I always thought you were cool.”

Oh, man. She was actually pulling out the “cool” card? Her words hit me hard. I am cool, I wanted to protest. Really!

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want Lulu to hate me, but at the same time I couldn’t allow this type of thing to go on. It was for her own good, after all. I had to be the adult, as much as it pained me. She’d thank me someday. Maybe.

“Lulu, if you’re going to live in my house, you need to follow some rules. You can’t walk all over me, trash my house and completely disrespect me and then tell me I shouldn’t mind because of some warped sense of coolness you think I have. It’s not acceptable.”

“Fine. What-EVER. I’ll stop the party. Geez!” Lulu opened the front door, then turned back to shoot me an evil glare. “You know, I was totally wrong about you.”

“Sucks to be you then, doesn’t it?” I snarled back. As soon as the words came out, I regretted them. As a rule, responsible adult types should not say phrases like “sucks to be you.” But hey, I was parenting on the fly here.

To her credit, it took her less than ten minutes to clear everyone out. Of course, she wanted to go with them to the next party, but I, the loser adult, told her to go to bed. Actually, I told her if she went to bed I wouldn’t tell Dad about the party, but hey, whatever worked.

After giving her a blanket and pillow and settling her on the couch, I headed to my bedroom, which unfortunately hadn’t been spared from the party mess. Worried about potential teenage hormone-induced action between the sheets, I stripped the bed and made it again.

When had my life spun so out of control? It used to be so deliciously boring. Not that I was uncool as Lulu said or anything. Was I? I mean, coolness shouldn’t be judged by one’s acceptance of an underage rave at her apartment, should it?

I crawled into my newly made bed and blocked the troubling thoughts from my mind. A good night’s sleep and everything would be okay.

I hoped.