Free Accidental It Girl by Libby Street Page A

cacophony of laughter and snickering at my expense. It also caused a face-reddening cringe and the sudden desire to crawl under a seat and assume the fetal position.
    Believe it or not, that was the highlight of the weekend.
    I very quickly caught on that my mother had not invited me to the home she shared with Dr. Hank, DDS, so that I could be folded into the warm embrace of a happy privileged home. She had invited me as an accessory, a prop.
    I was greeted at the front door with two air kisses. The only touch that came by way of greeting was a nudge propelling me inside the foyer. And even that, I think, was done with the dull, flat tips of her acrylic nails.
    There were two parties planned that weekend, she informed me. “One tonight with my golf ladies, and one tomorrow with Dr. Hank’s business acquaintances.” She directed me to follow her up the long, winding staircase to the second floor. “We’re just so excited to have you!”
    Paige showed me to “my” bedroom. It looked like Holly Hobby had been held prisoner there, tortured, and then blown herself up MacGyver style using only a paper clip, some Pepto-Bismol, and a thousand yards of lace. Two gorgeous brand-new outfits hung neatly in the closet—one for Friday night, one for Saturday. The weekend spiraled ever downward quite nicely from there.
    I was the only nonadult at either party. Paige paraded me around like a sideshow oddity, showing off my outfits and forcing me to “tell people how well you’re doing, honey.” I was like a new sofa she’d acquired for the occasion. Look at it…isn’t it nice. The upholstery’s beautiful, and the frame is so sturdy !
    Everything about the house was foreign to me. Despite its lavishness compared to my father’s place, it felt totally empty. There were no memories there. I didn’t know the bikes that hung in the garage, couldn’t recall how the ding on the fender came about. There were rules I didn’t know to obey—taking your shoes off before entering from the backyard, not touching the screen of the fancy TV (“You’ll leave fingerprints!”), not feeding Oodles table scraps because she had a sensitive stomach. On the living room bookshelf was a picture of my mother. She was on the beach in a skimpy white bikini. She held a tiny little fish in her hand. Her skin was golden and smooth, her hair the same sun-kissed platinum as mine. The bikini clung to her sculpted curves so precariously that it seemed to cover her by sheer will alone. I couldn’t identify the exotic tropical locale and had no idea why she looked so proud of that silly little fish.
    As bizarre as the whole experience turned out to be, I couldn’t stop coming back each weekend. The only way I know to describe it is that it’s like when you watch one of those shows on the Discovery Channel about babies born with two heads, or people forced to cut off their own limbs to save themselves from certain death. Something about it grosses you out, freaks you out…it may even give you nightmares. Still, you have to watch. You become mesmerized with curiosity and wonder. That’s what it was like growing up with Paige for a mother.
    Week after week I was trussed up and polished. I was paraded around and gawked at, prodded and given diet advice by my mother’s leather-skinned golf buddies. I was leered at by Dr. Hank’s mysterious “associates” and given off-the-cuff orthodontic tips by his “business acquaintances.” Looking back on it now, I can see that my mother’s increasing interest in me, if you can call it that, makes perfect sense. She and Dr. Hank had spent three blissful, romantic years as a couple. They’d had their time together and Paige was ready to start a family. Lucky for my mother she didn’t have to get fat and incontinent to do so. I was a ready-made family, the finishing touch for my mother’s