Free The Best Laid Plans by Lynn Schnurnberger Page B

Paige recites. She even knows that “Na” is sodium.
    “Our teacher said it’s not good to have too much salt,” Paige says proudly. “So the way I remember it is that sodium is ‘Na.’ ”
    I look at her curiously.
    “Na, Mom. As in ‘
Nah
, don’t have the salt.’ And I know that ‘Au’ is gold, because Ashley Unger—her initials are AU,get it?—is the richest girl in the class and she’s always wearing armloads of these awful gold David Yurman bracelets. Ugh, she thinks she’s so cool.”
    It’s always been hard for Paige to compete for grades with her twin sister. Doing well in school comes so easily to Molly that I think in past semesters, Paige just gave up. But maybe things are changing. “Good job, honey,” I say, pouring some milk into a bowl of cornflakes and handing Paige a spoon. “Glad to see you taking a real interest in school.”
    “I’ve become
very
interested in school, especially science,” Paige says, ignoring the cornflakes and searching around the bread box for something in the B, C, or D food groups—bagel, coffee cake, or Danish. Ever since Rosie left and Peter and the girls have been helping with the shopping, the cupboards are stocked with sugar. Paige settles on a Pop-Tart and stares dreamily off into space. “Brandon Marsh is my lab partner and he’s the cutest boy in the world, Mom. I can’t wait until we study black holes together.”
    I don’t know who this Brandon Marsh boy is, but I suppose I should be grateful if he helps get Paige’s marks up. Love certainly seems to be in the air—Paige and Brandon, Sienna and Bill. And you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw Dr. Barasch and Naomi in my living room, mooning over each other like a couple of teenagers. Maybe if I just took a deep enough breath I could fill my lungs with some of the same intoxicating elixir that they’re inhaling. Or maybe not. It might take more than a few whiffs of O 2 mixed with L-O-V-E to get things back on track with Peter.
    My husband shuffles into the kitchen with the
New York Times
. Without so much as an
I’m sorry
, or even an
Are you okay
?, he hands me the morning paper as a peace offering. “I thought you might want to read this. I know you hate how I grab it first every morning.”
    “Thanks,” I say dispiritedly, separating the arts section from the rest of the news. Today of all days, I can’t face reading about anything more depressing than a review of Adam Sandler’s latest movie.
    “Okay then,” Peter says, moving right along and pouring himself a glass of orange juice. “Maybe after breakfast I’ll do the wash.”
    “Oh no, Dad, no. Mom, please don’t let Daddy do it. My Juicy Couture sweatpants will be absolutely ruined,” Paige cries.
    “Will not,” says Peter. “Who do you think did my laundry when I was in college?”
    “Mom,” Paige says.
    “We did it together. Every Saturday afternoon we’d bring our books to the laundromat to study while we watched our clothes co-mingling in the dryer.”
    “Geez, talk about a cheap date. You sure know how to romance a girl,” Paige teases.
    “You don’t know the half of it, right, Tru?” Peter asks.
    “Not the half,” I say softly.
    “I’m going to leave you two alone now,” Paige says, heading back toward her room to get dressed. She turns around in the doorway and waves her textbook. “Thanks for the help, Mom.”
    “You’re welcome, sweetie. Good luck with the test.”
    Peter reaches for a coffee mug. “Paige studying for a test?”
    “Well, she’s studying for a test to impress a boy, but at least it’s a start,” I say, falling into the familiar rhythms of marriage—ignoring the larger issue of our fight in favor of talking about school and children. Normally property values would be on the list, too, but these days that’s a sore subject.
    From the bedroom, I hear Molly turning on the shower. Above the morning crackle of coffee percolating, Paige singingout her chemistry