Free The Black Sheep by Sandy Rideout Yvonne Collins Page B

wasn’t even mad at them for taking her walkie-talkie.”
    The back door swings open and a Donkey smile appears. “Two minutes to curtain, girls. ”
    The beauty of rules, which I never recognized until today, is that they give you something to cling to in the midst of chaos. If I hadn’t launched the Black Sheep code, I might be hysterical right now. Instead, I stand my ground as the show rolls even though Calvin is sitting behind me with the tampon tucked behind one ear. I stand my ground even though Mitch is snickering at the sight of my on-screen alter ego prancing around my parents’ marble halls in pajamas. I stand my ground when the high-definition TV offers a shocking close-up of a blemish I didn’t know I had. And I stand my ground when Judy asks on air if I have the runs, even though the rest of the audience convulses with laughter.
    This is not my finest hour. I am coming across as totally obnoxious. Judy has edited out the scenes where I looked normal and kept only the ones where I’m picking up after the crew, wiping their fingerprints off shiny surfaces, rolling my eyes when they misidentify Mozart, and explaining the difference between a Monet and Matisse. The way she’s cut this, I look like a snob. And a boring snob, at that.
    â€œI can’t go to California,” I tell the camera. “I’m taking music theory class this summer. And economics. Plus I’ve got math camp.”
    Mitch snickers again. “Wow, life in the Big Apple is as exciting as everyone says.”
    â€œHush,” Mona says.
    The show cuts to a close-up of Judy standing outside our brownstone. It must have been taped after she left, because she’s holding a framed photo of me that she swiped from our mantel. “This poor child hasn’t been hugged in four years!” she says.
    â€œIt’s not like that,” I say, but no one hears me because Calvin is pretending to sob gustily behind me.
    Max reaches over to pat my back, but withdraws his hand abruptly when my father intones, “Our daughter is not spending a month with beatniks.”
    â€œWe’re not beatniks,” Max protests.
    â€œSure we are, sweetie,” Mona says. “And proud of it, too.”
    Back on screen, Judy asks me if I have any interests. I stare blankly at the camera for several long moments, twisting my ponytail before finally replying, “I, uh, like to shop.”
    â€œGrab your scuba gear,” Mitch says. “That’s pretty deep.”
    â€œMitch,” Mona says. “That’s quite…”
    Her voice trails off as her daughter’s pretty face appears on-screen. The show’s focus has finally shifted to Maya’s last day in Monterey. But instead of skewering Maya’s family as she did mine, Judy has featured a montage of scenes where the Mulligans are singing folk songs beside a campfire, frolicking in the backyard with the pets, and cooking a huge meal together. It’s all glorious family harmony.
    The show cuts to New York, where Maya’s dark hair glistens under my parents’ chandelier as they eat together at the dining room table we never use when I’m around.
    â€œThat’s take-out food,” I point out. “They dumped it into my mother’s Limoges china to make it look homemade.”
    â€œMaya looks wonderful,” Max says, to no one in particular. “She looks happy.”
    Maya does look happy as she rearranges the furniture in my room and takes down my posters and spreads her cosmetics all over my bathroom counter. She looks even happier as she walks up Madison Avenue arm in arm with my best friend, Lucy, laughing at some private joke. And she looks happier still while contemplating Jan Gossaert’s Portrait of a Banker , Mom’s favorite painting, which is currently on loan to the Met.
    My mother is obviously thrilled to be sharing this moment with Maya. At least it’s obvious to me that