Free True To Form by Elizabeth Berg Page B

say, “excuse me, but I don’t think there’s going to be too much wildlife in your living room.”
    â€œThat is hardly the point,” she says. If she were a cartoon lady, icicles would be hanging from her word bubble. “If you were in the real woods, you might not run across any wildlife, either. But you should be prepared. It is a skill that can serve you all your life, to know how to survive in the woods. You never know, Katie. You just never know.”
    I sigh. “Mrs. O’Connell, the thing is, it’s kind of embarrassing to be a Girl Scout when you’re a teenager. Like maybe in the old days it was good, but now it’s kind of embarrassing.”
    She sits up straighter and I see the flash of hurt in her eyes. Her mouth tightens a notch more.
    â€œI mean, it’s a really good idea for you to do it for the ones that want to. But Cynthia is the kind of kid that Girl Scouts is not a good idea for. And me, too, no offense against the Girl Scouts, but we are just not the right type.”
    â€œUh huh. And I wonder why it is that Cynthia hasn’t told me this.”
    â€œShe tried.”
    â€œOh, no, she didn’t. Uh-uh. She certainly did not.”
    I know what she thinks. She thinks I, Katie Nash, juvenile delinquent, have corrupted her daughter, who was so excited about wearing her dumb green beret and holding up fingers to say the Girl Scout pledge, until I had to go and ruin it. I shift a bit on my chair, and then say, “Yes, ma’am, she did try to tell you, but you aren’t too good a listener.”
    Silence like a roar.
    And now I might as well go all the way, because I’m probably going to get kicked out of here and will have to see Cynthia on the sly, like Romeo and Juliet, only two girls. “You are hard to talk to; you mostly are always just telling her what to do. And you treat her like she doesn’t know how to take care of herself, but she does. Like she knows when she’s cold and when she has had enough to eat; she isn’t a baby. Plus, you shouldn’t expect that she should always have to tell you everything, because we are teens now, and some things should be private.” I am not even looking at her. I am looking my hands and just talking away, and I am saying everything to Mrs. O’Connell about Cynthia, but I am also saying everything about myself to my own parents. “Kids need to have some respect too. Like you don’t let her put any pictures from magazines up on her walls, and even my dad lets me do that, and he’s really strict.”
    I hear loud breathing coming from Mrs. O’Connell. Here it comes. She will say something about would I like to escort myself out or should she help me find the door. But when I look up, I see her staring into her coffee cup and there are two tears perched on the edge of her lids.
    I swallow, then look around the kitchen for help. Like Dear Abby will pop out of the walls and sit down at the table and say,“Well, now, let’s just wake up and smell the coffee.” But it is just us two, and I have said too much. “Mrs. O’Connell?”
    She waves her hand, no .
    â€œUm . . . I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
    â€œOh, I know you’re only trying to help,” Mrs. O’Connell says. “I know she hates me. She’s my only child and she . . . ” She sniffles, holds back a sob. “I know she hates me. I thought this would . . . I’m only trying . . . ” And now tears really do come gushing out of this grown woman. “I never had good mothering myself,” she says. “And I wanted so much, when I had a daughter, to be close to her, to be her friend. And I thought if we could just try this . . . ” She stops crying suddenly. “Oh, my. Look at me.”
    She gets up and goes to the sink, like there is some sudden emergency over there. But she