by Courtney Pierce
My scariest school day―Registration. As a first-time Mom, the thought filled me with
trepidation to launch my eleven-year-old stepdaughter on the right path at her
new middle school. Even at the ripe age of fifty-eight, I was nervous, nearly
as much as she was. We kind-a hung on to each other. The stack of paper handed
to my husband and I was more than a little intimidating.
“Relax, Honey,” my husband of three months said. “You’ll be fine.”
I dug for a pen in my purse, not remembering my own parents
ever registering me for school. I had
just shown up to an assigned home room,
thrown to the wolves after an arduous, long walk up the hill. I didn’t qualify for the
distance that warranted a bus ride, even in heavy snow.
An image of my home room teacher, Mrs. Whitman, flashed through my mind. Her
orthopedic shoes–one four
inches higher than the other–were a constant source of entertainment. The woman’s scowl contradicted the peppy flowered print on her
cotton dress. At the time, I remembered her resembling the upholstery on faded sun
room furniture, although the ruler she’d smacked in her hand sided with the
scowl. I would have to scheme to carry out my latest distraction: to glob Elmer’s glue on my hand, let it dry, and
peel it off.
I shook myself back into the moment. My husband had been
watching me for signs of flight.
I doodled swirls of a daisy on one of the registration papers. “Yeah . . .” I
raised my gaze to the wall. “You and I never had posters about bullying, cell phones,
and tattling.”
He smiled. “Golden Rule covered it, don’t you think?”
Together, we flipped through the pages. After filling out
all the boxes about languages spoken in the home, our ethnicity, if we had court-ordered
custody status, whether we lived on a reservation, or were migrant workers, I shook my head. We had all kinds of kids at
my school back in the sixties–black,
white, handicapped, rich, poor–it
didn’t matter. We were just kids. Those less fortunate, though, were defended,
embraced, and fiercely protected by the kids who could provide a leg up. The
right thing to do, and without signing a form about it. What the heck was all
this legalese in front of me?
I felt old. So old, in fact, that I waited to see if the
registrar would refer to me as my stepdaughter’s grandmother. These days,
grandparents raising their kid’s kids is quite common. When my stepdaughter comes into procreation
status, I think I’ll glue her knees together. But I digress.
And what’s up with the $40 backpack–on sale, mind you? Holy Shamoly! It had to have a
compartment for a laptop, cell phone, charging cords, and water bottles, none
of which I had in the day. Phone calls were for emergencies only. I hid from my stay-at-home Mom from 9:00
a.m. to 3:30 p.m. and wandered my way back to the house after school, dreaming and
pretending to be all kinds of things. I’d stop to inspect a bug scooting over
the surface of a puddle, pet the cats that were always hanging about outside,
and coax the dogs to chase me. They were never on a leash. Gotta love small town
livin’ when you’re a kid.
After scratching out a fat check for the laundry list of fees
and an online lunch account, the three of us moved through the four stations of the school cross: PE, bus routes, policy handbook, and student photo I.D. I did look askance at the PE outfit, though. The shorts looked more like M.C. Hammer pants, with a soundtrack of Yo Yo, throw the ball here.
On to the real education. When I perused the subjects of focus for sixth grade, I was pleased to see an emphasis on books and reading skills. My husband, however, zeroed-in on what was
missing.
“Where’s History?” he said. “That’s one of the most
important subjects.”
I tapped the paper. “I think History’s been taken down for
maintenance.” I caught his eye and smirked. “It’s undergoing a rewrite and an
upgrade.”
“She’s gonna have extra homework then, because I'm giving her
History lessons at night.”
“That ought to go over like a lead balloon, but give it a
go.”
After two hours, the trio of us trekked back to the car, exhausted and
hungry. I didn’t feel like
cooking, and
neither did my husband, so we put it to a democratic vote.
“Can we go to Taco Bell?” my stepdaughter said.
“Not a chance,” I said. “That food is crap.”
My husband laughed. “Let's talk about the real meaning of Democracy.”
I set my hand on my stepdaughter's head. “Here endith the lesson: he who pays for the meal gets to decide."
She thought for a moment. “Can I have a credit against my allowance? I'll pay for dinner.”
“Sorry, your FICO score doesn't allow us to extend credit.”
Funny, now that I think of it. I sound just like my mother.
Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living
in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her new family. She writes for baby boomers. By day,
Courtney is an executive in the entertainment industry and uses her time in a
theater seat to create stories that are filled with heart, humor and mystery.
She has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed
the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. Active in the writing
community, she is a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers
Association and on the Advisory Council of the Independent Publishing Resource
Center. She is a member of Willamette Writers Pacific Northwest Writers
Association, and She Writes. The Executrix received the Library
Journal Self-E recommendation seal.
Check out all of Courtney's books at:
The Dushane Sisters are back in Indigo
Lake. More laughs, more tears...and more
trouble. Protecting Mom's reputation might get the sisters killed―or give
one of them the story she's been dying to live.
New York Times best-selling author Karen Karbo says,
"Courtney Pierce spins a madcap tale of family grudges, sisterly love,
unexpected romance, mysterious mobsters and dog love. Reading Indigo
Lake is like drinking champagne with a chaser of Mountain Dew. Pure
Delight."
Colorful characters come alive in
Courtney's trilogy about the Dushane sisters. Beginning with The
Executrix, three middle-age sisters find a manuscript for a
murder mystery in their mother's safe after her death. Mom’s book gives
them a whole new view of their mother and their future. Is it fiction . . . or
truth?
Get
out the popcorn as the Dushane Sisters Trilogy comes to a scrumptious
conclusion with Indigo Legacy. Due out in summer, 2017.
