the apron tied around her waist. “I made this, didn’t I?”
The apron is a hemmed square of pink calico fabric with ties that are barely hanging on. Uneven stitches and loose threads abound. It’s an apron in quotes, a rag in the making.
I nod in agreement. “Yes, you did, Mom. I think that’s my point.”
My mom gives me a hurt look. “Maybe I don’t have your sewing talent, but I’m getting better. It’ll just take practice, that’s all.”
Now I feel guilty. “No, no, you’re right. And I like your apron. The fabric is really nice.”
My mom’s face brightens. “So you’ll go with me? To the quilting bee? Avery’s coming too.”
Avery beams at me from over the newspaper. “Please come, Janie? It’ll be so much fun!”
I sigh. “Do I have a choice?”
And much to my surprise, it’s my dad who says, “No, you don’t.”
“Mike?” My mom looks at my dad, who’s standing in the kitchen doorway. We all do. My dad is a champion of staying out of things, which includes keeping his opinions on mother-daughter conflicts to himself.
“I think it’s time Janie rejoined the family,” my dad says.
“I’m tired of her acting like we’re not good enough for her anymore.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. “I don’t think I’m too good for you,” I stammer out after a minute. “I just—I—”
“She’s fourteen, for Pete’s sake,” my mom says to my dad. “Don’t you know anything about fourteen-year-old girls?”
“Not much,” my dad admits. “But I don’t think being fourteen excuses you from having a nice word for your mother from time to time.”
My mom laughs and waves a dish towel at him, like he’s a pesky fly she’s trying to get out of her kitchen. “That won’t happen again until she’s fifteen, honey.” Then she turns to me. “You don’t have to come to the quilting bee with us, Janie. I just thought since you’re so interested in sewing, it might be fun for you.”
“I’ll go,” I say in a quiet voice.
“Well, wonderful,” my mom replies. “Now let me get you something to eat.”
After breakfast, I take care of the goats and then go back to bed until eleven. I’ve just gotten out of the shower and am standing in front of my closet wrapped in a towel, wondering what one wears to a quilting bee, when Avery comes to my door carrying my cell.
“I answered it for you,” she tells me, and then, before I have a chance to blow up at her, she says in a loud whisper, “It’s a boy! And when I told Daddy his name is Monster, Daddy said I should stand outside your door and eavesdrop because he didn’t like the sound of that name, but Mommy said I should give you your privacy.”
I take the phone. “Did you hear all of that?” I say into the receiver.
“I’ve got it all written down,” Monster replies. “Your mom sounds cool.”
“How about my dad?”
“He sounds like a dad.”
We share a moment of silence in honor of the uncoolness of overprotective dads everywhere, or maybe because I can’t think of anything else to say. I am suddenly supremely aware of the fact that I’m only wearing a towel, a fact I don’t share with Monster.
“Anyway, I don’t think I ever got a chance to tell you that you played great on Friday. You got a natural sense of rhythm, which is essential if you’re really gonna play bass right. I mean right, like Cliff Burton right or Bootsy Collins right. Even Mike Watt right, if you’re into the L.A. punk thing.”
“I don’t know much about it—the L.A. punk thing, I mean.” I pause. “Or anything else you just said.”
“You want a mix tape?” Monster offers. “I’ll do a showcase mix, introduce you to a wider spectrum of excellent bass playing.”
Rivulets of cold water are parading down my neck and back. “Sure,” I say, hiking up my towel. “That would be great.”
“Anyway,” Monster says, “I thought you might want to do some practicing this afternoon.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m going to a quilting bee with my mom. Don’t ask me why.”
“Over at White Pine?”
I hold the receiver away from my ear and look at it. How does Monster know? Is he a quilting aficionado, or just psychic?
“That’s where my granny goes to church,” he says. “She’s crazy about quilts. Crazy about church. Used to make me go every Sunday. The amazing thing, given the nature of my family, is that she herself ain’t crazy.