Excerpt:

We sing the new song to Mom and the Riddles.  Mom sits on the raised brick wall, Dr. Riddle in his lawn chair, Mrs. Riddle standing in the doorway to the house as if she’s going to duck inside any minute.  Margie is at the picnic table, filling out forms for fall internships, and Barbara is across from her with the cordless telephone in her hand.  Only Mom gives us her full attention.  Dr. Riddle has his Truman book closed, but I notice his finger keeps edging in between the pages, as if he’s somehow reading it in Braille. 

We’re nervous.  We’ve never performed together in front of anyone before, let alone our families.  I stand to the left, and Gellie’s on the right.  Of course, there are no microphones, so we both just try to sing as loud as possible.

When I let you into my closet

Right behind the leopard-skin coat

Gellie and I are jittery for the first verse.  I remember, a little too late, Mrs. Riddle’s rant when Gellie didn’t the commercial.  She’ll probably hate this.  But when we get to the chorus, I feel Gellie loosen up next to me.  Her voice opens up, and she starts to belt.  I close my eyes and let my body move along with my guitar.  I forget about Mrs. Riddle. 

I want to be who I really am,

Maybe that’ll fit into your plans,

Maybe that’ll fit into your plans.

We practically scream that last line.  We are both bouncing around the patio by the second verse.

When I give you my combination

Will you keep it all to yourself?

Will you leave me poems and candy,

Will you tell it to somebody else?

Will you make me into a fool?

Or will you hold my hand?

When I tell you that I am lonely

Will you understand?

When we’re done, Margie says, “That wasn’t bad.  You’re going to be the next Angry Young Waifs. In fact, you should call yourselves that – Angry Young Waifs. 

Can we eat already?  Jeremy and I are going to Jintucket to watch the fireworks.”

From Margie, this is a compliment. 

Barbara put the phone next to her ear, gets up, and continues her conversation.  But I think I saw a flicker of appreciation in her flawless face.

Dr. Riddle clears his throat and says, “Very good.”  Then he opens his book again. 

Mom claps and claps, her eyes shining.  “I can’t believe you wrote that!  That is a fine, fine song!  I want you to pay it for Guy when he gets home, Ok?  And girls!  Your voices!  They just soar!  Your blend! You two are so sweet together.”

Mrs. Riddle says with the sniff, “I didn’t know people still listened to folk music.”

“Well, it’s not really folk music.”  Mom stiffens.  “More pop folk.  It’s exactly the kind of music my husband makes.” 

“And he makes a living doing this?”  Mrs. Riddle asks.  Mom’s jaw drops, but Margie intervenes before Mom can say anything. 

“Yeah, Mom, and that’s the only reason Gellie and Randi are singing for you today,” says Margie, rolling her eyes.  “They see a way to become bazillionaires, and they’re going for it.”

Mrs. Riddle glowers.  “I don’t want Gellie getting distracted by any music,” says.  “You never know when something’s going to come through for her.  She has a very full career, you know.”

During dinner, Mrs. Riddle drones on and on about Gellie’s career, Barbara’s chances of getting into Princeton, and Margie’s unfulfilled potential at Yale.  Dr. Riddle cuts up his hot dogs with a knife and fork and ignores the buns we brought.  Mom and Margie talk about acupuncture, which is the high point of the discussion, but it ends when Dr. Riddle asks if acupuncture is like chiropractic.  Gellie doesn’t say anything and won’t look at me.  She looks defeated, like a wet dog.  We performed together for the first time, we just wrote our very first song together, and I feel like her mother’s pushed her further away from Plastic Angel.  We should be celebrating our independence today.

The moment she finishes her last bite of pie à la mode, my mother jumps up from the table.

“Well, Randi, we’d better get back so we’re home when your father calls after sound check.  Thank you all so much for dinner.”  And we leave together, me with my guitar and Mom with the leftover apple pie.  The temperature is still hot, even though the sun is well behind the trees.  When we are at the end of the Riddles’ driveway, I hiss, “I hate Mrs. Riddle!  Someone should come and take her children away from her before it’s too late for them.”

Mom is quiet for a long minute.  “She’s had kind of a hard time, Randi.  Give her a break.  It’s not easy being a mom.”

“But why does that entitle her to keep Gellie from having a life?”

“We’ve come to the front door of our house now.  The cats rub up against my leg, and I stoop down to scratch their ears.  Mom hasn’t answered my question.  She puts the pie in the refrigerator. 

“Probably,” Mom says finally, “because she doesn’t feel like she gets to have one.”  She picks up the phone to see if there’s a voice mail message from Dad.  I know there’s not because she hangs up and her lips form a straight line. 

“He’s probably going to call when the set’s over,” she says.  “But I’m too tired to wait up.  Good night, sweetheart.”  And she kisses me on the top of the head. 

I’m in bed when the phone rings, only once.  Through the walls I hear Mom crying.