More On Patrice

My father was a looker. Last time I saw him his ways had caught up to him and his skin was worn and tired and his biceps were loose and soft. My mother would have liked to see that he fell a part as he aged, as she was bitter. She wasn’t over their divorce and she’s in her late 50s now. She still lives in the same house we grew up together in. We lived in a wealthy bedroom community and I learned to look and act like the rich, evn though I wasn't. I went to all the proper schools, had the proper dates, and the proper clothes.

When my dad left my mother got a pretty good divorce settlement since he was quite successful but she was left with three kids. Beneath her tainted surface my mother is quite a smart woman. She immediately contacted a well-known investment advisor and saved every penny. We didn’t go with out things we needed and we had a few educational and pretentious extras, but for the most part we didn’t have a lot of extravagances. It paid off, because at 57 she’s never worked a day in her life. Her face and body held up well to the test of time; her soul has not. It’s sad, really.

I have a younger sister Grace, who turned out pretty normal with a husband and a happy baby, and a brother who is a womanizer and has been married three times in his 40 years. I guess he is like my dad, or how my dad had been described to me as I grew up. I was six when my dad left my mother for “that young girl.” I don’t remember much about him except how his aftershave smelled and that mom used to pick out his ties for him before he went to work. Once he left, he never looked back. We’d get birthday and Christmas cards, but we’d only see him on occasion. He married the “young girl” he left my mom for. They had a child (a half-sister I’ve never met) and then he left her for someone even younger. He’s been married five times since my mom. Thankfully only the first two yielded children. He’s left quite a trail of broken hearts. At a young age I vowed my husband would never cheat on me because I wouldn’t marry that kind of man.

My mom took a lot of it out on Max, my brother. She’d yell and scream at him that he was a womanizer and he should treat women with respect. The funny thing though is that he wasn’t always a player. His first girlfriend was a very nice and respectable girl who was a lot of fun. My mother couldn’t stand to see anyone in love so she pushed and pushed until finally she broke a part their relationship. My brother then proceeded to turn into every thing she accused him of being.

Interestingly however, I always had pretty healthy relationships. Nice boys who treated me well. I was afraid my mother would do to me what she did to Max. That was how I learned to hide emotion and not talk about how I felt. I became the master of perfection, being exactly what my mom wanted me to be in the way I looked and acted. It is some what amazing to me, upon reflection of my childhood that I have a healthy attitude toward men.

The Classroom

Jack noticed Patrice because of her skin. The first time he saw her was in freshman English where they were in college. He was already seated when she slid into the desk next to his. She stared straight ahead. It was an unseasonable warm fall day, and most of the students looked hot and crumpled. Not Patrice. She looked like one of those girls who never sweat. She was dressed in a fitted skirt and t-shirt. Her brown hair was held at the nape of her neck with some sort of clip. She crossed her slim calves it at the ankles. He noticed her sandles were flat. She looked more like a young housewife from Conneticut than a college student. Her lashes were long, her nose was nothing special, her lips looked nice, but he could not take his eyes off the creaminess of her cheeks. It looked like she wore no makeup. He wanted to reach out and run the back of his finger down her face.

She opened her book bag and took out a notebook - not the kind you get at the drug store for 79 cents, but the kind you get at specialty stationary stores for $6.50. She rummaged through her bag and and couldn’t seem to find what she was looking for. She turned and looked at him. He stared, speechless. The amazing skin on her cheeks covered her entire face. He started at her chin and slowly worked his way up until he met her eyes, which were blue and looking a bit puzzled.

All of a sudden his eyes came into focus and he realized she was talking to him. “What?” he said.

“Do you have an extra pen? I don’t seem to have one.”

“Uh, I think so.” He’d better have one. He rummaged through his pack and found a black pen with the tip chewed flat. He looked back at her, with his brows raised, sheepishly. “This ok?”

She smiled and her eyes twinkled. “That all you got?”

“Uh. Yeah,” he stammered, feeling unsure of himself all of a sudden.

“Yes. That will do.” She extended her long arm across the aisle and took the pen from his hands. “Thank you.” Her fingers brushed his. She turned and faced the board and he was left staring at her cheek, once again. It was as if the exchange never happened.

“My name is Jack,” he said.

She did not turn.

My name is Jack,” he said a bit louder.

The guy in front of her turned around and said, “Hey. I’m Mark. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said as Mark turned back to the front of the class. Geez, he thought. Now she is going to think I’m gay!

“My name is Patrice.” She was smiling at him as she extended her arm toward him again, reaching for his hand. He stretched his arm across the aisle and her palm slid into his. Just as he suspected, it was cool to the touch and her grip was firm, but not too hard.

“My name is Jack,” he said again lamely.

At that moment their professor walked in. The class, now full, fell silent. The professor looked at every one and said, “I am Professor Jarrett and the first thing I am going to do is test you on your grammar.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a stack of papers and began to count out the tests at the top of every row, leaving a stack of them at the first desk in every aisle. “Pass these down,” he nodded curtly to the student sitting there. Jack watched as Patrice took her test and turned to give it to the student behind her. Her body swivled at her waist, and then she was facing forward again. The pen he had given her was lodged in her mouth and she was chewing the tip.

“Tastes pretty good, huh?” Jack whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Ew! Gross! I didn’t realize I was chewing on it,” she whispered back and took it out of her mouth.

“Gross?” Once again he was unsure of himself.

“Just kidding,” she whispered and stuck the pen back in her mouth. “Tastes like chocolate.” She swirled her tongue around the tip of the pen. From that point on, he was hooked.

No Parents On Saturdays

On Saturday night I was sitting in my sister’s apartment watching a movie when around midnight I got a call from one of my daughter’s friend’s mom. She said to me, “How are the girls?” I was confused, as not only was I at my sister’s, but my sister lives in New York. My daughter was home in California. It was her week with her dad, my ex-husband.

“What do you mean?” I asked

“How are the girls doing at your house?”

“The girls are at my house?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Well, that’s interesting. I’m in New York.”


To make a long story short, my daughter was busted. My daughter’s friends had told their mothers they were spending the night at my house, but I was out to dinner. And my daughter had told her father that she was spending the night at the one of the girl’s houses. I called the other mother and my ex-husband. Everyone descended upon my supposedly empty house and took their children.

Classic trick of the teenager, I know. Everyone has go to try it once, right? And as my ex-husband said, he was mostly glad they didn’t have boys there or that they were not doing drugs. I agree.

But on a deeper level there is something inside of me that broke. I now do not trust my daughter. It is not a very fun feeling. I decided not to punish her. Or at least, not in the way that she could call punishment. I told her that if she was at home, I knew what she was doing. I didn’t have to worry about her telling me the truth or not. She shouldn’t plan on doing too much outside of the house for the time being. She couldn’t argue it, because it wasn’t about her. It was about me - how I was going to manage my own peace of mind. I feel the need to treat her like she is eight again – make her play dates, talk to the parents, schedule drop off and pick up times. Maybe even call over there a few times and see how it is going. Maybe that’s not even eight. Maybe that is treating her like a five-year old.

She was very honest when I asked her why she did it. She said, “I wanted the freedom.” Ok, I understand that. I was 16 once. In a twisted way, I am even kind of proud of her that she tried to get away doing something worth-while (as opposed to lying about taking out the recycling or something). I had to tell her that her freedom was still two years off and for now, she had to obey the rules of my house and her father’s house. What I think she misses however, is that she *had* the freedom and this stunt took some of it away.

An even deeper question is this: how much does my distrust come across and how much will that ruin her self-esteem. My mom doesn’t trust me! I’m a failure!

That could really mess a kid up.

The lesson I want her to learn is that it not so much that she did a bad thing, but to understand that what she did changed the way I feel about her. The way that others might feel about her. I want her to care that she has the respect of her parents and others, and in the future, keeping that respect will stop her from making up stories or telling lies.

How does one teach their child this with out damaging the child’s self-image? Or teach their young adult this, as that is what she is – a young adult. It is a question I will continue to ponder while I keep my 16-year old on a shorter leash until I figure out what I can do.

And by the way, not too much of this is fiction. If any.