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Charlotte Masterson Gets a Life

By Carol Raj

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“Take a peek at the girl behind you,” Mom says. “No! Not like that. Don’t you have a mirror?” She opens her oversized purse and rummages through half-used tissues.
“Honestly, Mother. What is wrong with you?” I turn my head and scratch the side of my neck so I can see behind me without being obvious.
Just as I suspected. A blonde with a turned-up nose.
Mom is obsessed with young blondes with turned-up noses.
“How old do you think she is?” Mom takes a sip of her coffee.
“How should I know?”
“You’re nearer her age than I am. Seems to me she’s maybe twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Could be.” I take another bite of my hamburger. I’m not good at telling people’s ages. I’m only sixteen. I know the girl behind me must be older than that. But twenty? Twenty-two? Twenty-five? I haven’t got a clue. At least she’s not stuck in a coffee shop with her nose-obsessed mother.
I wait till Mom swallows her coffee. I don’t want her spitting it out when I speak.
“Mom, do you remember saying I could date when I turned sixteen?”
She narrows her eyes. “Dating’s dangerous these days. Boys want … things. You know. Things.”
“I know, Mom. I had sex ed in school. You signed the permission form. Remember?”
“Boys can get you into all sorts of trouble. Your father and I want you to concentrate on your schoolwork, not get distracted by the dating scene.”
“I’ve been sixteen for weeks. You promised.”
She takes another sip of coffee. “When I was sixteen, I thought I knew more than my parents. Turns out they were right about some things. I don’t want you having problems like I had.”
“I won’t.” I don’t know what kind of problems Mom had. But they can’t have been that bad. She drags Dad and me to church every Sunday. Won’t even shop that day of the week because it might be breaking some old-fashioned law.
“So why are you bringing this up now? Did someone ask you out?”
“Well, ….” I wipe up catsup with one of my French fries, avoiding her eyes.
Mom leans forward. “Is it someone I know?”
I feel my face turning bright red. Might as well just smear the catsup on my cheeks.
Mom clears her throat. “There will be rules, you know.”
I figured that. Rule number one: let Mom ride in the back seat of the car. Everywhere. Every time. Like that’s going to happen. If my mom weren’t so unreasonable, my life would be a lot more fun.
“I know, Mom.”
“Does this boy drive? You know, if he just got his license, he might not have enough experience.” Mom gasps. “He’s not an older man, is he?”
I stare at her, mouth closed, just to watch her squirm.
“There is absolutely no way your father and I are going to let you go out with an older man. If he wants to date you, he doesn’t have your best interests at heart.” Mom swallows like she has something stuck in her throat.
I let her off the hook. “Don’t worry, Mom. He’s only one grade ahead of me. So maybe seventeen or eighteen.” What am I supposed to do? Analyze his birth certificate?
Mom relaxes. “Your father and I will want to meet the boy, maybe meet his parents. I hope he doesn’t think he can just honk the car horn and expect you to run out.”
“Do you want him to fill out an application? Maybe in triplicate?”
Mom glares at me. “I’d feel more comfortable if you went with another couple. One-on-one can be dangerous.”
“Double dating might distract him driving. You know, having so many people in the car.” Whoops. Shouldn’t have said that.
Mom gets a faraway look in her eye. “Oh, my. You’re right. Maybe you could just invite him over for a game night. We could make it a foursome. Pop popcorn.”
A foursome with my parents? Even Mom should realize that’s ridiculous.
“It’s not till Saturday, Mom. Please. Can we just get out of here?” I turn my legs to exit the booth.
Smash! The busboy trips over my Cinderella step-sister size feet. Dirty plates and glasses fly off his tray and crash to the floor. Everyone turns to look.
I should have looked before I put my legs out. The busboy should have watched where he was going. Maybe anticipated that nobody in their right mind would sit across from my mother and not be eager to escape.
I avoid looking at him.
“Charlotte,” he says. “Charlotte, is that you? I am so sorry.”
Mom jerks her head toward him and raises her eyebrows.
My words come out like a hiss. “No, Mother. Rodney’s just a guy in my history class.”
He lowers his eyes. To target a broken piece of china? Or to pretend he didn’t hear how I just put him down? I don’t know.
Mom’s already halfway to the door. “Kind of cute. Nice dimples.”
“Mother!” I do hope he didn’t hear that.

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