Play Dates by Leslie Carroll Read Free Book Online

and lands on the kitchen counter.
    “All right, that’s it!” I take her by the arm and lift her off the chair. “In your room! Now!”
    “Noooooooooooooo.” She’s struggling to release my grip.
    “Time out, Zoë. We do not throw food.” I manage to get her into her bedroom amid a sea of protests.
    “I want to watch Ariel,” she whimpers.
    “No. No video tonight.”
    The bawling increases. “But. I. Want. To.”
    “Tough. Do you have homework from Mrs. Hennepin?”
    She nods and wipes her sniffles away with a bare arm. I hand her a Kleenex. “Ladies use tissues,” I say, sounding like . . .
    who? My mother—Tulia—never talked like that. She let Mia and me act like hoydens in the privacy of our own home, until we figured out on our own that such primitive behavior wasn’t the way to get what we wanted. But I’ve got no male authority figure to back me up here. My parents formed a mutual support system, a safety net I no longer have. If Mommy couldn’t handle us, she’d turn to my father, arms akimbo, and plead “Brendan, it’s your turn.” And Daddy, who never, ever raised his voice, would speak to us so softly and steadily and sternly, his deadly placid manner far more terri-fying than any amount of yelling and screaming, particularly since, from an early age Mia and I had recognized that high volume was a sign of parental weakness. This doesn’t seem to work with Zoë. Not since I’ve become a single parent, anyway. I think I used to be pretty good at being a mom. Now I feel like a slumping major leaguer who’s being forced to try a whole new batting stance.
    I hate this. I hate fighting with my daughter. I don’t want her

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    Leslie Carroll
    to grow up resenting me. On the other hand, I’ve got to be the one to rule the roost, or chaos reigns.
    “I’ll be in to check your homework in one hour,” I tell Zoë firmly, then close the door, leaving her to her own video-less de-vices. I return to the breakfast nook and pilfer the remaining baby carrots from Zoë’s plate. No more wasting food in the mini-Marsh household.
    Dear Diary:
    Mommy is being mean to me. I hope she snoops and reads this so she knows that I think she’s being mean. She’s going to China Town with MiMi tomorrow and they won’t take me. I have to learn the times table with Mrs. Heinie-face instead. We have to draw a chart to make our own times table and fill in all the numbers. She gave us up to five for homework today. Mommy helped me make the chart with a ruler because she’s better at making straight lines than I am. Mine are wobbly and they don’t look pretty and Mrs. Heinie-face will give me a bad grade if the lines are wobbly. Who cares what five times ten is? I hate math and I hate Mrs. Heinie-face and I almost hate Mommy. I don’t want to do any math. Ever. For homework we also have to write a story about a good memory we have and draw a picture to go with it. I don’t know what to write about but I like to write stories and I love to draw and I know that Mommy and Daddy and me will all be in it and we will all be happy.
    “Did we ever give mom and dad the silent treatment?” I ask Mia, as we trundle along Canal Street behind Happy Chef, bound for the heart of Chinatown.

    PLAY DATES
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    “I did,” Mia reminds me. “You could never shut up long enough.”
    “Thanks. Zoë’s being sullen. She’s punishing me for being the mother. For insisting that she go to school today instead of playing hooky and joining us.”
    Mia laughs. “I would have let her come along. Tell Mrs.
    Henny Penny to get over it. Life experience is more important than a day of second grade.”
    I consider her point, which isn’t a bad one, but that’s the kind of stuff that works in a two-parent household with a good cop/bad cop system of checks and balances. For every “sure, why not-er,” you’ve got a “stop-wait-don’t-er.” With Zoë, these days, all I seem to do is “don’t-ing.” When do I get to be the good