Read Odd Mom Out for Free Online Page A

makers, trying to find one that’s twelve inches long—not nine—when I spot my favorite kind of Bellevue mom, one of those women who are perfectly done even for a Saturday morning trip to Office Depot, with two kids.
    I don’t recognize her, but the kids look familiar, particularly the little girl, and I hear their conversation even before they reach us.
    “I have to have a new backpack, I hate my old one.”
    “This year I want everything purple. A purple binder, purple folders, purple pens.”
    “Why can’t I have an iPod? Or an iPod shuffle? Everyone has an iPod shuffle.”
    Eva hears them, too, and her face lights up. She shoots me a significant look, as though to say,
See?
as she scrambles to her feet. “Hi, Paige,” she says breathlessly, the turquoise-lidded space maker clutched to her chest.
    “Hi, Eva.”
    Eva and Paige size each other up from across a safe distance of mothers and shopping carts. Awkward silence unfurls even as I place Paige. Yesterday, at the pool. She’s one of Jemma’s friends.
    “Buying your school supplies?” Eva asks, and her voice quavers nervously.
    “Yeah.” Paige is chewing gum, and she pops a little purple bubble. “Who’s your teacher?”
    “Mrs. Shipley.”
    “Jemma has her,” Paige says, cocking her head and rubbing her foot against the back of her calf. “I’ve got Mrs. Lewis. She’s supposed to be easy.”
    “You’re so lucky,” Eva breathes, making me think she’s got the IQ of a tree monkey.
    Why is she playing dumb? Where the hell did her feisty personality go? And what is so special about these little girls that she feels the need to earn their approval?
    Paige’s mom in the meantime has been studying me, and when I look at her, she forces a quick smile. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Lana Parker, Paige’s mom.”
    I hold out my hand. “Marta Zinsser, Eva’s mom.” We shake hands, and she winces at my firm grip. I didn’t expect her hand to feel like pudding.
    Lana Parker removes her hand as fast as she can from mine. “Are you new to the area?”
    “We’ve been in the Pacific Northwest over a year now.”
    “Where did you move from? California?”
    “New York.”
    Lana’s eyebrows try to lift but can’t go far, as her forehead is very taut and smooth. A little too taut and smooth. “That’s a big change.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “How do you like it here?”
    “It’s good,” I answer vaguely, not bothering to mention I’m relatively local, raised in tiny Laurelhurst just across the 520 bridge. I never was comfortable with my father’s wealth or social status, a status my mother enjoyed tremendously. Instead of hanging on Dad’s coattails, I’ve tried to make my own way in the world, wanting to succeed on the basis of my talent and reputation versus his.
    “Was your husband relocated?”
    My husband. Great. I love these kinds of questions. “No. I was transferred.”
    “And he followed you out? There’s a good husband for you.”
    I just smile, the small, close-lipped smile that I use for moments like these. I had plenty of them in New York when I’d take Eva for walks in her stroller and then again when I enrolled her in school.
Does she look like her daddy or you? Her father isn’t listed on the emergency contact forms. Will her father be coming to the parent orientation?
I used to try to answer all the questions, but it just got old and repetitive, and now I do my best to ignore them. “I’m lucky I have an interesting career.”
    “What do you do?”
    “I have my own advertising agency, Z Design.”
    “That must keep you busy.”
    “There are some long hours,” I admit, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and unsure why. There’s nothing alarming about Lana Parker. A dark blonde with hair swept off her face, Lana reminds me a bit of Faith Hill in
The Stepford Wives.
She’s pretty, quite pretty, but not quite real, either.
    “I couldn’t work,” Lana says, lips pursing. “Not when the kids are little.