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Sunday, 3 p.m.

You, You and Mimi
(rerun)

Mimi’s continuing series on “The Modern Family.” Today celebrity etiquette expert Alanna Darling turns up her pretty little nose at teen table manners.

The hairdo killed about forty-five minutes. Only three more hours or so before it’s safe to go back to the hostel. I don’t even need to ask myself how I’m going to spend it. I know.

I’m going to eat.

I’m starving. The only thing I’ve had today is cornflakes and most of them ended up on my chest. Whatever I get this time is going straight to my digestive tract.

There’s something called The Dairy Treet on the corner. It seems like the type of place that sells greasy fries and droopy ice cream cones covered in rubberized “faux” chocolate.

That’s exactly what I want.

The kid at the counter tells me the ice cream machine is broken. To ease the pain of my obvious disappointment, he throws in some extra fries and supersizes my Coke, free of charge. My instinct is to lunge at the fries as soon as the guy hands them to me but I don’t.
It would be too weird eating inside an empty restaurant with him staring at me. He might feel the need to talk. I’m better off to sit outside at the picnic table and take my chances with the seagulls. At least I can tell them to get lost without feeling bad about it.

I fill a bunch of those little paper cups with ketchup. (Does anything make ruder noises than ketchup pumps? I keep going, “Oops, sorry,” like I’m the one doing it or something. The guy either thinks I’m nuts or have a serious stomach ailment.) I slip the bag of church bulletins over my wrist, balance the ketchup on top of the fries, pick up the Coke with my other hand and push the door open with my hip.

I turn around and run face-first into Levi Nauss coming through the door with some girl.

I scream.

And then, of course, I jump and spill ketchup and Coke all over my shirt.

Levi and the girl start laughing.

I’m so mad—mad at him, mad at me, mad at him catching me about to stuff my big fat face, mad at that girl and her skin-tight jeans—that I just lose it. I go, “Arrrgh!
You again!
” and throw my fries right at him.

The girl jumps back and gasps.

Levi goes, “Me! What did I do?”

I push past him. I feel him take a step toward me but he doesn’t get any farther than that. The girl starts hissing at him. What’s
her
problem? (They weren’t her fries.)

I don’t wait around to find out. I jump on my bike and get out of there.

Sunday, 3:30 p.m.

Radio Mimi

“My Heart Races.” Mimi discusses emotional escapism with the world-class runner and international playboy named—believe it or not—Joffy Bastard.

I’m crying.

I’m trying not to but I can’t help it. I keep telling myself things like “You’re making this sound a lot worse than it is,” which I’m not, and “Someday you’ll laugh at this,” which I won’t.

This really
is
as bad as it sounds. I’ve made a fool of myself again. I want to go home. I want to see Anita. She knows what I’m like but she doesn’t care. She loves me.

I keep pedalling and wiping my face on my sleeve and pedalling some more. I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this. Clearly, not long enough. I can still think. I want to get so tired that my brain finally stops bugging me.

Something whizzes past and I almost lose my balance. A van pulls up in front of me. Levi’s van.

The only thing I can hear is my heart. Can teenagers die of heart attacks? (If they want to badly enough, can they?)

What’s the matter with this guy? Why does he keep following me? I want to run off into the woods and hide, but even I know how ridiculous that would look.

Instead I just get off my bike and stand there and hope my face hasn’t gone all blotchy and that he can’t hear my heart too.

He gets out of the van with his hands held out in front of him, like
I’m not going to hurt you.
He goes, “Opal…”

When did he learn my so-called name?

I say, “Leave me alone.”

He goes, “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I go, “Leave. Me. Alone.”

I start to walk past him like I’m all indignant but something happens. My neck turns to rubber. My legs suddenly feel like they belong to someone else. I have to blink to make things stop spinning around.

He says, “Are you all right?”

I say, “Yes.”

He says, “No,” and grabs my bike just before it hits the ground.

I follow right behind it.

I’m down on my knees, one hand on the pavement. I say, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He says “No, you aren’t.”

He helps me up—I hope my armpits aren’t totally wet and disgusting—and half carries me into the front seat of the van. He does up my seat belt and says, “I’ll take you back to Kay’s.”

He throws my bike in the back of the van and pulls out. I’m leaning against the headrest and my eyes are shut but I can still tell he’s looking at me.

He goes, “Are you all right?”

I say, “Yes,” as in
I already told you that.
“I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten in a long time.”

“Oh, is that all?” he says. “Well, I can help you there.”

I open my eyes and look at him.

He peels a limp fry off his shirt. “Dig in!” he says. “I’ve got plenty more where they came from.”

Sunday, 5 p.m.

Promo

Scrap your family! Turn your photos into stunning family heirlooms. Join scrapbooking artist Kendra Salna Meltzer on
You, You and Mimi
tomorrow at 3.

Kay is feeding me another grilled cheese sandwich. She claims she’s going to sit here until I “finish every last bite.”

Luckily, Levi wasn’t as concerned for my welfare. He just dropped me off at the hostel and left. Had to hurry back to his skinny girlfriend, I guess.

I don’t care. I don’t care if I made an idiot of myself again. I don’t care if they’re sitting around snickering about me. I’m just focused on getting the shaking to stop. I finish the sandwich and a piece of blueberry pie too. Kay looks almost proud of me. I suddenly understand why they call it comfort food.

She goes, “Well, what did you get up to today, Opal? I mean, other than collapsing on the side of the road, that is.”

She smiles and her face wrinkles up. That sounds bad but it isn’t—it’s actually sort of mesmerizing. It’s like watching time-lapse
photography of a flower blooming. I wonder what Mom would look like if they ever unfroze her face.

Kay touches her hand to her cheek and turns away. I realize I’ve been staring at her. I’ve embarrassed her. On top of everything else, am I turning into one of those creepy staring people?

“So…your day?” she says again. “How’d it go?”

I pull myself together and start talking. It’s the least I can do. I leave out all the Levi stuff. I tell Kay I went to the library, that I’m here doing research on how the school closure affected Port Minton. The lie keeps getting easier. In fact, this time I decide to let slip that I’m doing the research for a university degree. (I don’t want people guessing I’m only seventeen, lumping me in the “teenage runaway” category. Someone could feel obliged to track down my parents.)

Kay says, “Really?” and puts another cube of sugar in her cup. She’s either impressed or she thinks I’m bragging. I can’t tell which.

“For a university degree? Who’d have thought little old Port Minton was worth that much attention?” She shakes her head and stirs her tea.

I make up some garbage about Port Minton being representative of small communities everywhere and how I’d like to get a closer look at the actual town and…

I don’t know what happens. One second I’m gleefully inventing crap, and the next, my mind totally blanks out on me. I’m looking right at her, my mouth is wide open, but nothing’s coming out. I get this horrible vision of what it must be like to be Mimi.

I’m bracing myself for Kay to point at me and shout,
Impostor!
—but she just reaches out and pats my hand. She doesn’t think I’m
a liar. She probably just thinks I have some emotional problem or something. That’s why I can’t finish a sentence without going into a trance.

Her hand is really warm, but so rough and dry it reminds me of an old scuffed-up sneaker. Dad’s old scuffed-up sneaker. He’s got this big house with a theatre and a complete state-of-the-art recording studio and he’s still wearing those stupid sneakers.

“No need to explain everything now, Opal,” she says. Her eyes are this really light brown, almost like the butterscotch topping they put on sundaes. “I can tell you’re beat. Do you have a big day tomorrow?”

“No. Uh. No,” I say. “I don’t have anything to do.” I push some crumbs around on my plate with my fork.

“Good. You look like you could use some R and R.” Her eyes suddenly kind of light up. “How about starting right now? Like to waste a little time in front of the TV with me?”

TV is tempting—until Kay winks and says, “Mimi’s got a celebrity special on tonight…”

Did she notice I flinched?

My mother is everywhere. I can’t believe I used to like it. I guess when you think about it though, why wouldn’t I have? It was the most natural thing in the world when I was little. I remember in kindergarten this girl crying because she missed her mother. I didn’t get it. I put my arm around her like I was so much older and wiser and said, “Don’t worry. That’s all right. Just turn on the TV. You can see your mother then!” It was like having a magic mirror or a guardian angel or Santa’s cell number or something. I could see my mother whenever I wanted.

I suddenly understand something. It sounds like a real hippie-religious-freak
kind of thing to say but it makes so much sense. My mother is everywhere—and nowhere. I could probably walk into a store in Katmandu, Reykjavik, Lima, you name it—and pick up a magazine with her face on the cover. But when was the last time I saw her? Like, I mean, actually
saw
her? She’s like a hologram or something. She’s there but she’s not.

I say no to TV, thank Kay for the food and head up to bed. I am pretty tired but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I lie on my bunk, stare at the ceiling and try to picture Mom’s face. All I see is that person on TV. I can’t remember the real her. I can get the clothes right and the hair right but her face is either blank or just a cut-and-paste job from some promo shot. The more I look, the less I see. It makes me feel like I’m draining away.

I’ve got to stop thinking about this stuff. I need to take my mind off it before I go seriously crazy.

I look around for something to distract me. There’s not much here. The other girls aren’t back at the hostel yet. My iPod is dead. On the little shelf by my bed there’s a mystery paperback with the first couple of chapters torn off, a cheesy romance novel that would only make me more depressed, and those church bulletins the librarian gave me. It’s a sad commentary on my life that the bulletins actually interest me.

I start flipping through them. In the third or fourth one, something catches my eye. It’s the picture of that group of kids. The same one I found in the chair. Here in
The Port Minton Semaphore.

I freeze.

It’s as if the picture suddenly blows up to a full-screen image. The rest of the room shrinks down to a little icon in the corner. I’m stunned. Until this very second, I didn’t honestly believe Mimi had
anything to do with Port Minton. Sure she had the ring, but—I don’t know—I figured I’d find some totally reasonable explanation for that.

This is not reasonable.

I stare at the picture in the bulletin. It’s Mimi. What would Mom, a kid from New York, be doing in a place like this? What would a Jewish kid be doing in a Baptist church bulletin?

There’s a caption underneath the picture:

Spirits run high at the annual Port Minton United Baptist Church picnic. Celebrating their win in the egg-toss event are, left to right, Kathy Whynacht, Lenore Tanner, Tracy-Lynn Carter, Miss Swinamer and Rosie Ingram.

The other names look right but that’s not Rosie Ingram at the end. That’s Mimi. It must be a typo. I sort of laugh. This has to be the only time in Mimi’s life that someone got her name wrong. It’s like someone mistaking Brad Pitt for the mailman.

I turn the page.

There’s another picture of Mimi, taken on the same day. She’s holding a trophy this time. The caption says:

It’s a hat trick! For the third year in a row, Rosie Ingram wins the Junior Crafters Award for her lovely hand-knit tea cozy. Congratulations, Rosie!

My insides shrink up tight. I can feel every individual goose-bump pop up on my skin, one by one. Something’s wrong.

I scan the article. There it is again. “A special thanks goes to Rosie Ingram for helping out in the nursery.”

I swallow so hard my eyes bug out.

I try to tell myself it’s just a mistake. Someone didn’t know Mimi and got the name wrong. But I don’t believe that. This is Port Minton. Little, tiny Port Minton. Everybody must have known one another. No one would get the name wrong.

I look at the pictures again. It’s the same girl in both of them. Is it Rosie Ingram?

Or is it Mimi?

Or is it both?

Monday, 8 a.m.

Breakfast TV

Host Ruby Krimstein interviews Mimi Schwartz about her new self-help book,
Sorry Is the Hardest Word: The Art of Apology.

Believe it or not, I slept. You’d think something like that would have kept me up all night again but it didn’t. It took my breath away. It made my heart pound. And then it put me right to sleep.

Somehow I must have convinced myself that it was no big deal. Mimi Schwartz used to be called Rosie Ingram. So what? Show biz people change their names all the time.

I’m not so relaxed any more, what with the sun up and that girl across the room doing a really bad job of tiptoeing out.

Now I’m—I don’t know—mad, I guess. Hurt. Insulted.

Like, I mean, I know you’re busy and everything but in the last seventeen years, could you not have given me a moment of your precious time to explain that your name’s not actually Mimi Schwartz? Was that too much to ask?

Call me crazy, oversensitive, whatever—but it seems reasonably
important to me that a girl know what her mother’s real name is.

I’m suddenly too hot. I zip open the sleeping bag, throw my leg out, let the cool air seep in.

Mimi used to be Rosie Ingram.

Is that true?

What does that mean?

Why
did she become Mimi?
When
did she become Mimi?
How
did she become Mimi?

Why wouldn’t she have told me?

Why wouldn’t she have told anybody? (Did she?) Why didn’t anybody notice? (Did they?) And what—more importantly—was she doing in Port Minton, of all places?

I stare at the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The brown cord is dusty and kind of frayed. I wonder if it’s safe. Mimi’s whole house burned down when she was a kid because of an “electrical malfunction.”

Or at least that’s what she said. That might be a big lie too.

I should just call Mom. Show her the evidence. Ask her to explain.

No. If the tables were turned,
she
could do that. She could confront someone. She’d love it! It would make a great show. Lots of drama and everything. But there’s no way I could do it. I’m too scared. How would she react? What would she do? For some weird reason, I picture the wicked stepmother in
Snow White
smashing the mirror. (Why? Mom’s not wicked. I don’t think she’s wicked. But how would I know?)

I could call Anita. She’d tell me. If I came straight out and asked her, she’d tell me.

I rifle around in my bag and pull out my cell. Get this over with
once and for all. Anita doesn’t need to tell Mom that she told me. Nothing needs to change. Nobody needs to know. Mimi can have her secret. Anita and I can have ours.

I open the phone. I close it. I can’t risk it. What if Anita
doesn’t
know anything about the Rosie stuff? I don’t want to, like, betray Mimi. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s still my mother.

I hurt her once before. I feel sick just thinking about it. I was pretty young, maybe twelve or something and we were watching TV together. Watching
her
on TV together. She was interviewing this singer from some boy band that I was all crazy for and she teased him about something. I don’t even remember what. I slapped her on the arm and went, “I can’t believe you said that! I’m so embarrassed! I’m ashamed to have you as my mother!”

That’s just what kids are like. I didn’t mean it. I just had a crush on the guy. I had some dumb fantasy that maybe we’d meet someday and he’d fall totally in love with me. I didn’t want anything Mimi said to come between us. (As if there’d ever be an “us”! As if Stuart Allen was saving himself for some pudgy twelve-year-old girl.)

I wasn’t embarrassed of
her.
I just said that. Mom was the most important thing in the world to me! I was old enough by then to realize she was the only reason I had friends. She was a whole lot more interesting than I was.

I guess she didn’t know that. She kind of pushed me away and looked at me really hard. It scared me. She’d never looked at me like that before. She went, “You’re embarrassed of me, are you?” She sounded like the meanest girl in school, the one who doesn’t even have to raise her voice to make you cringe. She pulled the bracelet she’d just given me off my arm and said, “Well, I guess you’re too embarrassed to wear this, then!” She opened the window and
chucked it as far as she could. She stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

I was shocked. I was mad and I was scared and I felt really, really bad because I knew it was my fault. I went into her room a little while later to apologize, but when I said, “Mom…” she just went, “Yes. What?”

She wouldn’t look at me. Maybe she’d been crying too. I should have said I was sorry then but I didn’t.

I just said, “Nothing,” and went back to my room.

The next day there was a new bracelet exactly like the old one left on my desk, but Mom didn’t sit on the couch with me watching TV any more. It might just be a coincidence but I went to boarding school right after that.

I don’t want to hurt her again. (I don’t think she wants to hurt me either. Maybe that’s why we avoid each other.)

I make a deal with myself. If I’m going to figure this out, I’ve got to do it on my own. I can’t let anyone know what I’m up to. I might need to know who my mother really is, but the world doesn’t.

I can’t ask Anita. I can’t ask Mom.

I look at my backpack. That’s okay. Maybe I don’t need to ask anyone. Maybe the answer’s right here.