Maisie cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.

After detention on Friday, Ida picked me up again. Maisie wasn't in the car, so I sat in the passenger seat in front, next to her.

This was the first time I'd ever been alone with her, so I felt a little shy. She seemed as she always did... sort of business-like, guarded. Not un-friendly, but not exactly open.

"Are we going to the old apartment?" I asked.

"No," she replied, "Your father took care of that today. That little place is history. He packed up everything, and once the moving men were done at your new place, they went and picked up the few things you had at the old one."

"Where's Maisie?" I asked.

"Maisie is helping your mother," Ida replied. She sounded almost offended, maybe even a little hurt.

"The mother-daughter thing is rough sometimes," I offered.

Ida looked at me for a moment, and when she saw I wasn't teasing or being mean, she smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Phil."

I laughed.

Ida sighed and continued, "I wish Maisie and I got along as well as you and your mother do."

"Yeah," I said, "well..."

Ida sniffed slightly, but I didn't see any sign of tears. I tried to find something to say to her, but the only things that came to mind were things I couldn't say. I couldn't tell her anything I'd heard from Maisie, because she'd confront Maisie with it, and then Maisie would feel betrayed...

For sure, I had no intention of wading into the minefield of Maisie's relationship with her mom. Better to talk about something else entirely. So I said, "Mrs. Beale, how did you learn about clothes?"

She stiffened. "In the first place, my name isn't Beale. I never took... that man's name. I'm Ida Falange, which may not sound like the greatest name in the world, but it sure as hell comes off better than Ida Beale."

She gripped the steering wheel tighter and in a low voice, to herself, she muttered, "Ida Beale! I was never Ida Beale!"

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I kept quiet. It sounded like she was on the verge of... I don't know what, but I didn't want this adult — who I barely knew — I didn't want her exploding on me. I didn't want to find out firsthand whatever it was that Maisie didn't like about her mom.

Then, Ida's grip relaxed and she frowned, as if trying to remember something. She glanced at me again. "But what was it you asked me?" It came to her, and her face softened into a smile. "Oh, clothes! Well, I've always loved clothes. Do you?"

Thank goodness! I'd hit on exactly the right topic.

Afterward, when I told Maisie, she reminded me that it had been her idea for me to talk about clothes with Ida. Whatever.

In any case, Ida really did love clothes, and she loved to talk about fashion. She said a lot that was hard for me to follow: she rattled off a lot of unfamiliar names. I realized that there was more to the world of fashion that I'd thought. Along the way, I managed to tell her that I loved the way she dressed and wished I had a sense of style like hers. I asked her what kind of shoes Ms. Means was wearing on Thanksgiving (Michael Kors). I even asked her how she did her makeup, because she has this very light, subtle style, that looks like the merest shading, almost like no makeup at all...

"Oh, honey, that's a whole 'nother hour or two in the telling," she replied happily, "and it would be easier to show you than to tell you."

I noticed that Ida had taken the long way home, to extend the conversation — which was fine by me. She really knew a lot.

She didn't just talk, either. She asked me questions, wanted my opinions, and she drew some things out of me that I didn't know I knew. It was great, and I was a little sorry when we had to stop.

"I have to say," she confided after we got out of the car, "I wish that Maisie had the same interest in looking good that you have." I smiled and shrugged. She took my arm and we climbed the stairs together.

As we entered the house, we could hear Maisie's voice coming from the kitchen, all bubbly and light. My mother's voice interjected here and there. It sounded like they were getting along as well as me and Ida.

When the two of us walked into the kitchen and saw Maisie's face flushed and happy, I said, "Hey, Maze, maybe you and me should swap mothers for a little while!"

"Sounds good to me!" she replied tartly, and I felt Ida's mood drop like a stone.

"You know, seriously, it might be a good idea," I told Maisie later, as she helped me put my bed together.

Or — to tell the truth — I watched her do it, and tried to hand her the right things.

"What?" she asked, as she tighted a screw. It was hard to believe she'd never done any of this before.

"Switching mothers. Maybe for a night or a weekend you could stay here and I could stay at your house."

Maisie stopped and stared at me for a minute. "Why?" she asked, shaking her head slightly.

"For a change," I said. "I heard how happy you were talking to my mother–" Maisie nodded, and went back to work. "... and I had a great time talking to your mother about clothes."

Maisie rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, Maisie. I could learn a lot from her. She could show me how she does her makeup."

"That stupid cow," she muttered, more out of habit than anything else. "I have to admit, she does know that stuff."

"And it kills her that you're not interested."

Maisie's tone grew hot. "That's kind of the point, isn't it? If I was interested, then she'd want to talk about it. If I'm not interested, then there's nothing to say."

I was about to reply, but she cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. Her jaw worked as she tried to push her emotions back down, but it was a lost battle.

She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore in a low whimper. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.

"It's okay," I said softly.

"I mean, what kind of monster doesn't want her own child?" she growled, choking on the words. "Animals don't even do that! She and my father fought over who would get stuck with me. I heard them! And not just once! It was weeks and weeks! Day after day! All day long! You take her! No, you take her! Why should *I* take her?" She drew breath in a backward wheezing cry that was painful to hear. "I hate them! I hate them both! But I'm stuck with them and I can't get away!" She wasn't shouting — her voice was low, a near-whispered concentrate of pure emotional power.

A flood of tears and sobs followed, and she grabbed me, crying and gasping. She held onto me as if she were a shipwreck victim, finally on land, but still afraid that she'd drown. It actually hurt, the way she was pulling me down, but I set my teeth and waited it out.

I looked around the room, but there were no tissues... not even a scrap of cloth...

She cried on and on, and clutched me desperately. Her whole body trembled and quaked, and when I put my arms around her, I felt her rib cage right under her skin. She's nothing but bones, I thought, and those poor wretched bones shook and shivered.

There was nothing I could do but hold her.

I have been afraid in my life, and I have felt lonely at times, but I never felt that no one loved me. As I hugged my skinny friend, I caught a glimpse of that feeling: the terror and emptiness of being alone on earth, of having no one... no mother, no father, no sister or brother...

After a couple of minutes, she stopped and sniffed, but kept her grip. She held me by my shirt sleeves and rested her forehead on my shoulder. After a few more sniffs, she let go.

"I can get some tissues from the bathroom," I told her. "I'll be right back."

She smiled weakly, and I quickly retrieved the box.

After she cleaned her face, she said, "Whew!" She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. She licked her lips. She sighed and her chest rose and fell heavily.

When Maisie could finally talk, she said, "That's the first time I've cried since..." a hard shudder passed through her and she shook her head. "... since it all fell apart. Sorry, Marcie."

"Sorry?" I echoed. "Maisie, I'm your friend. I'm here for you. This is what friends are for!"

"Really?" she asked.

"Really!" I said. "Come here, you!"

Then I hugged her until she protested. "Okay, okay! Let go, girl! I get the point! Lemme go! Enough with the mushy stuff already! Let go!"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way