Mummy's Good Girl

Part 1

Oh poopy! I just discovered several big boxes of merchandise in the back that nobody had warned me about -- cold medicine, potato chips, ramen noodles, the usual convenience store crap -- that all have to be put out on the shelves. It's Tuesday night, 8:35, three and a half more hours till my shift ends. Dwayne should have done it, while I worked the till, but Dwayne never showed up for his shift. Which means I'll have to duck into the back whenever I can, in-between customers, bring the stuff out box by box, and do the restocking myself. I won't get any slack time to do my colouring tonight.

Not colouring books. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love colouring books, but I've come to find them a bit too limiting. I felt like doing butterflies, and I ran out of colouring books with pictures of butterflies a while ago, so why can't I make my own butterflies? People react strangely when they meet a twenty-year-old girl who still likes to colour pictures of butterflies. Or flowers. Or birds. Or kitty-cats. But the colouring makes me happy, OK? I like making them; I like looking at them afterwards. At the start of my shift, I put up several of my butterflies near the till, to cheer myself up a little.

So, yeah, I'm weird. The high school guidance counsellor told my parents I'm 'lacking emotional maturity', borderline Aspergers, but otherwise cognitively normal, whatever that means. In high school I got inappropriate crushes on my female teachers, which I suffered through in silence. I'm kind of a nerd, but I barely graduated grade twelve, never mind trying university. I'm super-awkward at talking to people I don't know well. I haven't learned to drive. My dad has to balance my chequing account for me and do my taxes. I need financial help from my parents to cover rent on my dingy little apartment. My parents are both medical doctors, my sister is in law school ... but me, I work at the Seven-Eleven in the west end of Guelph, Ontario. A weirdo loser, that's me. So if my colouring makes me happy, I've got few enough other things in my life to be happy about, OK?

The after-dinner rush has tapered off now. The store is empty for the moment. I'm about to head into the back and begin sorting through the boxes. Tingle-ingle, the door opens. Omigod, it's her again. My heart flutters. She nods and smiles at me in greeting and I silently melt. I noticed her last night. She's older -- about my mum's age I guess -- but so beautiful I can't help myself. She's plump, deliciously Rubenesque -- the Yiddish word would be zaftig. I wish I could just snuggle up in her arms, relaxing into the softness of her body. She's dressed a bit more formally tonight: an elegant oatmeal sweater, a tweed pencil skirt and suede boots. Her light-brown hair is twisted in a soft bun. Here I go again with one of my inappropriate crushes. She heads to the freezer and gets out a single ice cream sandwich. Just like last night.

'I'm getting addicted to these, it seems,' she smiles as she approaches me at the till. 'Not very helpful for my figure, but they make a nice evening snack, and I need a break from marking papers.'

She's a teacher then, I note to myself. There's radar and gaydar, and apparently I have teacher-dar. I want to tell her she doesn't need to worry about her figure, but I don't trust myself to say anything. Wordlessly, I ring up her purchase.

'By the way, I wanted to ask you about these butterfly drawings.'

'Oh ... sorry, um, I should take them down, I guess they look pretty dumb ...'

'Dumb? They're exquisite!'

'Um ... you ... you like them?'

'I love them! You're the artist?'

'Artist? Um, I guess ...'

'The way you combine your colours, I've never seen anything quite like them. Startling ... in a very good way. They remind me a little of Maud Lewis; do you know her work?'

I shake my head. I suddenly feel self-conscious, in my pink Elmo t-shirt, my hair in frizzy pigtails. My mother tells me I dress like a six-year-old, but I generally don't feel comfortable in grown-up-looking outfits. Working at the till of a Seven-Eleven, no one really looks at me anyway. But what must this woman think of me? To my horror, I realize my nipples are standing out like bullets beneath my t-shirt. I grab my drawing pad and cover my chest with it.

'Could I buy one of these drawings from you, dear?'

'Oh ... no ... I couldn't take money for them. They're just my weird, um colouring ... hobby, I guess. You can have them. You're the first person who likes them.'

'And I couldn't take them from you for free, dear. Tell you what, could I just take a picture of them, with my phone camera? I'd like to show them to a friend of mine. And my name is Joyce. Joyce Erkert.'

'Sure, um, go ahead, Joyce.'

She takes out her phone and snaps some pictures.