Forbidden

Getting Naughty

Mom makes me drive. I don't want to. It's raining-I can't remember the last time it rained here-and I'm nervous, but now that I'm twenty one. She wants to buy me a car. How am I supposed to know what I want to do with the rest of my life when I haven't even finished college? The lot's full, so we have to park half way down the street. Mom's pleased because it's a chance for me to practice parallel parking, but in the end it's her that has to bring the car to the curb. She's not so pleased then.

The sign on the door of the yoga studio reads "CLOSED", and I feel a wave of relief. Maybe she got the day wrong and there's no class tonight after all. I'm used to being dragged along to take part in her hobbies of the week-sometimes they're even fun, like that pottery class we took, but I really tried to draw the line this time. It's a recipe for disaster: a clumsy kid like me in a yoga class. The studio windows are dark, but my increasing hope is soon dashed by the sight of a dozen people milling around the front door. It's clear they're not waiting to get in to the convenience store next door.

"Check out the Lulu-lemons," Mom snickers, entirely forgetting that she's also decked head to toe, in the same name brand Lycra as everyone else. I clutch my rolled-up sticky mat to my chest-it's brand new, purple, and still has that fresh PVC smell-and follow her meekly, hoping no one I know will see me here with my mother. Nobody cool does yoga. Some of the loiterers are soccer moms, probably killing time between their kids' games, taking part in the latest fitness fad just to say they've tried it. I hate to admit that I lump my mother among them.

Others look like they come to class regularly; they have the long, sinewy muscles of marathon runners. No one here is close to my age, except for the girl with the purple hair who looks like she might be in college. And nobody told me that this class was co-ed! She's talking with two men, both wearing shorts and sporting shaved heads. They've got heavy-duty yoga mats rolled up under their arms. I'm gripped with panic-completely intimidated. This was a really bad idea. I have absolutely no business being here.

"Hey, Mom." One of the Lulu-lemons waves and beckons us over to the group. The other women turn to look at us, but their stares are friendly.

"Haven't seen you here in a while." It's Mrs. Martin. She lives in a bungalow two doors down.

"You take a break for the spring?" She gives my mom a peck on the cheek.

"Oh, you know how it is." Mom flicks her hand in the air, dismissing the whole season just past.

"Busy, busy, busy."

"Tell me about it." Mrs. Martin's wearing Lycra and she really shouldn't be. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with a well-manicured talon, and looks surprised to see me.

"Well, hello, honey. Joining Mom for a workout tonight?"

No, I'm just hanging out here cuz I have nothing better to do. Don't you know that yoga mats are the latest teenage fashion accessory? I hate the condescending way she talks to me. Next she'll probably comment about the fact that I've finally started growing boobs.

Mom, seeing my unease, turns and pats my hair in that way that I hate. She chuckles as I look away. Thankfully, their motherly attention is taken by the approach of a slender young woman with a nose ring, and a tattoo peeking from under the straps of her tank top. She unlocks the door and smiles politely at us loiterers, gesturing that it's all right for us to come in. She flicks on the overhead lights and heads straight to the reception desk.

I follow Mom's example, leaving my shoes in the gathering pile by the front door and line up with the plebes-the lamb to the slaughter. My mom scans her membership card and then addresses the receptionist proudly, handing her a coupon.