Miss Matched

Chapter One

Bad habits are hard to break. I pick at my cuticle starting a brand-new hangnail as my mother harasses me. "It's been a really long time since I had a boyfriend," I tell her.

And by really, I mean never.

That would be my second bad habit. Never having a second date.

I unzip my black graduation gown while my mother sits on one end of the IKEA couch she purchased for me. At the opposite end, a fluff of stuffing peeks out of the cushion where Taylor's cat, Cheshire, attacked and clawed the couch to death. Of course, my mother would position herself as far away from the flaw as possible.

She's dressed far too chic today for a college graduation. What she's wearing is closer to the red carpet than any normal mother. My mom is far, far, far from normal. I suppose that's her bad habit. Outside the auditorium earlier, the other moms all looked nice in suits or day dresses in pastels while mine sparkled gold and silver and bronze, drawing far too much attention to herself.

She loved it. The attention, I mean, not the dress.

Actually, come to think of it, probably both.

During the line-up for a family photo, someone else's mint-green mom approached us and congratulated me, then turned to Mom and said, "Aren't you Felicity O'Hara?"

Mom delicately placed her fingertips on her breastbone and her mouth formed an "O" in feigned surprise. "Why, yes, I am. How nice of you to recognize me in this huge crowd of people."

I'm surprised, too, that the poor woman wasn't blinded by the sparkle given off by Mom's gown.

"I just love The Matchmaker. I never miss an episode—or if I do, I record it. I just think what you do is ..." She trailed off looking for the right word.

Crap?

"... so beautiful."

"You're too kind. It's been my lifelong calling, you know?" Mom smiles sweetly at her adoring fan.

"I'd love—I mean if it's not too much trouble—to get your autograph," she said, holding out her program.

"Don't be silly." Mom's hand fluttered from her wrist. For one single second I actually thought Mom was going to say I'm not a celebrity, or You don't really want my autograph, or This is my daughter's graduation, I couldn't possibly. But then she pinched the clasp on her evening bag, whipped out a felt tip in the blink of my eye and signed the blasted thing.

I wish I could say I was flabbergasted, but I'm not.

"Thank you so, so much." The woman held it between her hands like Mom's signature was a treasured family heirloom. Then, she waved it over her head and said much too loudly, "I can't believe I just met Felicity O'Hara."

Naturally, all the commotion drew a lot of attention our way and a robin's egg blue mom drifted over to ask the mint green mom about what just happened. Word spread like wildfire and soon there was a line of pale tangerine and carnation pink and lemon yellow and baby blue lined up in front of my precious-metals mom. Between autographs on their programs, and selfies with my mother that immediately appeared on social media, it took forever to get out of there, and we never did get our family photo.

After the ceremony, we returned to my apartment. As she sits on my couch, Mom removes a compact mirror and a lipstick from her evening bag. Using her thumb on her left hand she flips the mirror open. Using the thumb and finger on the other she expertly twirls the lipstick to a perfect length and re-applies to her upper lip.

"I could help with that. The boyfriend." She presses her lips together and moves to the lower. In one fluid motion, she exchanges the mirror and lipstick for a tissue, and before she blots the excess says, "Like I told that woman today, 'It's my lifelong calling.'"