3. THE GAME

THE GAME

" Y es! Yes! Ria, go! Go!" I roared from a plaid blanket on the grass. My skin vibrated with excitement for my girls, so fearless and strong, as they zig-zagged in cleated feet across the astroturf. They each played separate games simultaneously on fields right next to each other, so my attention was split from one game to the other.

Ria dribbled across the field, keeping the ball close, her legs in constant motion, her little face pinched with determination while she effortlessly wove around the other kids on the field as if they weren't there. She paused only momentarily when she reached the goal, her leg shooting out like a missile to sink the ball into the back of the net, stretching the weave to the limit before landing with a thud on the ground.

There was a pause, and then her team and the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers. I bolted to my feet, mentally tethering myself to the grass to refrain from bouncing up and down on my toes (something Ria had once called "embarrassing"). "You did it!" I yelled. "You did it!" I smiled proudly at my oldest daughter, who grinned right back at me before being engulfed by her teammates. The group dispersed a few moments later, returning to their respective positions on the field.

I plopped back on the blanket, my frame tingling with joy. That part of motherhood came easy to me: the cheering, the support, the unconditional love. I loved my girls, and I'd celebrate them every second until the end of time, effortlessly and happily. It was just every single other aspect of motherhood that I struggled with: the routine, the monotony, the anxiety, guilt, worry, and the expectations that made it feel like the walls were caving in around me. I crossed my legs and turned my attention to Liv's field.

It was easy to spot Liv. She was fast as a bullet and looked mad as hell as she cruised toward a mob of children on the soccer ball like flies on a carcass. Her ponytail shook, heat blazed in her cheeks, mouth tight, eyes narrowed on the ball with a ferocity that always made me a little concerned. She went for it; her arms shot out for balance as she put all of herself into the kick. A child screamed out from the mob and then began howling in pain. The hoard broke apart to reveal a small boy sitting on the ground, rocking himself back and forth on his bottom, clutching his shin. Tears poured down his face and oh no, oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not him. Anyone but him.

"You kicked me!" The little boy, Bryce, hollered.

"On accident!" Olivia protested. She crouched down next to him. "Sorry, I was trying to get the ball. Do you want a hug?"

"NO!" Bryce wailed. "Don't touch me! I hate you and your weird, stupid family!"

Watching, my first instinct was to rush over to Olivia to save her from the embarrassment and discomfort of her mistake. I wanted to rescue her. But all of the parenting books were like, "Don't rescue them because they need to sit in discomfort sometimes, and if you rescue them, they'll never move out and will join a cult from your basement at age fifty-two." But where is the line? I could never figure out the nuances of those damn books. Love and support, they say, but let them struggle, let them solve their problems, or at least try, but also make them feel safe, seen, and heard. My heart broke as I watched her little face twist with guilt and try to make amends but fail. I didn't want to fill her head with our family's past and drama, but part of me wanted to tell her that there was no use trying to fix a damn thing with Bryce. He was cute and wholly innocent, but he was her son , my childhood arch nemesis, Bethany. The queen of bitches, the countess of cunts, and the head of the fucking PTA.

Sweat dripped down my ribs. Olivia was my bold and spirited child, who acted first and thought about it later. Kind, sensitive, and sweet, but impulsive and filled to the brim with hellfire. Where Ria wove around the mob to get to the goal, Liv would go straight through them. It was not the first time Olivia's enthusiasm had gotten the best of her, and I hated, no loathed, the way it labeled her, the way the other parents would tsk and shame her for childhood mistakes, for character differences, for not being smaller, quieter, and softer like the unicorn and pixie girls. An accidental kick in a sea of private schooled and stoic Anglo-Saxons was the social equivalent of killing a box of kittens, and it was made worse by kicking that specific child . Bethany, a tall blonde woman with a steely posture that was part ballerina, part Orc, made her way over to Bryce and pulled him into her arms.

I let out a low groan as she turned over her shoulder to eye me. It took all of my restraint not to roll my eyes, but a child had been hurt, and I did care about that, even if he would probably grow up to pass on the monster DNA that was their family legacy.

When we were younger, Bethany and I had been best friends, primarily due to proximity. Her parent's estate was across the road from ours, so we could wander down the spiraling driveway through iron gates to reach her property in minutes. My sister and I spent many summers riding horses with Bethany, creating fairy kingdoms in her family orchard at the edge of their property and wandering the halls of each other's homes. Then we were made enemies, thanks to our parents and their petty HOA war, taking turns to sue each other for violating "community guidelines." One day we were little girls giggling together in an orchard, the next, Bethany wouldn't speak to us. Then middle school began, and she became one of the popular girls at our private catholic school, The Mother of Immeasurable Suffering. By age twelve, she'd mastered a serpentine smile and the ability to spit words like venom. In high school, it only got worse when the incident happened.

After what felt like an hour, the coach arrived on the soccer field, and Bethany crawled away to the sideline towards her husband, who looked like a Ken doll come to life with his pressed Khakis and side-combed golden hair. The coach helped Bryce to his feet. He squatted down to his height to chat with the children before sending them back into the field. Olivia glanced at me, and I smiled reassuringly at her. "Try again," I mouthed and gave her a thumbs up.

From the corner of my eye, I could see something move, a flash of white. My eyes slid towards the object and locked onto Bethany's face. She flipped her honey blonde strands over her blush pink luxury loungewear-clothed shoulder before slithering towards me. In a few heartbeats, she'd reached my spot on the grass and loomed over me while she smoothed the front of her Lu-Lu leggings and examined my blanket. She scrunched up her nose before sighing and, without invitation, crouched down next to me, rocking back on her haunches like she was about to shit. I stiffened.

"There you are, Danielle!" Bethany said, stretching my full name into a hiss. "How are you?"

Her mouth curved up, but the smile didn't reach her cold gray eyes, the color of a three-days-old corpse.

"I'm doing well, Bethany," I replied flatly. "What can I do for you?"

I searched her pretty face for whatever she was about to say. Surely, she'd start with something about Olivia and Bryce on the field where she'd try to mask an insult, and then, knowing her, she'd pivot PTA demands for upcoming school events, volunteer opportunities, and all of that. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and turned back to the soccer game, to the little bodies moving with intention across the field.

"Good! Good! Just wanted to come chit chat for a minute and see how you and the kiddos are doing."

She said in a voice that was three octaves too high. Her grin was more threatening than friendly, like a wild animal showing its teeth before launching an attack. I groaned. I knew this game as well as the curves of my own body, the shape of my hips, and my round Persian ass. My mom invented this game–the gorgeous on the outside, evil on the inside soccer mom who wielded blinding white veneers like a weapon. Terrifying .

I forced my face to stay neutral, "That's so nice of you to check in, Bethany. We're doing great. The girls are great."

"Great! That's great! Anyway, did you see my email on the socks? And are you going to sign up to help with the winter festival at the school? All of us will take a class to learn how to hand-carve sculptures from ice blocks for the decorations. You won't want to miss out. We're also raising money for this organization called Healthy Bellies Global to bring Kombucha to children in Uganda. You should sign up! I haven't seen your name on the register. We could use the help!" She crooned.

"Oh, wow." I had to bite my lip to stop myself from cackling. Ice sculpture classes? Kombucha? Is she fucking serious? What is with these disconnected sycophants thinking that they were going to save the world with Kombucha ?

I coughed to hide a chuckle, "I'll check my emails when I get home and let you know what I have time for," I managed to say with some seriousness.

"Yes! Do!" Bethany said.

Then she leaned in a little closer and cleared her throat. Her shoulder nearly brushed mine as if we were girlfriends, buddies, gossiping at the park, laughing together like when we were kids.

"So I noticed that Olivia is being her little firecracker self!" She whispered, "She just has so much energy, doesn't she? You must have your hands full. But then again, I guess you're used to it. That kind of, uhm, character runs in the family, doesn't it?"

"Watch it." I bit out, staring into Bethany's dead eyes. What I really wanted to do was head-butt her right in her perfectly smooth botoxed face. I knew what she was getting at, knew what she alluded to. Bringing my mother and father into this? Too far.

Bethany's smile spread even wider, proud of herself, no doubt, that I'd reacted to the jab at my family.

"Anyway," she said, rising to her feet, "so glad everything is going well! Let's get together soon! Okay?"

I wanted her to choke. But she just smoothed her hands over her pants again and flashed her great big laser-blasted chicklets one final time before strutting away to rejoin her circle of petty hags.

"Have a good day!" I called after her, then feigning concern, "I hope that yeast infection clears up on its own! Keep me updated!"

She spun around, fists balled up at her side, and scowled before disappearing in line with her friends.

My sister, Jess, plopped down next to me, resting her head on my shoulder. She pushed her thick black-rimmed glasses up her nose and adjusted the tie on her blouse.

"Did you just get here?" I asked her.

"Uh-huh."

"How much did you see?"

"Enough. That bitch will never change."

I reached up to pat my sister's head.

"Did you hear her jab at Mom? The "fire runs in our family" shit?"

"I mean, she's not wrong. Our family is mixed, and passions run high–"

"–But you know that's not what she was talking about."

"I know. Gods, she's boring. Everything having to do with that , with mom and dad, is old news."

Victoria stopped running abruptly mid-field to wave enthusiastically and scream, "Hi, Aunt Jess!"

Jess waved back. Then cracked her knuckles. She rearranged herself to sit cross-legged, angled toward me.

"Steven leaves tonight, yeah? Wanna do something this weekend? Park? Lunch? Divorce lawyer?"

She waggled her eyebrows playfully.

"Ha-ha." I deadpanned.

"Okay," Jess sang. "Also, feel free to tell me to shush whenever," she went on, tracking Victoria and Olivia as they walked off the field to gather around each of their coaches. "But when was the last time you saw your friends? I know you're going to ignore me, but you should plan a night out, too. I can come over to watch the girls, or you can take them to mom's house for their monthly lesson in the delicate art of being judgemental as fuck. Think about it. Yeah?"

I rolled my shoulders. My instinct was to say no. My girls didn't need to spend time with my insane mother, and I didn't need a break. I loved my kids. However, the stiffness in my neck and the knot in my throat told another story. I heard my therapist's voice in my head: "Taking care of yourself is taking care of them."

"Okay. Yes. I will take you up on the offer and call Cruella to watch the girls. I'm not entirely against fun, sis. I'm just busy ."

Jess nodded slowly to let me know she really empathized.

"Uh-huh. You're not just busy, you're also really anxious and maybe a little sad? You panic every time the girls aren't with you."

"Well, yeah, because mom's a little–"

"Uptight? Crazy? A cold frigid twat and possibly a murderer?" Jess shrugged. "Yeah, I've met her. But we turned out mostly fine and the girls will be fine, too. Maybe she killed Dad, but she'd never hurt children ."

"Not helping. And Mom didn't kill Dad. Probably." I mumbled.

"Oh! And speaking of things that are not okay, how's our favorite decrepit dog, Rebecca?"

"Rebecca is good! The real dog is a thousand years old, and I'm pretty sure my paintings house her soul to keep her alive. Her bark is like a death rattle. The painting of Rebecca is not finished, but it's the size of a palace and almost done."

Jess grinned, bumping her side against me playfully, and I pulled her into a hug before reluctantly letting her go. Most of the siblings I knew were polite at best and mortal enemies at worst, but Jess and I had always been best friends despite being undeniable opposites. Where I sought stability, she almost seemed terrified of it. Where I people pleased and tried to keep the peace like every oldest daughter, she seemed happiest when being a contrarian little bitch. Different as we were, she was my best friend, my ride-or-die, the person who understood me best in the world. You'd think our parents would have been excited to have two kids who loved each other, but it was almost like it worried them. Did they think we'd gang up? Stage a coup? Unclear.

I remember once after school, Jess and I were standing around the kitchen in our dumb navy blue uniforms, talking amongst ourselves while our mom cooked rice and Gheymeh, a Persian stew with lentils my father loved. Mom was English through and through, like tea and crumpets in the afternoon every day kind of English, and she hated to cook for the most part, but she'd learned to make Persian food for our dad, and she was pretty good at it, too. It was the only type of food that either of our parents cooked themselves, letting Nancy, their chef, do everything else. On this particular day, Mother wore an oversized black apron over her light blue pantsuit that swayed as she hummed along to Mozart or something. We'd just come home from school and were still wearing our blue Catholic school uniforms–they'd chosen the school for its rigorous academics, not religious teachings, because our family leaned more Zoroastrian-ish than anything else–in our beliefs and in our holiday celebrations. Mom was Catholic, but a shitty one who hadn't been to church in decades and honestly might catch fire if she crossed the threshold of one.

Jess and I were standing at the counter while Mom cooked, chewing on dates stuffed with feta cheese, when Jess cracked a joke about Bethany. We both erupted in laughter, and our mother whipped her head towards us, spatula raised instinctually in the air like a sword. Then she launched into a lengthy lecture about how we needed to take our lives more seriously because life was not supposed to be "fun," and one day, the world would be in our hands (kind of intense way to think about a career or whatever) and how if we didn't stop we'd end up dead with our La-Di-Dah attitudes. The "joking to crack" pipeline was real in our home. Jess, of course, retorted with some smartass remark that got us sent to our rooms. Whenever Jess and I joke around, I often think of my mom's strong reaction to joy.

Liv and Ria finished with their coaches and walked towards us, taking slow, tired steps. Their rosy faces glistened with sweat despite the overcast and the cool fall breeze.

I turned to my sister,

"Do you ever wonder if mom was always cold and weird? Or did motherhood and marriage do that to her?"

"What could possibly go wrong when a narcy workaholic marries a robot?" Jess joked. Then she leaned closer until our shoulders touched and whispered, barely audible, "And you're not Mom."

I blew out a raspberry to lighten the mood. Jess picked up a single blade of yellowing grass and twirled it in her fingers before flicking it at me with a devilish grin. Ripping up a handful of turf, I sent it flying at her, curling blades floating over her like a veil before settling across Jess's short hair and shoulders. Liv and Ria laughed and sprinted the rest of the way to join in, squealing and running in circles around us.

Bethany glowered as she passed by with her family. I'd arranged my face in a fake smile. "Dude!" I hissed when Jess flipped her off, grabbing her hand and pushing it down. "There are children."

"Children who need to learn how to handle bullies."

"What, no!"

"Come on! You know you wanted to do it, too."

I tried not to smile, but it was useless. Before I knew it, we were laughing. Once we calmed down, Jess hopped to her feet and shook the lawn off of her blouse and out of her thick curls. She reached out to help me up. The girls were running after each other, heading toward the parking lot. We walked after them, watching Bethany's white SUV back out and lurch forward. "That bitch is totally going to make your life hell for eternity, you know?" Jess said, gesturing to it.

No truer words had ever been spoken.