Ousted
By Laura Snyder
Everyone adores her. Like adores, adores her. To the point where it is almost sycophantic. I almost expect the other women in our neighborhood to drop flowers at her feet. It’s fascinating and hilarious at the same time. I have never seen anything like it, at least not since high school. She is the popular girl with all her lackies following her and desperate to be noticed by her, to owe the Queen a favor.
We are all sitting in Gretchen’s living room in a circle, a stack of books on the coffee table, all looking worn, but not in a way that comes from being read but being dragged around from place to place. I get the sneaking suspicion that I am the only woman in the room who has actually read the book. That’s annoying. I came with notes.
Wine is poured around the circle.
And everyone is engaging in small talk.
I get the occasional “hello” and “how are you”, but no one asks about my kids, or how the house renovations are coming along. They are not outright rude, but I am starting to wonder why I’m here.
The women all light up as the final member of the book club enters the room. It’s my neighbor, Becky. They are fawning over the woman. She does look a little frail, and wobbly on feet. Heather, today’s host, immediately jumps from her oversized armchair and assists Becky into the room, giving up her cushy seat to Becky.
“Oh, my goodness,” says Charlene, “you are so brave. We should have come to you!”
“Or canceled,” tosses in Heather, eyes a bit wide, as if she should have thought of it sooner.
Becky smiles and waves her hand, “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t miss this. It’s nice to get out of the house anyway.”
The voice in my brain is throwing a tantrum, and I am doing my best to keep the voice contained to the confines of my skull. It the comments reach my mouth…. Well, it wouldn’t be good.
Becky looks at me, a thin smile on her face, and I can feel my body tense. Because there is something that I know that the rest of the group doesn’t. That I had seen her this morning. And she was perfectly fine.
She has thinned a bit, but I suppose that comes when you are on a liquid diet of booze and protein shakes.
The conspiracies have been running rampant, the voice in my head is screaming “FAKER”, so loud I can’t hear what anyone is saying. Not that it matters because no one is talking to me, or about the book.
Which, again, is a total shame. It was a good book.
But when I finally get the noise in my brain to go quiet, I realize that everyone is looking at me. No, not looking. Glaring. I’ve done something wrong.
No one says anything, just stares with sharp eyes, while Becky smiles, her face sharp.
“Well,” says Gretchen, breaking the hard silence that has taken over the house, “if Paisley can’t live up to her commitments, I can come help.”
What?
“Oh,” says Becky, “I couldn’t possibly trouble you. You have so much on your plate. Paisley doesn’t have anything; she’s just home all day while her kids are at school. You have so much to do.”
What the actual fuck.
She is pissed because I couldn’t do her dishes and laundry yesterday because I was behind on my looming deadline. If I keep missing my deadlines I am going to be dropped by my publisher. Something Becky conveniently seems to have forgotten.
“It was one time,” I said, not bothering to hide the disdain in my voice. “I have a deadline, and Jack had been up throwing up all night, I told you that.”
Becky rolled her eyes, and the other five women gave varying degrees of scoffs.
What was happening here?
There was a small part of me that expected at least one of the women to be on my side. Nope. They clumped together, deciding I was their common enemy because how dare I neglect their precious Becky. Not their beloved and perfect Becky.
I set my wine glass onto the table, grabbed my book, and stood up.
I gave each woman a sharp glare, and then Becky and I locked eyes. That smile of hers, those pointed eyes. The woman knew exactly what she was doing. And she knew her little flock would surround her. I am an invasive species to their delicate ecosystem, and my denial of service to their Queen has caused an unacceptable ripple.
I don’t say anything. What’s the point? I just left the house.
On the porch, which is not unlike my own, I can hear the woman bursting into chatter from within. Their voices are too muffled for me to make anything out, but I am smart enough to know whatever they are saying, I am the subject. Then there is a hearty burst of laughter.
I can feel a tear well. I don’t want my feelings to be hurt by these simple women, but I have been cast from the group, my only social net. And it hurts.