BeatleMania Chapter One- HELP!

"M-o-o-o-m!" I groan for about the hundredths time today. My mom is definitely the most embarrassing mother on the planet. You don't believe me? Right now she was strutting around our apartment modeling a psychedelic hippie poncho with fringe hanging from the bottom. In only a few minutes, we'll be driving to a Paul McCartney in our 1950s Volt wagon Beatle. Embarrassing, I know. It's the story of my life.

"Mo-o-om, do I have to go?" I ask, plopping myself down on her bed and bouncing softly up and down.

My mom whirls around to face me as she struggles to tie her long, frizzy blond hair into a scrunchie that may have been cool in about 1980. "Oh course!" She enthuses. "You'll love it!" She grins broadly and elbows me teasingly. "Paul McCartney is such a dream."

I roll my eyes. "Mom." I try to reason with her. "Tell me why again we have to go."

Instead of replying, my mother starts to hum loudly. "Tell me why you cried, and why you lied to me…Tell me why you cried, and why you lied to me." I don't know for sure, but I can only guess that it's a Beatles song.

"Do you know what this will do to my already low ranking social image? I'll tell you. I'll tell you. My reputation will be ruined!" I'm pacing around the apartment now, muttering to myself. "I never ruined your reputation, did I? Oh noooo. I never did anything to bring disgrace to your reputation."

As I pace back and forth, my voice is increasing in volume and speed. At last my face is only inches away from hers and I'm on the verge of a meltdown. "But now you are doing this to me. You think your little Paul is real cute, don't ya? Well let me tell you mom, he's 70 years old! 70. Sev- en-ty. Normal"- my voice cracks on the word normal-"Normal seventh graders don't spend their time hanging out in some hippie joint listening to hippie music with their hippie moms!"

For a moment my mother looks bewildered, as if she has no clue what I mean by 'normal'.

My arms are flailing and the words are flying out of my mouth like bullets. "My life is turning into a ride on the Magical Mystery Tour bus!"

My mom recovers her shock, brushing me away and giggling. "Oh Michelle, you are so dramatic."

I grit my teeth. "It's Mitchie." I say for the umpteenth time. My mom named me Michelle, after her favorite song, "Michelle" by the Beatles. Surprise, surprise.

Unlike my mother, I'm normal. Which basically means I happen to have a problem with being named after some loserish song from the sixties. From the day I turned ten, it's been simply "Mitchie." My mom either has trouble remembering that, or has blocked it from her mind, because not once has she ever called me that. Not once.

My mom slips on a pair of clunky clogs. "They still fit!" she exclaims gleefully. I collapse onto my mom's bed and groan. It's hopeless.

My mom and I have totally different taste in clothes: I wear name- brand Areopastle, she wears home-made tie die, I wear skinny jeans, she wears overalls, I wear mini-skirts, she wears long flowy skirts that go down to her ankles. See a pattern going? We are not alike at all.

In fact, just this morning my mom had tried to convince me to wear a total hippie getup like hers. She actually wanted me to put a DANDILION in my HAIR. If there is one thing Mitchie Robinson does not do, it's wear flowers in her hair.

It was a long and desperate struggle, but it the end I got away with wearing only a Beatles T-shirt. As we head out of the apartment, I grab my fuzzy black sweater and zip it up to the top, completely covering my T-shirt. As a finishing touch, I slip my hood over my head and whip on a pair of sunglasses. I look like a stalker, and sure, it's ninety degrees out, but hey, anything's better than being seen in a Beatles T-shirt.

When my mom isn't looking, I stuff my ipod into my GO-GREEN tote (not my pattern choice, by the way) If worse comes to worse with this McCartney guy, I can always plug in my tunes and escape.

"Michelle!" My mom calls from down the stairs. I don't bother to correct her, to say "It's Mitchie.", instead I quickly shut the door, lock it, and hurry down the stairs. "We're gonna be late."

As we load into the car, my mom looks back. "You would look so good in tie- dye." She announces wistfully.

I slam the car door and scoot into my seat. "LET. ME. BE."

Of course, that is the perfect cue for my mom to burst into song. "Whisper words of wisdom…let it be….let it be."

I wince at every note she sings note off-key. I pride myself on having a pretty decent singing voice, and listening to my mother's off-pitch yodels makes me gag.

I yank my phone out of my bag and begin texting furiously, my thumbs flying across the keyboard.
Me: yo, Loretta r u there?

Loretta: yup wazzup?

Me: on my way to paul mccartney concert…ugh!

Loretta: paul mcWHO?

Me: exactly.

Loretta: lemme guess: your mom, right?

Me: yea… I NEED HELP!

Loretta: help, I need some body…help not just anybody….

Me: not funny. U sound like my mom.

I considered scribbling the message "HELP!" on a sheet of notebook paper and holding it up to the car window so that maybe…just maybe, if we passed a police car…they'd track us down and put my mom in jail for kidnapping charges, but I didn't have any paper with me.

Shoot.

By the time we arrive, I have learned to tune out my mom's singing. I head out of the car and into the concert hall. My mom is practically red in the face. She squeezes my hand. "I'm so nervous…" She confides in me. "I just can't wait! Do you think Paul will notice how nervous I am?"

"Uh, no, mom." I respond. "I don't think so."