Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Lost in Seattle (Lost in Love, #2)

  Acknowledgements

  PART I | Elvis has left the building

  The color purple

  The Post-it notes

  A few peanut butter sandwiches short

  White men in white socks

  A big glowing condom

  Mozart for dummies

  The mailbox

  A midget in the house

  Rule-breaking rules

  The 90210 automobile

  How can someone die just a little?

  Hair of meatballs

  Save the tuna

  Double up on Frank

  The wrong Frank

  The voice of an Angel

  The paper house

  A million meals

  We tried humor once. It didn’t work.

  The kiss

  Live a little. Love a little.

  Hasta la vista, baby

  Miss Tarantino in da house

  A chicken dressed up as turkey

  Thing one and thing two

  Beavis and Butthead

  Downhill from here

  PART II | Two blue lines

  The yellow brick road

  Ella and Stella

  Roe versus Wade

  Wine in Rome

  Seventeen blue elephants in the room

  Floating disasters

  Miss T

  Betrayed by a Post-it note

  Mom’s little keeper

  The moment of truth has arrived

  Heart-shaped PB&J sandwiches

  A new set of wings

  The Motley Crew

  Bill & Ben

  A cucumber hat and apple pants

  Miss Cruella De Vil

  The final letters

  The ghost

  The mix up

  The cat in the hat

  Eleanor Rigby

  Copyright 2013 Charlotte Roth

  Cover design by Amy Queau, 2018

  Edited by Val Serdy

  Second edition edited by Traci Sanders, 2016

  DISCLAIMER

  Since I published Miss Apple Pants in 2013, I have received a lot of amazing reviews and feedback from my readers. Based on their good advice and encouragements, I have decided to make Miss Apple Pants into a small series.

  Thus, I have added a subtitle, Lost in Seattle (it has also been edited a second time.). The sequel, Lost in Love, will be published in 2018. Thanks to all my readers. I appreciate all your sincere feedback. I believe we can always improve—as professionals and people.♥

  This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any similarity to real persons is unintentional.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission from the author.

  Learn more about me and by books:

  www.charlotterothwrites.com

  Connect with me here:

  https://www.facebook.com/mscharlotteroth

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to everyone around me—the cheering squad—for encouraging me to keep writing in between diaper changes, laundry, toddler tantrums, PMS, play dates, and football practice. You know who you are!

  Especially thanks to Ida, the first person who actually read my book (that first critique—sent as a short text from the Big Apple—was a gift from heaven!). To Rachel for being Rachel—always encouraging me to write, always respecting my precious “writing time”. To Val, my editor, for excellent contributions and editing. And English grammar lessons. To Annie for putting up with my kids (even though I pay you for it! ☺). To my dear deceased mother-in-law, who never—even though she had Alzheimer’s—forgot to ask me how my book was coming along (how I wish you could see it now!). Thanks to my wonderful, wonderful kids—Alfred, Emma, and Olivia—for putting up with Mom when she was in one of her frenzied writing moods, oblivious to the world around her.

  And, finally, thanks to my loving, wonderful, supportive, and most patient husband, Jeppe, for always believing in me—even though he never read one single word. I love you.

  For all the hopeless and hopeful women ♥

  PART I

  Elvis has left the building

  “All aboard, gals!” he hollered from the oversized U-Haul truck after honking the horn three times.

  Mom and I stood on the grass waiting to climb inside, still holding on to that last touch of the East coast under our feet. We exchanged glances and she rolled her glassy eyes. Dad looked ridiculous, sporting a Homer Simpson cap and matching t-shirt, his five feet seven inches, and a wide, silly smile. His forced southern accent was a bit of overkill for five a.m. I’m sure the neighbors thought so too.

  “It’s two thousand nine hundred and fifty-two miles to Seattle. One overnight stop, five meal stops, seven restroom stops, tops, so hold it, gals.” He honked the horn one more time.

  “At least we got to stay here more than three years. It must be a record,” I said, mostly to myself.

  “I know saying goodbye is always the hardest part. You’ll see, saying hello is going to be so much easier. I promise.” She turned around and wrapped her arms tight around me and kissed me on the back of my head. We both looked up at Dad, elevated up there in his man cave. He was trying to adjust both his cap and the rearview mirror. He nodded at the face looking back at him. I could feel Mom shaking her head. She whispered, “Go on, now.”

  I climbed into the truck, followed by Mom, and we both sat down next to the testosterone-meets-horsepower-meets-Convoy truck driver.

  Mom leaned over all the way from the window seat and honked the horn. “Okay. I see it is working. I wasn’t quite sure.” She looked at me and smiled. Dad made a move to honk the horn again when Mom grabbed his arm. “It was a joke, Frank. We know it works.” She turned toward me. “It’s a long way to Seattle, and I hope this strange man—who I no longer perceive as my husband, but just as some random truck driver—will become slightly less perky as we start crossing the country. I’ll need a Starbucks for starters. What do you say, Ella?”

  I wasn’t saying that much. Squeezed in between Mom and Dad (and Dad’s hairy arms), I felt a little sick to my stomach. Maybe it was because it was still wicked early in the morning (I literally don’t have eyes until after seven), or maybe it was the thought of seeing my old house and neighborhood for the last time, or maybe it was the nasty smell of the citrus-meets-pine-tree-meets-hairy-Neanderthal-armpit-meets-Little-Trees in the front mirror. That sure didn’t help.

  “What was that, Abby?” Dad looked at Mom. Slowly he removed his hand from the horn.

  “We need coffee and pumpkin scones, and now. Step on it!”

  Dad nodded his head, grabbed the keys from the visor like a true truck driver, and turned on the engine. “Did you know that the Space Needle was built in sixty-two and served as the symbol of the World’s Fair that year? And when I went there...”

  I stopped listening and watched the street getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. I was so not in the mood for Dad’s little Seattle encyclopedic facts (which he eventually ran out of before we hit the drive-through window, thank God).

  Suddenly a huge white van pulled out from a driveway so fast that I almost banged my head against the dashboard when Dad hit the brakes.

  “Hey, watch it, asshole,” Dad yelled at the van, placing both hands on the horn. “Asshole,” he yelled again
as the van disappeared down the cul–de-sac.

  “Geez.” Mom leaned over and looked at Dad. “What an asshole,” she said, shaking her head, “but Frank, I thought you already used your asshole quota for 2012, mister big mouth.” She smiled and looked at me.

  Dad sat up straight and cleared his throat. He whispered, “Yeah, I guess I did,” as he glanced back at me. Without looking at him, I just nodded and leaned back and closed my eyes.

  It had only been a few weeks since the infamous asshole remark, but everything had happened so fast since then, and my whole life had literally changed in one sentence.

  Dad had come home from work one day and announced that his boss was one “big British asshole,” which had come as no surprise to me or Mom; this was actually the first thing he would say every single day when he came home from work. The big surprise was that he had actually said it to the man’s face, that is, the big British asshole’s face. Well, I guess I can’t say it was it was that big a surprise. Dad has always been a firm believer in standing up for your rights—total Erin Brockovich style—even if it was going to cost you a job or two. And he would know.

  Apparently, they had gotten into a big argument about the recycling policy of the firm, and when Dad—with his big environmental heart—and “the asshole” couldn’t come to an agreement, Dad simply got up and left, shouting, “Elvis has left the building!” which I thought was more embarrassing than the asshole remark. Elvis—aka Frank Jensen with an E—had left the building. And once again Elvis was out of a job.

  At first Mom had gotten upset, going on and on about why Dad always has to act so proud, but after a bottle of the deep red Chianti she prefers, Mom relaxed a bit. “I guess he was a rather British asshole, not to mention his high horse British ass of a wife,” she said. Then they both giggled about it like two schoolgirls.

  Dad and Chianti always have the same calming effect on Mom. “He’s my muse, you know, my rock,” she always tells me, especially after a few glasses of wine. She claims that just by looking at him, he gives her the confidence to go conquer the world, whether that be the world of cruel examinations, job interviews, root canals, or even the world of Grandma and Sitting Bill.

  I opened one eye and peeked at “The Rock.” He was obviously enjoying the ride, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. I opened the other and gazed at Mom, the designated map reader. It was apparent that she was clueless as to where we were. I pulled myself out of my fake sleep, grabbed the map from her, and turned it right side up. “Maybe this will help?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Then maybe you can figure out where we’re going?”

  “Seattle?” I suggested.

  “Ha ha ha. Nope. Here.” Dad leaned over and placed three fingers right in the middle of the map. “Best burgers in the world,” he explained and tipped his Homer cap. “We have to go there for lunch since we’re this close.” Again, he held up a few fingers as a navigation device. “When we went to Penn State, that’s all we ever had. Well, except your healthy Mom that is. Back then, she went all nuts and became a vegan,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

  “It was for two weeks, Frank.” She held up two fingers.

  “Burgers?” I asked without the help of any fingers.

  “Yep, and the best freaking curly fries in the world.” He licked his fingers and rubbed his belly.

  Mom leaned over and looked at Dad with a heavy sigh. “Frank, I swear...,” she said, leaving it up to Dad to figure out what she was about to swear.

  Dad peeked down at me and raised a conspiring eyebrow as if saying: See what I’m up against. I just smiled and pretended not to look at his protruding belly, knowing exactly what Mom was up against.

  It’s not that Dad is fat or anything. I’d rather describe him as a warm and fuzzy bear; a lot of hair and a lot of belly. Aside from the hair and the bacon pouch, I kinda look like him. Or, more precisely, I actually look a lot like both of them, spot on! I mean, a lot of kids either look just like the dad or the mom, but I turned out exactly how I was made: fifty-fifty Mom and Dad. I have Mom’s curly red hair and green eyes (bonus); Dad’s square face (bonus); and a rather short, square, athletic body (bummer). Dad’s Dumbo ears (bummer) on top, and Mom’s tiny but ugly feet (both) on the bottom as well.

  Dad shook his head, which seemingly made his big ears wiggle. “I know. I know. When we get to Seattle, I promise to go easy on the fries and heavy on the green stuff.” Dad turned toward me and bit down on his fist.

  “They’re called vegetables, and they’re good for you, Frank.”

  “I know. I know.” Dad looked at me. “But I tell ya, those burgers are worth a little detour. And technically fries are veggies too, right hon?”

  “Whatever.” Mom rested her head up against me and closed her eyes.

  My stomach rumbled. “And when do we eat?” I asked. “Four hours, give and take.”

  IT WAS MORE TAKE THAN give when we finally—seven and a half hours later—drove into a tiny, rundown suburb in Pennsylvania. I had survived on a semi-dry pumpkin scone, three of Mom’s coconut granola bars, and three Diet Cokes. I was famished.

  “Now where’s our burger joint?” Mom leaned over and waved the map at him. “I forgot.”

  “I believe it’s just at the end of this street.” He made a big turn and rolled down the window.

  “Dad, are we, like, actually going in, I mean, dressed like this?”

  Dad turned to me and smiled. “You look lovely, peaches. The both of you,” he said over my head.

  “Dad, we’re in our pajamas,” I reminded him, looking down at my ladybug pants.

  “We’re in a suburb of a suburb of a suburb of Pennsylvania. Who cares? We’re having a couple of burgers. It’s not freaking fine dining, ma’am.” He leaned over and looked at Mom and honked the horn a few times too many.

  I gave the typical teenage eye roll. So obnoxious.

  HE SURE WAS RIGHT ABOUT the place; it wasn’t fine dining, and no one seemed to care about a couple of striped, ladybug pajamas walking in. We were seated at a little booth way in the back, where we were handed three cups of semi-cold water and three greasy menus.

  “Cokes, burgers, and fries for all,” Dad said, tipping his Homer cap, smiling.

  “Coming right up,” the teenage waitress in a polka dot miniskirt giggled. She grabbed the slippery menu cards and headed for the next table.

  “It sure looks different,” Mom said in a hushed voice, wrinkling up her nose.

  “It looks just the same. Just like you.” Dad smiled and leaned over the greasy table and placed a kiss on her lips. Admiration laced his voice. “Look at your mom. Isn’t she just the most beautiful girl in the whole world?” He looked at her with love written all over his face.

  “Oh, Frank,” she said, almost blushing.

  Dad turned toward me. “Did we ever tell you how we met?”

  “Yes, Dad, about a thousand times, but before you get started—again—I need to go to the bathroom.” I pushed the chair out and got up.

  “Yes, go!” he demanded. “A restroom stop now means we can—”

  “—skip one later,” Mom and I both said at the same time.

  Dad leaned back and nodded his head, smiling.

  When I got back, the burgers and best freaking curly fries in the world were already on the table. The waitress sure wasn’t kidding about the “coming right up.”

  “Bet you didn’t know this,” Dad said with his mouth full, as I sat down. “It was right here.” He knocked on the table. “We met in here. Over there.” He pointed toward an old worn-out pool table in the back. Pride seeped through his words. “Right there. It was a Friday night. In eighty-nine, you know.”

  I nodded. I knew. They have told me the story, like, a thousand times. It’s one of their favorite stories. They have three: The high-school-sweethearts story, the dramatic-delivery-of-Eleanor story and the-how-we-picked-your-name story.

  The story of my name is my favorite—not because it’s a
bout me—I just kind of like the fact that I was named after a famous Beatles song. Mom is a huge Beatles fan, John Lennon in particular, and she keeps insisting that John was the one who wrote “All the lonely people” and came up with the name Eleanor Rigby, but I read somewhere that McCartney came up with the name in the song.

  Actually, there are two different stories: The first one claims that the name was inspired from some gravestone. Lennon and McCartney used to hang out at this old church in Woolton, UK, and there was this gravestone with the inscription “Eleanor Rigby,” who had passed away in 1939, at only forty-four years old. McCartney, on the other hand, claims that the name was inspired, and actually emerged from, two different names: “Eleanor” came from the actress Eleanor Bron in Help! and “Rigby” was inspired by a store sign, “Rigby and Evans” in the town where Paul grew up. But he couldn’t deny that maybe the name had come to him subconsciously from the gravestone as well. There is even a statue of Eleanor Rigby sitting on a bench somewhere in Liverpool—made by Tommy Steel. He made it years later as a tribute to the Beatles and “all the lonely people” in the world, which I find very romantic. I’ve always imagined that someday I would go to Liverpool and sit there on the bench with the real Eleanor.

  I guess naming me Eleanor was Mom’s way of paying her own respect to Lennon, and maybe it was also a way to make up for not ever seeing him perform live. Mom never forgave Grandma for not letting her go (go figure; she was only eight years old at the time) to a small private Lennon concert in New York in seventy-nine, the year before he was shot. She had had every opportunity to go. Mom’s aunt Grace was working as a secretary at some smaller independent record company, and she had somehow been invited to a small jam session with Lennon and Yoko Ono. But she wasn’t going. “Can’t stand that woman,” was all the reason she gave. But Mom wanted to go, and she had almost convinced Granddad to take her, but then all of a sudden Uncle Bob had decided to turn forty that very same day.

  Every time we listen to one of the Beatles records, Mom always says, like it’s the first time ever, “Did I ever tell you that I almost met him?” And every time I act surprised and say, “Please, do tell,” and then she relays the story about how she missed the show and instead ended up getting food poisoning at Bob’s birthday. “And then only a year after that, he died. Damn you, Uncle Bob,” she says every time she finishes the story.