My Kid’s Friend Isn’t Allowed at Our House Anymore
My Kid’s Friend Isn’t Allowed at Our House Anymore
She’s a total narc
“Mommy, can I invite a friend over after school tomorrow?” my daughter blurts, her backfoot still in contact with the final step of the school bus.
The question travels from her lips to my ears and I notice immediately that a) her usual ‘s’ lisp has been dropped on the word school suggesting that she has been mentally rehearsing this question for some time and b) she isn’t making eye contact.
Harper.
“Sure Sweetie, who would you like to invite?”
She pops a fistful of hair into her mouth. She’s being dodgy.
Don’t say Harper. Don’t say Harper. Don’t say Harper.
She spits out the mouthful of hair as I fight the urge to dry heave. “Harper,” she admits. “She wants to see my gems!”
Correction: she wants to steal your gems.
I know this because every time that eight-year-old klepto comes to our house something goes missing.
I try something.
“You’ve been complaining a lot about Harper lately — how she kicks you in the vagina when she doesn’t get her way? Maybe you can invite Sadie or Eleanor or even Tylor over instead?”
The last time Tylor came over he said our house was boring and our snacks were gross and then climbed our tree while gnawing on a stick because he was a beaver and refused to come down. That seemed more boring and gross but at least he was out of the way.
“No. I want Harper. She’s nice now!”
Shit.
I’ve never in my life encountered a more manipulative kid than Harper. For my daughter’s eighth birthday, she gifted her a best friend necklace. They were peripheral friends. Classmates at most. It was a hamburger (best) and fries (friend). She then made my daughter give her the hamburger (best).
Boss move.
For weeks my daughter obeyed Harper’s orders under the guise of best friendship. She let her roll the big tire during special recess, traded classroom jobs even though my daughter hates compost and loves attendance, and gave her half and eventually all of her seaweed snack, even though seaweed snack is my daughter’s favourite snack.
When we arrive home she throws off her shoes and backpack in a heap on the floor and races to her iPad to send a Messenger Kids message to Harper. I hear a loud cheer.
Fuck.
She then runs up to her room and closes the door. She’s probably gathering the dowry she’ll offer Harper tomorrow in exchange for an unkicked vagina.
Hopefully she doesn’t include the chicken. That’s dinner.
The next day, my daughter and Harper skip off the bus together. They’re laughing and gossiping about Maeve’s abysmal performance during their recess spit tournament. The card game.
Harper, as usual, presents as extremely polite remembering to ask me how my day was and complimenting me on my hip-with-it tie-dye sweatshirt from Target.
“I love your sweatshirt, Em’s Mom, my brother has the same one!”
Ok Harper, I see you.
After a seaweed snack obtained the legitimate way, the girls run to the basement to play. I dust off all the seaweed snack flakes from the table and throw them into Harper’s backpack.
Suck it, Harper.
It’s unusually quiet so I creep downstairs to see what the girls are up to. That’s when I discover Harper knee-deep into the chest freezer.
For a fleeting moment, I consider making like Ace Ventura and tiptoeing back upstairs but anyone who grew up watching Punky Brewster is still traumatized by the episode when Cherie gets trapped inside the refrigerator.
“Harper, I wouldn’t hide in there, that’s where we keep the dead bodies,” I caution.
It’s true tho.
Harper cries and begs to go home which prompts my daughter to cry because her friend wants to go home.
The next day as my daughter gets off the bus she flashes me a snarl. “Hi Sweetie, how was your day?” I try. That’s when she does that creepy thing she’s been doing for years where she extends her lanky arm and contorts her hand into a fist like she’s about to put a pox on our home.
“Harper says she’s not allowed to play at our house anymore,” she says, still hexing me.
Humourless snitch.
“She’ll come around,” I say, hoping that she won’t.
“Harper aside, how was your day?”
She lowers her cursing claw arm.
“Great! I got to take the attendance down to the office and play with the big tire and ate all my seaweed snack and no one kicked me in the vagina,” she says.
I’m paraphrasing.
“Awesome! Sounds like a great day!”
“I guess,” she says, kicking a bottlecap and sending a dust cloud into the air.
“Yeah, it was!” she clarifies with a crooked grin.
“Hey, do you think maybe now Harper will give you back the other half of that necklace?” I ask, because I’m petty and immature.
“Yeah, maybe,” she answers, but we both know she won’t.
Originally published in Frazzled.