Playdates and Permission Slips

02. I Wanna Be Barbie When I Grow Up

Author: OriginalCeenote

Summary: Logan's daughter gives him some straight talk.

Author's Note: Anyone who would like to take a turn with this, feel free. You can even note "tag" under the reviews and the number of whatever chapter you would like to write. Reiko, we talked about wrestlers before. Hugs, little sister!

Logan frowned at the needle bouncing its way closer to the “E” indicator on his gas gage, hating the amount of overpriced fuel it took to bring Laura to this side of town. The Kay Bee Toy Store was off the beaten path, and he bundled Laura into her good winter coat and piled them both into this tired little Ford Escort. Trading it in was still a ways off; he had six months left on the lease until he could get his hands on the sweet F150 he had his heart set on.

Getting Laura out the door took forever, as usual, even though he’d taken shortcuts with their Saturday routine. She’d burrowed more deeply beneath the covers every time he tried to rouse her out of bed, proving she was even more stubborn than her mother in that regard. She’d finally outgrown wanting to sleep in his bed, to his relief, once she was old enough to have friends sleep over. Logan didn’t mind the sweet smell of her hair on his pillows, but he got good and tired of finding her feet jammed into his ribs or getting a mouthful of fist every time she rolled over. Ironically, she was a sounder sleeper when she stayed in her own room. Today wasn’t any different. She wriggled free of his tugging hands, flipping and turning more ably than a greased octopus as he fought to wrest the covers from her.

“C’mon, Punkin’, we gotta get outta Dodge! Up an’ at ‘em!”

“mmmmMMMNOOOO!” she wailed petulantly. A pink foot protruded from the mountain of Bratz bedding, a sheet set he’d attempted to divert her from in favor of the really cool Star Wars set he would have loved when he was a kid. No go.

“Uh-oh,” he muttered, letting his voice take on that cautious quaver. He saw the pile of blankets twitch convulsively. “Laura…what’s that sound? Oh, no,” he whispered, pulling in closer to the heap. “It’s – GASP – the TICKLE MONSTER!!!!”

“NOOOOOOOOOO! Not the TICKLE MONSTER!” Her shrieks rose above a hail of growling snarls and maniacal laughter as the beast in question made free with her foot, gripping her little ankle in a viselike grip and scrabbling fingers over the vulnerable, tempting sole.

“Booga-booga-booga!”

“DADDYYYYYYYYYY!”

“MWAHAHAHAHA! Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha!” he crowed triumphantly, tugging her as she continued to scramble for purchase to stay in the bed. He pulled her by the ankles, gasping and giggling until she finally flipped over onto her back, grinning up at him.

“C’mon, kiddo. Let’s hit the stores.”

“Why?” She wiped a tousled clump of hair from her eyes and stared up at him expectantly.

“I wanna pick up a little something for yer friend Luke,” Logan explained. Her rosebud mouth stuck out in a pout, and she crossed her arms over her narrow chest.

“He’s the one who broke my doll,” she carped.

“Ya didn’t hafta chase him off with yer friends, either, missy, don’t forget ya had a part in what happened the other day, eh? It’d be nice ta get him something, and I need ya ta help me pick it out,” he offered. “Yer good at that kinda stuff.” He catered to her feminine ego as he nudged her toward the shower. That appeased her, and he heard her singing to herself from behind the closed door as he went to select her clothes and find a dry bath towel. It was time to do laundry again, his least favorite chore.

He didn’t miss Sil yelling at him that he’d thrown her good Lycra dresses in the dryer instead of hanging them up by accident, and he definitely didn’t miss her nylons hanging from the shower head whenever he went to wash up. Laura’s mother was a real pip.

Logan yanked open the accordion doors of the bedroom closet and pulled out a pair of warm black corduroy jeans with a little rhinestone studded belt and dug thick wool socks and a lavender baseball jersey with dark purple sleeves out of the drawer. He’d always figured any daughter of his would be an unrepentant tomboy, but she’d proved him wrong again. She had her girly moments and nagged him to death about things like Lip Smacker flavored gloss and colored nail polish. A poster of that guy from In Sync held a place of honor on her wall, held up by thumb tacks and decorated with little unicorn stickers around the border. Thankfully she at least liked sports, and he was looking forward to her soccer season, even though it was costing him a bundle.

He tossed her clothes and towel onto the toilet lid and bellowed at her to get a move on and wash behind her ears. Her muffled cry of agreement was half drowned out in the steam and spray, but he also heard her ask something like “can I have hot cocoa, Daddy?” He grumbled his way into the kitchen and started breakfast, fetching corn flakes, bowls, and the last of the milk jug. He rummaged through the cupboard and found her favorite mug with Tinkerbell on it and ripped open a packet of Swiss Miss, dumping it in and coughing a little at the backwash of sweet powder that flew up and tickled his nostrils. He filled the cup with water and nuked it while he started some toast, for the mere sake of having something warm.

He knew the afternoon would likely be hot, but these cold autumn mornings were killing him. He had a fleeting memory of Lucas’ mom in those little green shorts and felt a funny flush of heat in his cheeks.

“Hi, I’m Pissed Off,” he chuckled, remembering her introduction. Man, she was something, even when she was mad.

Laura came to the table, hair still hanging in slick strings around her face. She already had her imitation “Ugg” boots on and dragged to the table looking petulant and forlorn.

“Daaadd,” she whined, “why do we have to hang out with Lucas? He’s a jerkface.”

“What makes him a jerkface? Seemed okay ta me,” Logan shrugged, pulling the toast and bouncing it between his palms to avoid burning himself as he transferred it to a plate.

“He’s always acting like he’s so bad; he brags all the time about his dad,” she continued, blowing on her cup of cocoa and diving in after the little marshmallows with her spoon. “He said he’s a prince of some little island in Africa,” she muttered, wiping her sticky lip with the back of her hand until Logan handed her a napkin.

“Sounds like a pretty tall tale,” Logan mused, “but who knows? At least now we can ask his mom for the real story. She doesn’t seem too bad.”

“DAD! You just like her because she’s pretty,” Laura accused. “I bet you’re gonna try to get her PHONE NUMBER!” She crossed her eyes and made kissy-kissy noises at him.

“WHAT? Take that back, you!” Logan brandished his fingers in a hooked, clawlike shape as he came toward her again with a maniacal leer. “The Tickle Monster’s gonna hafta have a word with ya, Half-Pint!” She squealed and ducked under the table. “Stinker. She ain’t that bad.”

“Just don’t have her come over,” Laura scowled. “I don’t like it when you have ladies come over, Dad.”

“Why?”

“Cuz then I hafta go to bed early, and stay in my room while you get all kissy-kissy with them,” she pointed out. “And you just wanna hang out with them, not me.”

Oops…

“Oh.” Logan took a pensive bite of toast and chewed it like it was made of sandpaper. “I’m sorry, kiddo. Didn’t know ya felt that way.”

“I don’t like Mrs. Grey, either.”

“Whaddya mean?” He’d been careful about that, deciding never to bring Jean to his apartment, since their children knew each other, and little girls tended to talk.

“She’s always telling me ‘You’re just like your father, Laura,’ and patting me on the head like a dog. I don’t like her,” she declared.

“Ya like hanging out with her daughter Rachel.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like her mommy much.” Then she amended that. “She makes Rice Krispie treats with M&Ms, though.”

“Well, see, there ya go.” Logan decided to add this new revelation to the growing list of reasons why he needed to stop his little tryst with Mrs. Grey-Summers.

They made it to Kay Bee, and Logan watched parents being dragged into the story by children not much higher than his knee, flowing against the trickle of other parents dragging their children, kicking and screaming, OUT of the store. He was glad his own kid was old enough to just think it was “neat” to come to the toy store now, and that she’d outgrown the worst of her tantrums. Logan went through the phase of single parent guilt, trying to make up for his absences with toys whenever he had Laura for the weekend. All it left him was still guilty, broke, and tripping and stumbling over toys that she only played with for five minutes.

“Whaddya think Lucas would think is cool?”

“He likes R/C cars,” she remarked. He agreed, until he eyed the price tags. Shit. Half of them cost as much for parts on his own car, before you threw in sales tax and a whole pack of C cell batteries to power the suckers. Right. Not happening.

“What else?”

“Rachel says Nate watches wrestling whenever he goes to Lucas’s mom’s house,” she shrugged, perusing the selection of Bratz dolls and accessories. He sighed; she just wasn’t interested in mending fences.

“So what about action figures?” He nodded to the aisle featuring plastic figures that resembled steroid-pumped gym jockeys at a Halloween party.

“Cool,” she agreed. “Don’t get him William Regal,” she warned, before he could reach for that one.

“Why not?”

“He’s stupid. Everyone thinks he’s a doodie head,” she explained, as though a child of five could understand this.

“Right. Doodie head. Okay, how about this Edge guy?”

“He’s okay.” She reached for the double packet, featuring two guys with flowing, blond plastic hair and grimaces that made them look like they had to take a dump. “This one has Triple H,” she offered.

“Triple H?”

“He’s a good guy?”

“How can ya tell?”

“He just is,” she declared, once again as though it should be obvious.

“Whatever happened to Hulk Hogan?” he muttered.

“DAAAADD! He’s OLD!” Laura flounced back to the Bratz aisle. “But his daughter Brooke’s cool. Can we get her CD?”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. Now Logan felt old.

They made it to the cash register twenty bucks poorer when Laura talked him into throwing in a couple of sets of something called Yu-Gi-Oh! Trading cards and a gift bag that he could have gotten cheaper at the dollar store. This one was cooler, though, Laura emphasized, because it had Batman on it. He didn’t argue.

They got home and wrapped the package, and Logan was about to help himself to some leftover chicken in the fridge and settle down to watch his ball game when the phone rang. It was Laura’s soccer coach, Wade Wilson, calling to let him know that he was sending out the new game and practice schedule.

“We’re sending out the orders for the soccer jerseys next week, buddy; think you can get me a check before then?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, mentally wincing at the dollars flying out of his wallet on fluttering little wings. Ouch. On his way back from Kay Bee, he’d driven behind an ostentatiously purple Porsche with a bumper sticker that said “When I Grow Up, I Want to Be Barbie – That Bitch Has Everything.” That wasn’t totally inaccurate. He’d managed to steer Laura past that aisle, speeding up his steps before she could sweet-talk him into any accessories or doll clothes she didn’t need. The Barbie condominium with a little working elevator cost a third of his rent. He reminded her that Mrs. Munroe was already bringing her a replacement doll, but only if she behaved in the meantime. That guaranteed a trouble-free trek back to the car.

“Don’t forget cleats and socks.”

“I can get those from the sportswear shop,” Logan grumbled.

“Sure. Feel free, you might get a better deal. Just don’t skimp on the cleats; nothing worse than a pair that doesn’t give enough traction out on a slippery field, we don’t want any broken bones or sprained ankles this season. Speaking of which, don’t forget to bring the liability waiver and permission form to her first practice,” Wade cheered good-naturedly.

“Got it.” Logan hung up and went back to his chicken and fixed Laura a peanut butter sandwich and strawberry milk.

Logan pondered the calendar at halftime, marking all the dates mentioned in the welcome letter from the school. The seventh was registration and orientation. The ninth was Meet the Teachers night. That was a potluck. He made a note to himself to bring chips. The letter also mentioned signing up early for community service hours in the school. Logan considered that yard duty wouldn’t be too bad, or driving carpools for field trips. Anything was better than grading papers and arts and crafts, he shuddered. He’d had his fill of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue in sixth grade. Give him an engine to tinker with any day. The eleventh was uniform day; thankfully, the school took mercy on him and provided Laura with the first one for free. All he had to do was buy a couple of backups and keep them laundered, and he was golden. There was still the matter of more socks and shoes, though; penny loafers would set him back another thirty bucks, since he couldn’t send Laura to school in her Uggs.

His phone jangled again, and he wondered why he was suddenly so popular. He turned down the volume of his game and flung himself into his favorite, threadbare recliner.

“Yo?”

“What time are you bringing Laura back?” Sil asked him without preamble.

“Hi, Silver, I’m fine, nice of ya ta ask,” he griped. “What’s the big deal? We’ve got plans fer today. I figured she could have dinner with me.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t feed her that fast food slop and call it dinner. You always do that.”

“What we ya plannin’ on makin’ her, anyway, spaghetti? Big whoop,” he shot back. He smothered a sigh and the urge to reach into phone and wring her neck. They always had this argument. It never failed. “That’s some fancy dinner.”

“Not like it should matter to you, Jamie. I don’t really care what you do anymore, as long as I don’t have to be at your beck and call, and as long as you bring my daughter home on time.”

“Six PM,” he growled back. “And ya never were at my beck and call, sweetness. That’s a joke, and ya know good and well-“

“Six PM. I’m holding you to it,” she snapped, then hung up. He punched the end button on his handset and chucked it onto and overstuffed Eagles pillow in the corner of the room.

“Was that Mommy?”

“Yup. She can’t wait ta see ya, Punkin’.”

“When are we going home?” It always made him chafe when she called her mother’s place home, but to his credit, he’d overheard her in the background asking her mom that same question once when he was on the receiving end of Silver’s claim that she’d have her back to him on time. So, there ya go.

“After dinner,” he said, “and after we take care of dropping off that gift.” She was appeased, and went back to playing with her dollies and a paint by numbers kit she brought with her.

Once his game was over, Logan steeled himself, dug through his wallet, and extracted the phone number she’d hastily scribbled and tucked into his palm. Her handwriting was girly and full of loop’s; he wondered if she was one of those people who dotted their I’s with a circle or a heart, but her name didn’t have an “I” in it. Somehow, she didn’t seem that frivolous.

Just hot.

He rang her phone, listening to the shrill ring. His palms began to sweat like a teenager asking a girl out on his first date. “For God’s sake,” he hissed under his breath. He felt like a pussy. It was a playdate, fer cryin’ out loud…

Two rings.

Three.

Four…click. Great. An answering machine.

Hi. You’ve reached 555-1234. I can’t call you back if you don’t leave me a message. Thanks! Short, sweet, and blunt. Fine, then.

“Uh, hey, Ororo. This is Logan. Y’know, James Howlett. We ran into each other at the park the other day, and, uh, we talked about letting the kids get together? To kinda bury the hatchet with what happened at the jungle gym?” He struggled for something else to say, not wanting to leave a lame message in her voice mail. “Um…call me, if ya get a chance. I was wondering if ya wanted ta go bowling or something today. Laura has to go home to her mother’s tonight. ‘Bye,” he concluded, punching the end button and tucking the handset back in its cradle to recharge.

It rattled in its hand, ringing before he could set it all the way down. It startled him, and he nearly dropped it as he picked up the call.

“Shit…hello?”

“Hi,” chuckled a warm, rich alto with a funny uptown accent. “You mentioned something about bowling?”

“I wasn’t sure I was gonna hear from ya.”

“I screen my calls. Sorry.”

“I don’t blame ya,” he admitted, even though he wished he didn’t have to leave voice mail that made him sound like a tool. He hated talking to machines. “So, whaddya think?”

“How’s three o’clock sound? Lucas gets out of his karate class by then. I’m not much of a bowler, and he’ll probably want to play in the arcade at the lanes, more than anything else.”

“We’ve gotta work on that, then.”

“What?”

“Bowling. Yer gonna be a natural at it by the time I’m done with ya.” He heard her tiny groan of defeat at the other end and smothered a laugh.

“I have a brand-spanking new Barbie that needs a good home,” she offered.

“That’s fine, as long as she don’t expect me ta put her up in the condo.” That earned him an appreciative laugh that made him grin into the phone. She had a sexy laugh.

“She might not expect you to teach her to bowl, either.”

“Then Barbie ain’t much of a sportsman.”

“So, three o’clock?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Bye, Logan.” She rang off, and Logan whistled his way back to his room to find his shaving kit.

“Who was that?” Laura followed him back and leaned around the doorframe with questions in her hazel eyes. Everyone at work who saw her photo thought she was his clone.

“Mrs. Munroe. We’re headed out ta go bowling at three.”

“Oh. That’s okay, I guess,” she decided. “Can I get a pink bowling ball?”

“If they have ‘em, Punkin’.”

“Cool.” He heard her making a furtive phone call in the background, and from the sound of it, she called Rachel to give her the lowdown on going to meet “Lucas the know-it-all” and his mom at the lanes.