I published my first novel, Confessions of An Imposter Room Mom, last summer but I never posted any excerpts. Well, better late than ever, so without further ado, here’s the first chapter:

Tonight is the most important night of my life, and I don’t know what to wear. The outfit I choose will set the tone for the rest of the year. If I wear the right clothes, I’ll make the right friends. But if I choose poorly, I might as well give away my earthly belongings and join a monastery on the top of a mountain. My dresses and shirts judge my ineptness as I flip through my closet’s offerings for the umpteenth time. That’s it. I’m calling the expert. 

The expert answers before the phone finishes its first ring. “I was about to power down my phone.” 

“Zoe!” I yelp. “You’re turning your phone back on tomorrow morning, right?” 

“No,” Zoe says, “next year. You know that.” 

I sit down on top of the nearest unopened box. “But how am I supposed to survive?”  

“Elodie Jones, you are a capable and wonderful mother and you are going to have an amazing year. You don’t need my parenting advice.”

Zoe Ziegler has been my best friend since she rescued my dignity during our first week of college. While I was showering in the girls’ common bathroom, my freshman roommate Ingrid left our room and locked the door — with my wallet and key sitting on my desk. Ingrid had marooned me. Then, a pack of freshman boys from the football team stormed into the hallway, blocking my retreat to the sanctuary of the girls’ bathroom. Zoe saved me. She rushed from her room down the hall, screamed several choice obscenities at the idiot boys, loaned me clean clothes, and took me to the dining hall for ice cream. 

Our friendship flourished. After graduation, we shared a tiny apartment in Brooklyn and took the subway into Manhattan: Zoe to her entry-level job with a big publisher, me to law school. Three years later, I began my career as a miserable lawyer and Zoe married her college sweetheart, Paul. One year later, Zoe popped out twins. Fast forward a decade, and we were both still living in Brooklyn with our respective husbands, and we ovulated and conceived within days of each. It was perfect. We went to prenatal yoga classes together, shopped for onesies together, and planned our children’s future marriage when we learned I was having a girl and Zoe a boy. I did not have to bother making any mom friends because I had Zoe. Even better, Zoe became my go-to parenting expert thanks to her prior experience with the twins. My life as a stay-at-home mom was perfect. 

Until now. 

Now I am minutes away from beginning my life as a preschool parent in Pasadena, California with a group of strangers while Zoe begins a year of off-grid living in Alaska. Paul says he wants to write a book about their adventures. I say he’s having a mid-life crisis and should have bought a Porsche. 

“Why do you have to give up your phone?” I ask for the millionth time. 

“Because,” Zoe sings, “cell phones are an integral part of the grid.” 

“What if we just text?” 

“Texting is definitely part of the grid.” 

I knew that, but a part of me hopes that if I keep asking, the answer will change. I groan. “What if I have a crisis? Should I send a letter by the Pony Express?”

Alas, I already know the answer to that question as well. The Zieglers are embracing off-grid living with a vengeance, which means my best friend will not even have an address for snail mail. 

“You won’t have a crisis.” 

“Of course I will,” I insist. “I’m having one right now.” 

“What’s the crisis?”  

“I don’t know what to wear to preschool orientation.” 

Zoe snorts. 

“I’m serious!” My wet hair is getting my shirt wet. “I’m a preschool virgin. What do I wear?” 

“Clothes,” Zoe deadpans. 

“What did you wear to the twins’ preschool orientation?” 

After a long pause, Zoe says, “I can’t even remember if I went. It was eight years ago, but if I went, I didn’t dress up. Stop obsessing over this. It’s only preschool.” 

It’s only preschool? Zoe just does not get it. She knows how to act and dress and talk with the other moms because she went to a normal preschool with normal kids who had normal, mainstream parents. The closest thing I had to preschool was a box of crayons and a circus clown named Chuckles. I need Zoe to impart all of her parenting wisdom, even if she thinks I’m obsessing over trivial matters, so I don’t ruin my daughter’s only chance at a perfect preschool experience.   

“So, jeans and a t-shirt?” I sigh. 

“Wear whatever you want.” 

I dig through my suitcase for clean jeans. The suitcase balances on an unpacked box in a room with pink walls. That’s a lot of information, so let me break it down for you. First: the pink walls. We bought our house, a two story Victorian built a century ago, without seeing it in person. This seemed efficient; now I have regrets. The online listing revealed the prior owner had a thing for pink, but I swear, the realtor must have tinkered with the photos. Online, the bedroom walls looked cotton candy pink but in person, the color is much closer to fuchsia.  

Second: the unpacked box. Luke moved to Pasadena a month ago while I visited my family with our two-year-old daughter, Madison. He installed satellite t.v., plugged in the microwave, stocked the freezer with frozen dinners and ice cream, and did nothing else. Oh wait, my bad — he bought paper plates and plastic cutlery.  

I extract my cleanest jeans from my suitcase (which does not mean they are clean) and then remember it is late August and too hot for jeans even at night, so I grab a pair of black Capri leggings instead. I am already wearing black Capri leggings, but they feel gross after a day spent chasing a feisty two-year-old who hates napping. This is my version of dressing up.  

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m ruining your last night on the grid.” 

“You’re not.” Zoe’s voice cracks. “I’m going to miss you and your drama.” 

“I’m going to miss you.” Now I am on the verge of blubbering — but we did the blubbering thing a month ago in Brooklyn, and if I cry now, I’ll never make it to orientation. 

“I’ll call you next August as soon as we return to civilization,” Zoe says, “and then you can tell me all about Madison’s first year of preschool, which is going to be amazing.” 

“Okay, I can do this,” I say, trying (and failing) to give myself a pep talk. 

“What can go wrong? It won’t be like freshman year. Ingrid won’t be there.” 

Zoe despises my freshman roommate Ingrid. Ingrid locked me out of our room while I was showering, humiliated me in front of my friends too many times to count, and criticized my wardrobe, complexion, and childhood, but Zoe — well, it’s a very long story involving a table, a sequin tube top, and a sophomore named Craig, but Zoe despises Ingrid. 

“Right,” I exhale slowly, “Ingrid won’t be there. She can’t make me perform circus tricks on command.” 

“Don’t knock the circus tricks. Preschoolers love—” 

“Absolutely not,” I interrupt. “I made that mistake already in college.” 

“I thought it was hilarious when you made the balloon penises at Felix’s Halloween party.” 

That is a story I am not emotionally prepared to share today. Or possibly ever.

“Mama! I hungry!” Madison stomps into my bedroom wearing her tutu. She has taken off her shirt and tattooed her stomach with a green marker. The pink tutu, which she has been wearing nonstop since my sister gave it to her three weeks ago, is also stained green. I will sneak the tutu off Madison after orientation and give it a good scrubbing. Separating Madison from her tutu when she’s awake is impossible. Believe me, I’ve tried.  

“Don’t worry about tonight.” Zoe offers a last piece of advice to sustain me through the next twelve months. “At least you aren’t living off grid in Alaska.” 

By the time we finish saying goodbye, Madison is kicking me. 

“Grandma is bringing cookies.” I try to sound sweet and unhurried while pulling my chestnut brown hair into a ponytail, but I’m overwhelmed and on the verge of a tantrum. Should I wear makeup? I forgot to ask Zoe about makeup, and now it is too late. 

I rarely bother with makeup. In college, after Ingrid said something rude about my freckles, I layered my skin with creams and powders to conceal the constellations of freckles that cover my entire face. I also scrubbed my entire body with various natural remedies, from lemon juice to buttermilk, to lighten the freckles on my arms, and I may or may not have clogged the women’s shower after I slathered myself with honey. Fortunately, I dated a narcissist in law school who had one redeeming quality: he regularly and sincerely complimented my freckles. Ever since our brief fling, I have embraced the night sky of freckles that adorns my face and only wear lipstick and eyeshadow on special occasions. 

“I want cookies! Now!”

“Grandma will be here in five minutes.” 

Madison shrieks at an inhuman frequency. I jettison any thought of doing my makeup while stifling the urge to throw a tantrum myself. She cannot be hungry. She ate a hot dog, carrots, and a generous bowl of mac and cheese less than an hour ago. Besides, it’s not like I am asking her to fast all day. I just need her to leave me alone for five minutes so I can finish getting dressed for orientation before Luke and his parents (our sitters) arrive.  

My phone buzzes with an incoming text:

Sorry, hon. I won’t be home for dinner.

No, no, no! Luke is our designated normal parent. I’m the imposter and can’t go to Orientation without my wingman. I type: 

What?! We have orientation tonight. 

Luke responds:

Crap, I forgot. The owner is in town and wants a working dinner. I’ll be lucky if I get home before midnight. 

Luke and I met at law school, although we did not date until we both started working at crazy New York law firms. About six months ago, Luke lamented the fact that he got home after Madison went to bed and missed at least half our weekend adventures. We brainstormed different ways to escape the Manhattan legal scene. Then, out of nowhere, a partner at Luke’s firm asked if he would be interested in working in-house for a company with offices in downtown Los Angeles. So far, Luke loves the job, but why must tonight be the night that the owner wants a working dinner?  

“I’m hungry!” Madison wails. 

The Universe might want me to skip orientation. 

“Grandma will be here with her yummy cookies any minute—”

“Why isn’t she here now?” 

The phone rings. It’s my mother-in-law Ruth. 

“Hi, Ellie, you will not believe what happened.” 

My stomach does a backwards somersault. 

“Everyone is fine, but we got in a fender bender.” 

“Oh no!”  

“We got rear-ended by a semi on the freeway.” 

“Oh, my god!” My in-laws drive a Prius. 

“We’re waiting for the tow truck. We’re in the fast lane still. I could walk to the next exit ramp and call a taxi.”

“Oh no, Ruth, please don’t do that. You stay safe.” 

Madison throws herself to the floor. “I WANT GRANDMA! I WANT GRANDMA!” 

It’s official: the Universe wants me to skip preschool orientation.

Want to read more? The ebook of Confessions of An Imposter Room is available at all the usual places and you can get the paperback from Amazon.