What else?
What did anyone want? A vacation home, a house on the shore, Golden Doors. But I didn’tneedanything.
O’ma had needed Golden Doors, because O’ma had needed a home. “We could sell it and donate the money. To a refugee fund.”
Mom took a bite of her ice cream. “It’s a very sweet thought, Abby.”
It wasn’t just a thought. It had clicked. It was right. “Let’s do it.”
“You should think about it a little bit first...”
Sometimes I did need to think about things, to sit on them, to sleep on them. But this time, I didn’t. “Do we need the money? I thoughtwe were fine if I went to state school.” I frowned. “Do you and Dad need the money?”
“No. No, you don’t worry about us. But, sweetie, you could go to a private college with this. You could go anywhere you got in, even without a scholarship.”
“For one year.”
“There are loans and financial aid.”
I licked my ice cream. “We never even expected to have this. So it’s not much of a loss.”
Mom set down her tiny spoon. “Okay.”
I hadn’t been expecting her to fold so quickly. “You’re not going to fight me? It’s your necklace.”
“You found it. And it’s a good idea.”
“Maybe we can do an auction,” I said, more excited by the moment. “Get it on BuzzFeed and HuffPo and everything.”
Mom smiled, tremulously. “I’mveryproud of you,” she burst out. “Remember that.”
When I got home, I found Jane lying in bed, holding her phone above her.
“Guess what.” I tossed the necklace toward her.
She caught it. “We’re going to go reenactTitanic?Because, for real, we could.”
“It’s worth eighty thousand dollars.”
“What?”She shucked the necklace away and onto the blankets. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Crazy, right?”
“Jesus.”
“I’m going to sell it to raise money for refugee relief.”
“You’re mad,” Jane said. “Sell it? Eighty thousand dollars? Are these, what,diamonds?”
“Yellow cut, whatever that means.”
“Don’tsellit!” she cried. “Keep it! Wear it to the Met Gala.”
“Jane. I’m never going to be invited to the Met Gala. You’ve seenOcean’s Eighttoo many times.”
“No defeatist thinking. You won’t be invited if you don’t have something to wear. Wait, you could sell it to the Met and part of the price could be an invitation. Oh my god, I’m a genius. Yes. Two invitations, I’m your date, screw Noah.”
“I’m done with Noah.”
