“Nine,” Ramona said.
“Springplays,” April said. “At the middle school. Don’t get me started on the high school and how much free labor you give Jane Davenport every fall. Oh, and let’s not forget Clover Lake’s preeminent community theater. Priceless opportunities found in those Broadway-esque productions. Jesus, if they do a cabaret this summer, I’m going to fucking lose—”
“What is your point?” Ramona said, adjusting her utility belt around her soft hips that held her measuring tape, safety pins, Velcro, and anything else she might need during a show in case a costume went awry.
“My point?” April asked. “You don’t already know it?”
“Apes, come on.”
“It’s May.”
“This I know.”
“Olive leaves for Nashville at the end of August.”
Ramona looked away toward the stage, her cheeks immediately hot. She didn’t automatically start crying anytime she thought of her little sister graduating from high school and leaving for Vanderbilt University at the end of the summer, but her body definitely reacted as though entering fight-or-flight mode.
“Honey,” April said more softly. “She’s going to do great.”
Ramona nodded, didn’t trust her voice yet. Except for the single year Ramona had spent at the Rhode Island School of Design, she had rarely been away from Olive since her birth when Ramona was thirteen. Their mother had been gone since Olive was six monthsold—apparently motherhood wasn’t all she dreamed it would be, and Rebecca Riley took off for a better life god only knew where. So, near the end of Ramona’s freshman year at RISD, when Ramona and Olive’s single dad suffered a shattered leg in a car accident they were all lucky didn’t kill him, there was nothing else for Ramona to do but come home, get a job at Clover Moon Café while her father learned how to walk again, and help raise six-year-old Olive.
That was twelve years ago.
Twelve years of Olive’s scraped knees and softball games—including the three years she did travel ball in high school, which meant Ramona was constantly driving all over the state. Twelve years of Olive crying over mean girls into Ramona’s lap, then Ramona’s intense relief when she became friends with Marley Bristow in eighth grade and they both left the mean girls behind for pitching strategies and ornate braids for game days. Twelve years of Olive’s myriad crushes on boys Ramona was convinced weren’t good enough for her sister, walking in on Olive making out with Ethan Townes in her bedroom when she was sixteen, and a conversation about condoms, which ended with Ramona setting a box on Olive’s nightstand while her sister fled into the shower.
Twelve years of laughter and tears and questions, and now all of that was coming to a close. Ramona no longer had to worry about her schedule at the café conflicting with one of Olive’s away games. Soon, she wouldn’t have to stay up until Olive got home from a party or take Olive to the gynecologist.
Olive was an adult.
Olive was leaving home.
And she wouldn’t be coming back like Ramona did. Ramona would make damn sure of it.
Still, in all her excitement over Olive’s future, she had to admit, facing an empty nest at the age of thirty-one was a bit overwhelming.
In April’s opinion, Olive’s departure was Ramona’s golden ticket. April adored Olive, had helped Ramona and Steven raise her for god’s sake, but April was passionate about passion. She’d studied at RISD too, then came home with a degree in illustration and immediately opened her own tattoo shop, a dream she’d had since she got her first tattoo at eighteen—a black-and-gray woman sporting a scorpion’s tail on her inner forearm for her Scorpio sun, moon, and rising signs—and had been happily inking tourists and locals alike for nearly ten years.
“You at least need a list,” April said when Ramona still hadn’t responded.
“A list.”
“Alist,” April said again. “A goal. A five-step action plan or some shit.”
“What’s this about an action plan?” Ramona’s dad asked, walking over from where he’d been reviewing some cues with the school’s art teacher, who was running the lights. Steven still had a bit of a limp in his left leg, and he always would. Still, he was tall, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, a real catch for the over-fifty set.
“You need one too, Mr. Riley,” said April, who could never quite get used to calling him Steven. “Ever heard of Bumble?”
Steven frowned. “As in the bee?”
Ramona laughed. “It’s a dating app, Dad.”
“Oh,” Steven said, cutting a hand through his hair, cheeks going a little pink. “Well, um, you know, that’s—”
“Ridiculous,” Ramona supplied for him. Her father did not need help dating. If he wanted to date, he would.
April tilted her head at them both with that potentially terrifying look in her eyes, the one that meant she was plotting.
“Anyway,” Ramona said, tightening her belt even more. “It’s showtime.”
