Mom drops two twenties in the small tray, then stands and hoists her fringe bag over her shoulder.
I stand up and follow her to the glass door. “Why do you dislike her so much?”
“Because she chose her career over her family!” Mom’s voice booms out of her and rings through the parking lot.
I clench my fingers around my phone. “The choice wasn’t hers!”
Mom folds her arms. “Really? Whose choice was it, then?”
“Her husband’s.Helefther.”
Mom shakes her head, and her dangling gold coin earrings jingle and gleam. “Angie, I’m glad you’re drivenandstubborn, but don’t be naive. Mona’s husband left her because the woman cared more about her fans than she cared about their kids.” Her grip on her biceps turns white-knuckled. “Same way your daddy cared more about his guitar than he did about us.” She adds this in such a low voice it barely registers.
But it does.
It’s never been a secret that Dad was passionate about music, but this is the first time I realize how wildly jealous my mother was of his passion. Maybe Mona reminds her of Dad. Maybe that’s the fatal flaw in my trajectory to stardom—idolizing someone who hits too close to home. Maybe if I worshipped a singer with a stable family life, she’d be supportive.
“I’ll never do that, Mom. I’ll never abandon you.”
“Me?” Mom croaks. “Oh, baby, I’m not worried about you abandoningme, ’cause that’s simply impossible. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. I love you too darn much. But I really want you to see what else is out there. You’re only seventeen. Gosh, at seventeen, I had no clue what I wanted to do.”
But I do.I’ve known since I was a kid.
No good has ever come of cornering Mom into conversations she doesn’t want to have, so I back away from it, from her. She might think I’m naive, but I’m not.
I stare at the sun dipping on the horizon, swathing my hometown in pastels. “I promised Rae I’d stop by her place tonight.”
It’s our ritual. Every year, on the eve of the new school year, I hang out with my best friend. We don’t braid each other’s hair or anything, but we make a list of things we want from the year to come, then stick our lists into her metallic-pink piggy bank and check them over on the last day of school to see how much we’ve accomplished.
“You want me to drop you off?” Mom asks, beeping open her silver Volvo SUV.
“No, I’ll bike there. And I promise, I’ll be home by nine.”
Mom nods.
As we drive away, I fiddle with the radio dial until I catch the tail end of a Lady Antebellum song. I’m about to tune in to another station when the radio host mentions Mona Stone’s sitting next to him and has an announcement.
I side-eye Mom, wait for her to tell me to change the station, but I don’t think she’s even listening.
“Hi, Mona.”
“Hi, Ned. Thanks for having me on your set.”
“So I heard you had some big news for your fans.”
“I certainly do.” Her speaking voice is honeyed and melodic, exactly like her singing voice. “First off, I’d like to thank y’all for the outpouring of kindness for my latest album. I’m so honored by your love and devotion.”
“It’s a fantastic album.”
“Aw, Ned, you’re sweet.” She laughs. She has such a great laugh. “Anyway, I was invited here today so I could speak about a little contest I’m hostin’.”
I sit up and sneak a glance at Mom again. She still hasn’t looked my way or changed the station, which is a miracle.
“This is for every aspiring songwriter out there. If you’ve written a song, send it my way. It could become the title track on my next album. All the details are up on my websi—”
Drake’s voice blasts out of the radio.
“Mom—”
