“You’re in a mood.”
“And that’s funny?”
“A little. You did knock over a mannequin, because you were starstruck by a kid.” Rae combs her hair back. “So? Pizza? Mel really wants to hang with Jasper.”
As though that’ll sway me…
“Come on, grumpy. Grab your things, and let’s go.”
Sighing, I walk past Rae.
“That was way too hot to leave behind.” She sweeps up the dress along with the necklace and belt, and jams all three into my arms.
And that’s how, after dropping my shattered cell phone off to get it repaired, I end up with a dress I don’t want to ever wear again, at a lunch I don’t want to be at. The only silver lining of the meal is Laney, who tells me about her courses at the Nashville Ballet and her dashed hopes of becoming a prima ballerina (skiing accident).
“But you’re healed now,” I tell her, over Harrison’s loud chewing, which seems to bother only me.
“My knee never healed properly.” She blots her mouth, then scrutinizes the transparent patch left by the grease from her mushroom slice. “It’s okay, though. I have other dreams. I want to become a kindergarten teacher. Do you have a backup plan if singing doesn’t pan out?”
Backup plans are like safety nets—if you feel like you need one, then you don’t have much faith in yourself.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.” I slurp some soda from my giant foam cup. “For now,” I add, because I sense Laney wants to give me advice, and I don’t want advice. Advice is nothing but nicely packaged doubts. “So kindergarten teacher, huh?”
15
Red, White, and Super Bluesy
Homecoming week used to be my favorite week. Five days uniform-free. One big football game. One epic dance.
Today is ’Merica Monday, which means everyone will be dressed in red, white, and blue. I wear jeans, a white tank top, and red canvas lace-up shoes, but my heart isn’t in it like previous years.
Glumly, I scoop up cereal and eat it.
I’m still wondering why Ten acted so weird the other day. All of Sunday, I toyed with the idea of sending him a message but never ended up clickingSEND. Our run-in did a number on my nerves, though—my balance was so screwy throughout yoga that I toppled over during tree pose, then fell flat on my face during crow.
I spent the rest of the class curled up in child’s pose to avoid Mom’s questioning gaze and then faked a stomachache so we could go straight home. Mom’s concern was palpable, but she didn’t push me to tell her what was going on.
The same way she’s not pushing me this morning, even though her forehead is furrowed.
“I don’t feel good, Mom. Can I stay home?”
She presses her palm against my forehead. “Is it Rae, or is it a boy?”
“Huh?”
“Obviously something’s bothering you. I’m assuming it’s eithertrouble with a friend or with a member of the opposite sex.” She scoots her chair closer to me, and her long, beaded turquoise earrings swing. “Want to talk about it?”
I slurp down some more cereal. “Nope.”
She sighs. “You’re as stubborn as your daddy.”
This isn’t meant as a compliment, yet I soak it right up. I like it when Mom compares me to him. Makes Dad a little less of a stranger.
She grips the hand I’ve curled into my lap and gives it a slight squeeze. “Baby, you can’t hide out when something’s bothering you.”
“Did Dad used to do that? Hide?”
Her fingers go slack, and then she releases my hand and stands. “He had other methods of getting rid of stress.”
