“Hey, baby. I’m teaching Nev how to make my famous tacos.” Mom has a smear of guacamole on her chin.
Nev, whose face is mostly hidden behind her hippie hair, blushes. I give her a tentative smile. She flashes me the tiniest smile in the history of smiles.
“Is she a better disciple than me?” I ask.
Mom grins. “Well, she understands the difference between a cup and a tablespoon.”
I hook my tote on the back of a chair, then take a seat on a cowhide barstool. “Ha ha.”
Because Nev’s eyebrows pop up, I tell her about the glazed carrot incident. She’s full-on smiling by the end of my account.
I plop my elbows on the island. “And that’s the reason I stick to singing.”
“Why don’t you go take your shower, baby? Food will be ready in ten,” Mom says.
“Are you saying I smell?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Unless you want to set the table…”
I bounce off the stool. “Shower it is.” I rush up the stairs and take a long, warm shower, and then slip into a loose-fitting dress and head back to the kitchen.
Dinner is nice, even though Mom insists on talking college. To deflect the attention, I pummel Nev with questions about middle school. Her answers are mostly monosyllabic, but that doesn’t deter me. By the end of the meal, I’ve learned three crucial things about Ten’s sister.
She doesn’t like her name—surprise, surprise.
She started singing two years ago.
She’s made one friend in school, but he’s unpopular, which seems to bother her.
“Being popular is overrated. Not that I would know,” I tell her after Mom goes to change into comfier clothes before our Friday-night movie showing.
“Ten said you were very popular.”
“Um. No. My best friend is, but not me. I’m the weird one who loves singing.”
Nev rinses the plates while I slot them into the dishwasher.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she says in a low voice, handing me the water glasses.
“Nope. I’m being totally honest.” I close the dishwasher and turn it on, then grab the dish towel and wipe my hands. I hold it out, but Nev doesn’t take it; she’s too concentrated on the empty sink. I touch one of her hands. “Being different is cool.”
She peeks up at me. “I don’t want to be different.”
For a moment, I feel like I’m looking at a younger version of myself. Like Nev, I was riddled with insecurities. Unlike Nev, I had a friend who helped me through them.
“Is that boy you hang out with a good friend?”
She grimaces. “He’s quiet. And he makes a lot of noise when he eats. And he always has stains everywhere.”
“But can you talk to him about…things?”
“We don’t really talk. He’s always studying.”
“So why are you friends?”
“Because he sits with me at lunch. And he doesn’t tell me I should wash my hair or eat more.”
“Who tells you that?”
