Of course. Because heaven forbid Stacey not make her grand appearance at something involving applause.
“And,” my mother continued, “we’ll all be riding together.”
“Great,” I said, smiling a smile that felt stapled to my face.
She nodded once, sharply, and swept out of the kitchen like a general inspecting troops.
Belle slowly turned toward me. “How . . . how does she do that?”
“It’s a gift,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead. “A horrifying, soul-sucking gift.”
Belle barked a laugh, then sobered. “Hey. Tomorrow is about the kids. And Ava. Not them.”
I nodded. “You’re right.”
Because she was. Opening night was for the joy and pride in the work these kids had poured into this show. And no icy mother or judgmental sister was going to take that from me.
As soon as Belle disappeared toward the laundry room, I headed upstairs to my room, my little sanctuary, even if it didn’t feel like one most days.
My laptop blinked awake when I opened it. Two new emails from Mark sat at the top of my inbox, subject line: DERBY GIRL OFFERS — DETAILS ATTACHED.
My heart thudded.
I clicked the first.
Big publisher. Big money. Huge reach.
It was the kind of offer authors dream about. One of those names that made bookstore owners perk up. My breath caught.
Then I clicked the second.
Less money. But . . . Scholastic.
The word hit me right in the chest.
Scholastic.Book fairs. School libraries. The same newsprint catalogs I used to pore over as a kid, circling books and hoping Mom would say yes, the smell of those wire racks and cheap erasers, and the feeling that books were magic.
The idea thatmyderby girl, my fierce, brave, roller-skating little hero, could be on those shelves?
Maybe money wasn’t everything.
Maybe impact mattered too.
I was still smiling at the screen when?—
“Eleanor, a word.”
I shrieked.
Loud . . . .Again.
My mother stood in the doorway like she’d emerged from the walls. Honestly, she needed a bell.
“Goodness, Eleanor,” she said, eyes narrowing. “There’s no need to overreact.”
“I’m not overreacting,” I said, pressing a hand over my heart. “You startled me . . . again.”
She pursed her lips, like my startle response was a personal failure. “I’d like you to go out to brunch on Saturday.”
