I’d meant the question rhetorically, but her eyes widened ever so slightly in alarm. “Nothing.” She turned away from me. “I don’t know what people say about you.” She put the stencil over the next paw print and waited for me to paint it.
Not suspicious behavior at all. I held out a hand to her, presenting her like she was Exhibit A of a case. “This sort of actingis why you don’t get the leads in plays. You ducked your head, wouldn’t meet my eye, and contradicted yourself within the space of ten words. Either people don’t say anything about me, or you don’t know what they say. It can’t be both.”
Her glance flicked up to me, and she swallowed uncomfortably. “I don’t know what they say.”
I shook my head. “Still bad. Your eyes shouldn’t be shifting away, and your posture is all wrong. The Nazis never would have believed your nun character inThe Sound of Musicif you’d been doing all of this.”
“Are you trying to make me cry again?”
“No.” What in the worldwasI doing? Where was I going with this? My voice went small. “I just want to know what people say about me in drama class.”
“Okay. Fine.” She sat up straighter and gave me her full attention. “Most people like you and admire your talent, but a few people think you can be a bossy know-it-all.”
We stared at each other for a moment while I absorbed this. “Do they really, or are you just saying that because critiquing your denial was sort of a bossy, know-it-all thing to do?”
She pursed her lips. “I feel like the answer is part of the question.”
I wasn’t a bossy know-it-all. At least, not usually. Not any time except while I ran lines with other people. Then sometimes I offered instructions if they needed it. “I’m only trying to help people improve their acting skills.”
The last thing I had intended to do was get all emotional, but it had been a long day already. Who were thefew peoplewho thought I was a bossy know-it-all? I hated the idea that people I’d thought were my friends were trashing me while smiling to my face. My throat felt tight and my eyes began to burn.
“The nickname ‘prima donna’ has been thrown around,” Claire added, “as has ‘perma donna’ and ‘per Madonna.’” She saw my expression. I must have looked wretched because she let out a distressed “Ohh,” and put down her stencil. “They also say you’re the best singer in the school. People think our play will take regionals with you as Dolly.”
“Thanks,” I sniffed.
“Everyone knows what a hard worker you are.”
“I want the plays to be successful.”
“Right,” she said. “Sorry about the prima donna comments.”
I sniffed again and wiped at my eyes. “Actually, that name is more of an inside joke. My grandma is the one responsible for it.” I was surprised she didn’t already know the story. “Since I’ve always liked acting, my grandma has called me her little prima donna for years. On my sixteenth birthday, she gave me my car and wanted to put that nickname on the license plate, but there weren’t enough spaces, so it ended up ‘PRMADNA.’ I had to go around explaining to everyone that it meant prima donna and not perma-dna, which sounds like something from a crime scene.”
“Oh.” Claire’s mouth flattened, and she nodded like she wasn’t sure what else to say. She held down the stencil so I could paint it.
I swished a new coat over the old paw print. “You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to get new license plates.”
“Again. I can hardly imagine what it must be like to be you.”
“I’ve heard every possible combination of PRMADNA there is.”
“I would feel sorry for you except that the other part of the story is about your grandma buying you a convertible. Doyou know what I got from my grandma for my last birthday? A phone call and some really out-of-date advice about guys.”
“At least you know she cares.”
Claire grunted like it was poor consolation. Not a surprise. People who have good relationships with their family take them for granted.
“Seriously,” I said. “On my last birthday, my mom left a phone message while I was in school. No advice, no interest in how I was doing, just a promise to drop a card and a check into the mail.”
“Was it a nice check at least?”
“I’ll let you know if it ever shows up.”
“Ouch,” Claire said.
“It is what it is.” That was my new attitude about my mother. When I was younger, I’d wanted things to be different. I’d wanted a mother like Selena’s who asked her every day when she came home from school how her day was—and actually cared about the answer. Selena’s mother taught her how to cook, fussed over her when she was sick, and still had the ceramic mugs Selena made in junior high art class proudly displayed on the family room shelves.
Even before my mom left for Norway, she’d been too busy with work to be that sort of mother.
