Cherry pulled a throw pillow into her lap and sank back into the sofa. “Where do you need to go today?”
“Just to Hy-Vee.” That was the grocery store. “And Kohll’s.” The drugstore. “And I need to pick up a zipper at Walmart—I’m making Ella a dress for the dance. Honny can’t find anything cute in her size.”
It was a real shame that her mom hadn’t found someone to marry other than Cherry’s dad. She had so much to offer. She cooked. She sewed. She cranked out babies and didn’t seem to suffer for it. (Though she’d never cranked out a son.) She was fat, but she was still pretty.Cherry wouldn’t mind if she ended up looking like her mom at sixty-five.
Her mom had never had a chance with other guys; she’d met Cherry’s dad right out of high school. Had he known then that she’d make the perfect wife for a philandering alcoholic? Cherry’s mom ignored everything that she possibly could, and forgave everything that she couldn’t.
Cherry wouldn’t be surprised to hear that her mom had never once talked to her dad about his drinking, or asked him to change a single thing about his behavior. Her job was to accommodate him and make him comfortable.
Cherry could see those behaviors in herself, and she hated them. (Even though shedidwant to accommodate Tom. And shedidn’twant him to be uncomfortable.)
Her mom brought out a dinner plate heaped with fried rice and beans, chicken with peppers, and two flour tortillas yellow with butter.It’s no wonder I’m fat,Cherry thought for the ten-thousandth time. (Though she hadn’t gotten anylessfat since she’d moved out of her parents’ house and started eating salads every day for lunch.)
Her mom made a plate for herself, too. She was just sitting down in her easy chair when the front door opened. Cherry braced herself for whatever energy her dad was about to bring into the house.
But it wasn’t her dad—it was Hope.
Hope looked confused when she saw Cherry. “Hey, Cherry... no work today?”
“I’ve got the day off, so I’m chauffeuring Mom.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I sent a note on the group thread.” As soon as she said it, Cherry realized that she’d sent the note on thewronggroup thread.
Hope realized it, too. She clenched her jaw.
“I must have forgotten,” Cherry said. “Sorry. You can go home—”
“No, you cannot!” their mom objected. “I get two of my girls thisFriday. What a treat! Hopey, do you want some fried rice? I made tortillas...”
Hope stood by the couch. “No, thank you.”
“You take my plate.” Their mom got up and pushed the food at her. “I know you’re watching your carbs, but...”
Hope took the plate. She didn’t have a choice.
Cherry set her fork down. There was no way she could sit next to Hope and eat a plate full of actual food.
Hope was wearing jeans today. With a cropped sweater. Everything she wore lately seemed to show off her waist.
Cherry had always loved Hope’s clothes.
Hope was the first of them to get a job and start buying her own things. The first to move out. She got married young, then went to community college and went to work as a bookkeeper.
She’d always dressed way more conservatively than Cherry would—but she always looked cool. And beautiful. She wore tops that showed off her breasts and pretty round shoulders. And skirts that showed off her shapely ankles and calves. Hope liked to wear jackets. She liked to wear boots. She liked a puffed sleeve and a Peter Pan collar. She was thirty percent more Laura Ashley than Cherry, and thirty percent less Betsey Johnson.
Cherry used to borrow Hope’s clothes in high school. She used to mimic the way Hope wore her hair—long with long bangs.
They both still wore their hair that way.
Since Hope had lost weight, she was wearing all the clothes that Cherry had never been able to wear. Crisp button-down blouses without any stretch. Neatly tailored trousers and pencil skirts. Everything waisted. Everything belted. Everything tucked in. Hope dressed herself without any camouflage, drawing attention to all the parts of her body she used to obscure.
Hope had wornsailorpantsto Faith’s Labor Day picnic—wide-legged white pants with a flat panel and two rows of buttons—and her belly didn’t bulge or pouch. Cherry had felt physically ill whenshe saw those pants. Sick with something worse than jealousy. Something that was anger, plus longing, plus disbelief.
“Cherry,eat,” their mom said. “Both of you, eat. We’ve got to get to the store.”
Cherry ate one of the tortillas and half of everything else. She tried not to look at Hope’s plate.
