Page 86 of ClickBack

“I was checking the time.”

“You’re wearing a watch.”

“An accessory.”

Trina takes my wrist and admires it. “A good one, too.”

Rae shakes her head and settles into the seat. Her laptop is in her bag, zipped away. I ask whether she needs to work on her last assignment, and she gives me the look I deserve.

“I submitted it, Ma.”

“All of it?”

“Every page. You can stop asking.”

Trina produces a packet of cookies from her tote and hands it over. “She checked the attachment three times.”

“Twice,” Rae says.

“I was there for three.”

Rae opens the cookies without offering a defense. I want to tell her how proud I am, but I have said it enough this week to make her uncomfortable. Instead, I hold out my hand until she gives me one.

At the hotel, we leave our bags and change. I have brought the dress Di talked me into keeping when I said I would never have anywhere to wear it. She will pretend not to notice, then make sure I know she noticed. I’m looking forward to that almost as much as the show.

The theater used to be a movie house. Its old ticket window remains in the lobby, though tonight a volunteer sits at a folding table beside it, checking names against a list. Through the auditorium doors, I see the sofa from Di’s photograph. It has made it onto the stage without visible injury.

“We should ask somebody to get her,” Trina whispers.

“She’ll be busy,” Rae says.

Di comes through a side door wearing a green wrap dress, carrying a roll of tape. Her headset is slightly crooked. She looks directly at us, keeps walking, and stops.

“No.”

“We can go back,” I tell her. “It’s only a train ride.”

She puts the tape down without looking where. It rolls off the table. Rae catches it while Di gets her arms around me.

“You lied to me,” she says into my hair.

“Several times.”

“All three of you?”

Trina steps into the hug. “A coordinated effort.”

Di pulls Rae in, too, then holds us at arm’s length. Her eyes are wet. She points at me before I can say anything about them.

“And you wore the dress.”

“I knew you’d notice.”

“It looks beautiful. I told you.” She reaches for the tape Rae is still holding. “You came all this way for community theater.”

“You’ve called it opening night for a month,” I remind her.

“It is opening night. Community doesn’t mean casual.”