Chapter 2 #2
She nods. “It felt weird not to invite them, considering we’re on good terms now. Don’t want to rock the boat, right?” Zayne plays with her braids as she talks, making her blush.
I swallow. “Right. Wouldn’t want to give Little Birdie something to talk about tomorrow.”
They’re both silent for a moment, and then Zayne’s eyes narrow. “Little Birdie is gone. Why would it talk again?”
For some reason, it surprises me they haven’t heard the news yet. Wordlessly, I take out my phone and show them the screen on the Little Birdie app Carlton led me to during homeroom.
Dot’s mouth falls open, and Zayne looks murderous.
“Seriously?” she whispers. “How is that even possible?”
Zayne shakes his head, brows still furrowed. “I don’t know.”
Across the table, Zayne’s brother Lenny clears his throat.
“The programming for it would be quite simple, actually. If Little Birdie was capable of creating the app in the first place, certainly this new system they’ve created would be easy to pull off as well.
In fact, Little Birdie may have even set it up so they could be completely hands-off from here on out. Oh…and I hope it’s me who gets chosen.”
Zayne frowns at his brother. “What are you talking about, Lenny? You signed up?”
“Actually, I’m hoping to get nominated, since the app says the person who gets chosen should be someone who’s observant. Someone who would make a good Little Birdie. Personally, I don’t feel right entering myself, but I’d love the opportunity to showcase my version of school coverage.”
I don’t know Lenny well, but I’ve heard from Dot he has very refined interests, including fantasy shows and different types of leaves, mushrooms, and historical facts.
Dot covers her mouth as she gazes at him, like she’s trying very hard not to laugh for Zayne’s sake.
“Um, Lenny? I also really hope you get chosen, to be honest. You as Little Birdie would be amazing.”
Zayne sighs, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
I clear my throat. “My point is that I understand why you don’t want things to be weird. With Little Birdie coming back, it’s probably smart to avoid drama at all costs.”
Dot bites her lip. “We go to Fallbrook, remember? Somehow, I don’t see that happening.”
As much as I want to reject that notion, I can’t help but feel like she’s right.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, and when I get home from school, Mom is all over my look for tonight’s party.
When I present myself to her in what I would consider a cute outfit, she cringes. Actually cringes.
“Wallflower,” she says. “That’s the vibe this outfit is giving. Lord knows I didn’t raise you to fade into the background, Rue. Be the strong, bold girl I know you are.”
Wallflower.
It’s a word I relate to immensely, and one I’ve seen many times—mostly because it’s my password to everything. Still, when I hear it this time, it stings. It shouldn’t, because it’s Mom saying it, and I should know by now not to be offended by anything that comes out of her mouth.
My face heats. “Seriously? But I thought this one—”
“No.” She holds up a hand. “Chanel Sullivan doesn’t let her daughter walk out of the house like that.”
“Please don’t refer to yourself in the third-person,” I mutter.
“I am the only person, thank you. The only person willing to tell you the truth!”
“That’s not what third-person means!”
“Don’t you raise your voice at me!”
I take a deep breath. “It’s fine. I’ll just go change.”
She grins. “Good daughter. Now, let me do your eyeliner. Then go dig up that one pair of jeans that makes you look taller, will you?”
I know better than to argue with her, and I also know how to do my own eyeliner, but I can’t possibly rob her of this joy—helping her daughter get ready for a high school party with the mediocre products she signed up to sell during a previous business venture.
After all, experiences like these are part of the reason she chose to have me.
And by chose, I mean it. My mother was way too independent to ever get married, but she decided in her thirties to become a mom on her own with the help of a donor—a story she retells me at every possible opportunity.
“And the day you were born,” she told me, “you had the honor of being named after me. Rue Chanel Sullivan. The kind of name that turns heads.”
Unfortunately, I can’t help but agree. Despite my efforts to avoid the spotlight at all costs, Little Birdie terrorized me and the other theater students for years before he or she disappeared.
I can only hope whoever takes their place will be different this time and choose someone else to focus on.
Before I head upstairs, I ask, “Any suggestions for my top?”
She twists her mouth in thought. “Well, it’s cold out, so go for a delicate long-sleeve. Something in purple, maybe. With a black leather jacket, too.”
I nod. The outfit she’s presenting comes to life in my head, so I squeeze out of her bathroom and go to my room to put it on.
Every time Mabel and Meredith come over, they comment on my room and how plain it is.
How the walls could be anything but a neutral gray, and my bedspread is whichever of the white down comforters from the laundry room is clean at the time.
They point out how, if I just hung some photos, everything could tie together better.
I know they’re just being nice and trying to give me helpful inspiration, but all I can think is, Your room is boring, Rue. Boring, like you.
The only encouragement I have that I’m possibly not as boring as I think is the framed wall art Mom got me a few birthdays ago that reads:
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
—Psalms 139:14
But still, it’s hard to believe sometimes.
I dig through the haphazardly folded clothes in my dresser until I find the pair of jeans my mom is talking about.
Do these really make me look taller?
I don’t know why I even question it. If my mother is saying they do, then I know they do. She wouldn’t lie to me to preserve my feelings. Clearly.
By some miracle, my only purple turtleneck is clean today.
Mom does all the laundry in this house because she wants things washed and dried a certain way, but she also tends to avoid actually washing the laundry at all costs, so I’m often left scraping outfits together on the weekends with the few garments still hanging in my closet.
When I’m clad in the outfit, I snap a pic of myself and send it to Mabel.
Mabel
cute! Is that for Dot’s party? I couldn’t find Meredith’s sweater, so I’m wearing this.
A photo comes through of her in a brown sweater-dress and black tights.
Mabel
I’m so glad there’s been hardly any snow this year so I can wear this
With a smile, I send a heart back to her.
I steady myself in front of the mirror. “You got this, Rue. You’re Rue Chanel Sullivan, remember?”
But talking to myself kinda defeats the point because only the wallflower my mom accused me of being would do such a thing.
When I come back downstairs, Mom is waiting with a tapping foot and crossed arms. “Better. Much better. Now, let me get a few pictures of you before you leave. Something cute for you to post.”
I know better than to argue with her.
Mom leads the way outside, and we walk down the street to the grassy area on the way to the main road where she insists on taking all my pictures.
She positions me on the sidewalk so the backdrop is at just the right angle.
The Charles River stretches out behind me, shimmering in the light.
Across the water, Boston rises in layered silhouettes of old brick buildings and tall, shiny glass towers.
Longfellow Bridge cuts across the view like it belongs in the background of every tourist photo ever.
Adjusting the settings on my phone next, she holds it up to her face. “Just keep moving around. These are perfect.”
I place my hand on my hip and smile. Just like being onstage, pretending to be someone else, it’s always easier for me to act a bit more outgoing when I’m with my mom.
Can you imagine what Mabel and Meredith would think if they saw you right now?
The thought makes me self-conscious, considering Mabel and Meredith are actual models.
But I can’t think about that now. I continue posing for Mom, making sure my smile is in place at all times.
Part of me doesn’t care if we get anything good, because what’s the point?
The only guy I’d want to notice is already taken.
“These are just perfect. We got your shot, honey.” Mom hands me the phone.
“And don’t you dare forget to edit those before posting them like last time.
” She tucks the longer side of her straight, asymmetrical hair behind her ear.
It’s a new look for her, and she’s been obsessed with the way her new deep red hair color complements her dark skin.
But she’s not the only one with a new look.
Our time at the salon over break was her idea of mother-daughter bonding, and though the layers the stylist created in my curly hair are subtle, I was so nervous about what everyone would think when school started.
It’s not often I change my hair—or anything about my appearance, really.
So far, not a single person has commented on the change, and I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
Mom claps her hands together. “All right. Now get outta here. I refuse to be the parent whose kid doesn’t make it to the party.”
I refrain from telling her most parents would kill for their kid to miss the party and simply nod.
The walk to Dot’s house doesn’t take long because she lives on the same street as me, and her place is already glowing when I get there.
Twinkle lights spill across the porch like someone tangled the stars.
Bass rumbles through the windows, and the air smells like lingering perfume from whoever was standing here before me.
I lift my hand to knock. Take a deep breath.
You can do this, Rue. And for once, try not to be so shy.