Chapter 6 #2
Her jaw dropped. “A hundred dollars? Where do you shop?”
“Not enough?” My eyes went over her shirt again, a light green V-neck. “I can’t tell if it’s designer or not.”
“A surefire way to tell,” she said slowly, “is that if I’m wearing it, it’s not a designer label.”
She didn’t say more. My phone was still clutched in my hand. “So then, what did it cost? Fifty dollars?”
Instead of answering, she lay down on the grass by the sidewalk and put her hand over her eyes like she’d been struck by a sudden migraine.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I just need to lie here for a moment while I contemplate what it must be like to be you.”
How was I supposed to reply to that? “Um, right now, it’s a bit confusing. What do I owe you for the shirt?”
She took her hand off her eyes and flopped it onto the ground in frustration. “The shirt is a hand-me-down from my mother.”
“So you’re saying it has sentimental value?” That made this even worse.
She sat up. Despite not looking a lot like her brother, the incredulous gaze she sent me was identical to the one he used. “No, I’m saying that my shirt has a resale value of about three dollars, and I have more pride than to take that from you.”
“Oh.” Still, I wanted to make things right with her. “In that case, maybe I could just give you one of my shirts in exchange.”
She didn’t seem to hear me. “You have no idea what things cost in the regular world, do you? A hundred dollars for a T-shirt? If Cooper saw that transaction on my phone, he’d think you ordered a hit on him, and I’d accepted.”
I picked up my paintbrush. “I do know what things cost in the real world. For example, I know that a decent hitman costs a lot more than one hundred dollars.”
She gave me a horrified look, so I added, “I’m just joking.
You should know that already since we’ve been in drama together for three years.
” I took a deep, fortifying breath to put an end to the runaway train this conversation had become.
“Honestly, what does everyone say about me when I’m not there? ”
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 acting is 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 in The Sound of Music if you’d been doing all of this.”
“Are you trying to make me cry again?”
“No.” What in the world was I 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 the few people who 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. Do you 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.
My dad did his best as a single parent, but he worked long hours, and besides, it wasn’t like he was ever going to teach me how to do my hair or give me advice on flirting with boys. Some things you just needed a mom for.
I thought about asking Claire what her mother was like since the woman was currently out with my father but decided against it.
Our parents’ date would probably be a one-time thing.
Ms. Nash wasn’t my dad’s usual type. He generally went for sophisticated lawyers in their forties who were as busy as him and liked debating precedents over dinner. Not young fitness instructors.
Claire and I continued painting, and somehow, after our rough start, talking to her got easier.
We even joked around about drama stuff and ended up laughing about what our school would be like as a musical.
Personally, I would’ve paid good money to see Mrs. Tsuru break out into song and perform a dance number.
Cooper and I may not have worked out our issues, but by the time I drove Claire home, I felt like the two of us had.