Attitude by Robin Stevenson Page B

toes, hugging herself like she can hardly believe it. I wonder what she’ll do—if this will make her decide to stay, or if she’ll decide to turn it down.
    I’m kind of glad I don’t have to make that decision.
    Then I spot Melissa. She’s smiling too, but without any of Mackenzie’s exuberance. Her smile looks more like relief than happiness. I wonder if this is what she wants—or if, like Diana suggested, this is more about her mother’s ambition than her own.
    * * *
    As soon as we get home, I ask Edie if I can borrow her laptop to Skype my parents.
    â€œSure,” she says. She seems kind of pale and subdued.
    â€œAre you okay?” I ask her.
    â€œYeah.” She hesitates. “Diana was pretty nice to me, considering.”
    â€œShe is nice.” I think for a moment. “I bet she thought it was brave of you, you know? To admit that you did the Facebook thing.”
    â€œI guess.” She unplugs her computer from where it is recharging on the dining room table. “Here, you can take it to your room. If you want privacy, I mean. You don’t have to.”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I say. “I knew what you meant.” I reach out to take the computer from her, but she doesn’t let go. “Edie?”
    â€œI just…I hope you don’t hate me now,” she says.
    â€œOf course I don’t.”
    â€œMelissa does,” she says.
    â€œShe’ll get over it.”
    She shakes her head. “I don’t know. She’s not even speaking to me.” She blinks a few times. “And I really wanted to be Clara.”
    â€œThere’s always next year,” I say. “And…um…if Melissa still isn’t talking to you next week, you can hang out with me and Cam and Mackenzie at lunch. If you want.”
    She hands me the laptop. “Thanks, Cassandra.”
    I head to my room, wondering what possessed me to say that. Shouldn’t I be mad? But I’m not, for some reason. I feel like I’ve aged about five years over the past two weeks though.
    I open Skype and call my parents.
    While I wait for them to answer, I think about what Diana said about Melissa: I don’t know that Melissa has ever had a chance to want anything else.
    I’ve always complained about my parents not understanding my love of dancing, always felt frustrated by their insistence that I take time off, not work so hard, have other interests…but maybe all of that has been a good thing.
    Maybe it’s allowed me to have a choice.
    Maybe it’s given me the freedom to know what I want.
    My mom’s face appears on the screen. “Cassie!”
    â€œHi, Mom,” I say.
    â€œHow’s your ankle? Is everything okay?”
    I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I tell her. “Everything is really good.”