some of the peeling green paint off the bench. The paint flakes into a million pieces, and she blows it off the bench like other little girls blow away dandelion seeds.
“Sure,” I say. Pain stabs through my knee, and I cover it with my hand. Sharp sting. I savor the pain but will it to go away at the same time.
“I want to be a mechanic,” Casey says, smiling.
I nod. Once, twice, three times. “I can see that,” I say. “Will you wear a jumpsuit and have oil stains all over you?”
Casey shakes her head madly and kicks her legs against the bench. “No way! I’d like to change things up abit, you know?” She twists her lips to the side, an expression of intense concentration. “I’d like to be a mechanic who wears a lace dress, maybe. Yeah. A white lace dress.”
She lifts her head, and so do I. We watch the sky together.
I open my mouth, about to tell her how ridiculous that sounds, but then I remember what my own dream was when I was ten years old: to become an anthropologist who studied the nightlife in Sherwood. Because Sherwood is just teeming with nightlife.
So I allow for her subversive child’s dream. “Sounds good.”
And as soon as I say it, give her that green light, she’s off. Telling me about her million-and-one other plans. She sounds hungry. Hungry for someone to listen, hungry for someone to tell her that her dreams are not simply castles in the air and can come true. She likes science and music, Casey. She wants to understand the world and then write songs expressing its beauty.
All while fixing cars in a white lace dress.
When the center’s about to close, when all the other kids have left and E is walking over to us, Casey asks, “Do you really think I can do it?” Her voice cracks down the middle in doubt.
“Of course.”
“It’s just that my mom says—”
E reaches us before she finishes her sentence, but I can guess its ending. Casey looks at her shoelaces, bites her lip. She smiles at E and me. “Bye,” she says, and then she’s gone, before I can tell her that dreams, anyone’s dreams—however small or big or outlandish—are worth a damn. No matter what anyone’s mother says.
Chapter Fourteen
T HE NEXT MORNING I bump into my mother in the kitchen.
We both move awkwardly from side to side trying to avoid the other. Eventually, I give up and stand stock-still, not allowing her to get past me.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
She’s dressed for it. Clean, crisp blue business suit with a pair of sheer stockings. But then this is my mother’s usual ensemble. I haven’t seen her wearing anything else in the past few years.
Sometimes I think she sleeps in her suits.
“My meeting got canceled,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” Her voice is knife-sharp.
“I’m running a little late,” I say.
And suddenly, I’m aware of my morning breath, the stink that hangs about my words. My brittle, breaking hair. The fact that I’m clad in a fucking pink nightiewith a suggestive comment about how good I am in bed scrawled across it.
There isn’t a hair out of place on my mother’s head.
I’m not exactly sure what my mother does. She’s never explained it properly because it’s apparently beyond my comprehension—all I know is that it’s some corporate shit in a bank. She probably spends her days shredding paper and stealing souls while looking the epitome of neat and tidy.
She pats down her already perfectly smooth hair. “Honey.” The word tastes sweet, too sweet. “I’ll give you a ride to school,” she says, just as the phone rings. She stalks into the living room, and I follow her, watching as she lifts the receiver to her ear.
“Amanda Logan speaking,” she says. “Oh, Jillian, how lovely to hear from you. You’re in the Bahamas, aren’t you?”
There’s a pause as Jillian, who is a complete stranger to me, says something.
Mom replies, “Yes, in our front garden,” and I know, instantly, that they’re talking about
“Sure,” I say. Pain stabs through my knee, and I cover it with my hand. Sharp sting. I savor the pain but will it to go away at the same time.
“I want to be a mechanic,” Casey says, smiling.
I nod. Once, twice, three times. “I can see that,” I say. “Will you wear a jumpsuit and have oil stains all over you?”
Casey shakes her head madly and kicks her legs against the bench. “No way! I’d like to change things up abit, you know?” She twists her lips to the side, an expression of intense concentration. “I’d like to be a mechanic who wears a lace dress, maybe. Yeah. A white lace dress.”
She lifts her head, and so do I. We watch the sky together.
I open my mouth, about to tell her how ridiculous that sounds, but then I remember what my own dream was when I was ten years old: to become an anthropologist who studied the nightlife in Sherwood. Because Sherwood is just teeming with nightlife.
So I allow for her subversive child’s dream. “Sounds good.”
And as soon as I say it, give her that green light, she’s off. Telling me about her million-and-one other plans. She sounds hungry. Hungry for someone to listen, hungry for someone to tell her that her dreams are not simply castles in the air and can come true. She likes science and music, Casey. She wants to understand the world and then write songs expressing its beauty.
All while fixing cars in a white lace dress.
When the center’s about to close, when all the other kids have left and E is walking over to us, Casey asks, “Do you really think I can do it?” Her voice cracks down the middle in doubt.
“Of course.”
“It’s just that my mom says—”
E reaches us before she finishes her sentence, but I can guess its ending. Casey looks at her shoelaces, bites her lip. She smiles at E and me. “Bye,” she says, and then she’s gone, before I can tell her that dreams, anyone’s dreams—however small or big or outlandish—are worth a damn. No matter what anyone’s mother says.
Chapter Fourteen
T HE NEXT MORNING I bump into my mother in the kitchen.
We both move awkwardly from side to side trying to avoid the other. Eventually, I give up and stand stock-still, not allowing her to get past me.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
She’s dressed for it. Clean, crisp blue business suit with a pair of sheer stockings. But then this is my mother’s usual ensemble. I haven’t seen her wearing anything else in the past few years.
Sometimes I think she sleeps in her suits.
“My meeting got canceled,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” Her voice is knife-sharp.
“I’m running a little late,” I say.
And suddenly, I’m aware of my morning breath, the stink that hangs about my words. My brittle, breaking hair. The fact that I’m clad in a fucking pink nightiewith a suggestive comment about how good I am in bed scrawled across it.
There isn’t a hair out of place on my mother’s head.
I’m not exactly sure what my mother does. She’s never explained it properly because it’s apparently beyond my comprehension—all I know is that it’s some corporate shit in a bank. She probably spends her days shredding paper and stealing souls while looking the epitome of neat and tidy.
She pats down her already perfectly smooth hair. “Honey.” The word tastes sweet, too sweet. “I’ll give you a ride to school,” she says, just as the phone rings. She stalks into the living room, and I follow her, watching as she lifts the receiver to her ear.
“Amanda Logan speaking,” she says. “Oh, Jillian, how lovely to hear from you. You’re in the Bahamas, aren’t you?”
There’s a pause as Jillian, who is a complete stranger to me, says something.
Mom replies, “Yes, in our front garden,” and I know, instantly, that they’re talking about
Similar Books
