because she didn’t. As a girl, she had been more like Devin, hard and numb and unforgiving, dragging around her resentment like a club foot. Compared with that, Britt was sort of a macho drama queen: histrionic yet brash, a teen Tarzan. You had to admire him for it.
She watched as Britt scanned the stacks of best sellers, declaring them lame, more lame, and totally lame (not necessarily in that order). If she had been more like him as a child, a fighter, she thought, what kind of person would she be now? If she’d told her own stepmother, hand on hips, “You’re not the boss of me!” If she’d thrown a fit every time her mother tried to paint a wall or rearrange the furniture. If she had demanded from her father extravagant gifts and even more extravagant vacations but kept insisting that no one loved her enough. Perhaps if she had done all her fighting when she was young, she would have a better handle on things now.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe Britt wasn’t any more prepared for his future than she’d been for hers, for this strange job she had. Stepmother. She’d looked it up and found that the word came from some term meaning “to step in,” back in the days when regular old mothers dropped off every two minutes from consumption or exhaustion and other women had to step up to replace them, but Lu thought that it really meant something else. A step
down.
A step removed. A place where the children looked at you and you looked at them and all of you could see way too much.
Speaking about seeing too much, the pink and orange and black words screamed all around her—
How to F&*% Like a Porn Star, How to Stay Fit Forever, Investing for Idiots
—and she had to wonder if the bookstore people put this stuff out just to make all the customers look stupid. And what was with all the management books?
The Three-Minute Manager, Managing for the New Millennium.
Who was doing all this managing, and so very badly? She remembered that Mr. Pink Shirt told her that he’d been accepted to a management program after college. She kept asking, “But what will you be managing?” mostly because he didn’t know the answer and it made him furious.
Lu felt the vibration of her cell phone in her purse and dug around to find it. Here was another problem: these stupid phones making everyone so available to the universe, so beholden to it. She hated that the world could find her, wherever, whenever, that they knew she was like all the rest of them, filled with random thoughts about lunch meats and logistics. There were no secrets anymore. No privacy. No dignity. Every moment was a “funny” T-shirt.
“Hello?” she said, sure it was the Lowickis, clients who disliked every single one of a dozen homes she’d shown them but who still called her every fourteen seconds for an update.
“Hello, Lu. This is Beatrix. Is Devin with you?”
Lu flinched, trying to understand why Ward’s ex was calling on her cell phone when Devin’s was perfectly functional. She wondered if this was going to become a habit.
“Lu?”
“Yes,” Lu said. She felt a familiar churning in her gut, the one she got whenever she had to talk to Beatrix. She once met a woman, a second wife, who hadn’t been acknowledged by her husband’s ex in a decade. Lu knew which of the two situations was
supposed
to be preferable, but . . .
“Lu, can I talk to Devin, please? It’s urgent.”
“Oh! Yeah!” Lu said. “Just a second.” Urgent? What was urgent? Was someone dead? Maimed? Psychologically unglued?
She found Devin leafing through an issue of
Maxim.
“Devin? Your mom’s on the phone.”
Devin rolled his eyes and took the phone. “Yeah?” There was some chatter from Beatrix on the other end, and Devin replied, “No, I can’t.” More chatter, louder, pleading. “I just can’t.” Chatter, sharp and angry. “Because I can’t.” Finally, he pushed the END button on the phone and handed it back to Lu.
“What’s up?” Lu
She watched as Britt scanned the stacks of best sellers, declaring them lame, more lame, and totally lame (not necessarily in that order). If she had been more like him as a child, a fighter, she thought, what kind of person would she be now? If she’d told her own stepmother, hand on hips, “You’re not the boss of me!” If she’d thrown a fit every time her mother tried to paint a wall or rearrange the furniture. If she had demanded from her father extravagant gifts and even more extravagant vacations but kept insisting that no one loved her enough. Perhaps if she had done all her fighting when she was young, she would have a better handle on things now.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe Britt wasn’t any more prepared for his future than she’d been for hers, for this strange job she had. Stepmother. She’d looked it up and found that the word came from some term meaning “to step in,” back in the days when regular old mothers dropped off every two minutes from consumption or exhaustion and other women had to step up to replace them, but Lu thought that it really meant something else. A step
down.
A step removed. A place where the children looked at you and you looked at them and all of you could see way too much.
Speaking about seeing too much, the pink and orange and black words screamed all around her—
How to F&*% Like a Porn Star, How to Stay Fit Forever, Investing for Idiots
—and she had to wonder if the bookstore people put this stuff out just to make all the customers look stupid. And what was with all the management books?
The Three-Minute Manager, Managing for the New Millennium.
Who was doing all this managing, and so very badly? She remembered that Mr. Pink Shirt told her that he’d been accepted to a management program after college. She kept asking, “But what will you be managing?” mostly because he didn’t know the answer and it made him furious.
Lu felt the vibration of her cell phone in her purse and dug around to find it. Here was another problem: these stupid phones making everyone so available to the universe, so beholden to it. She hated that the world could find her, wherever, whenever, that they knew she was like all the rest of them, filled with random thoughts about lunch meats and logistics. There were no secrets anymore. No privacy. No dignity. Every moment was a “funny” T-shirt.
“Hello?” she said, sure it was the Lowickis, clients who disliked every single one of a dozen homes she’d shown them but who still called her every fourteen seconds for an update.
“Hello, Lu. This is Beatrix. Is Devin with you?”
Lu flinched, trying to understand why Ward’s ex was calling on her cell phone when Devin’s was perfectly functional. She wondered if this was going to become a habit.
“Lu?”
“Yes,” Lu said. She felt a familiar churning in her gut, the one she got whenever she had to talk to Beatrix. She once met a woman, a second wife, who hadn’t been acknowledged by her husband’s ex in a decade. Lu knew which of the two situations was
supposed
to be preferable, but . . .
“Lu, can I talk to Devin, please? It’s urgent.”
“Oh! Yeah!” Lu said. “Just a second.” Urgent? What was urgent? Was someone dead? Maimed? Psychologically unglued?
She found Devin leafing through an issue of
Maxim.
“Devin? Your mom’s on the phone.”
Devin rolled his eyes and took the phone. “Yeah?” There was some chatter from Beatrix on the other end, and Devin replied, “No, I can’t.” More chatter, louder, pleading. “I just can’t.” Chatter, sharp and angry. “Because I can’t.” Finally, he pushed the END button on the phone and handed it back to Lu.
“What’s up?” Lu
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