The Girl with the Mermaid Hair by Delia Ephron Page B

together and being in the same room at the same time. Her parents were often the latter and rarely the former. Even when they strolled side by side, they seemed to be in separate spaces. Sukie could assessher parents’ moods. She knew, for instance, when her dad was edgy or her mom was “stalky”—looking for a reason to pounce. Her radar was defensive. They would as easily pick on her as each other. She would go right to her room and do homework. Sometimes she ran a bath and did the mermaid float. Occasionally if her parents argued loudly late at night, Mikey crawled into her bed and they both buried their heads under pillows.
    Today there was a détente between her parents, a temporary relaxing of tension between battling nations. Her mom, thumbing through a magazine, was tucked into an armchair, curled up like a cat. Her dad had taken possession of the couch. Seated on the center cushion, he hunched over his work papers strewn across the coffee table. At the same time, he wielded the remote, switching back and forth between football games.
    “You look beautiful,” said her mom. “Pretty enough to be in this.” She held up Vogue .
    “Thanks, Mom.”
    Her dad looked over now and whistled.
    “Your father is taking up golf. He’s going to the driving range today. He’s sick of tennis. Don’t youthink you should eat something?”
    “I’m not hungry,” said Sukie. So her hunch had been correct. He wasn’t going back to the club. “Am I still going to take lessons from Vince?”
    “Of course,” said her mom. “Unless, little copycat, you’re switching to golf, too. But you can’t because you’re committed to tennis. And you’re a terrific player. ‘Captain of the tennis team’ looks a lot more impressive on a college application than ‘I golf for fun.’ Did you meet him on Facebook?”
    “Meet who?”
    “This quarterback?”
    “No. Dad, come on.”
    “Is your Facebook clean?”
    “Clean? What does that mean?”
    “I have no idea. Mr. Vickers mentioned it. I suppose not dirty. Nothing to be ashamed of. Where did you meet him?”
    “At the mall. I know some friends of his.” A lie but not a big lie. She did know a few of his friends because he’d introduced them to her. “Dad?”
    “Did you see that?” said her dad.
    “Holding,” said Sukie. “Why didn’t the ref call it?”
    “Atta girl—you never miss a thing.” He clicked offthe game and dropped the remote. “I’ll get my jacket and clubs and meet you at the car.”
    “Can we see your Facebook?” asked her mom.
    Sukie hurried away.
    “Susannah!”
    “I’m not on Facebook.”
    “What do you mean you’re not on Facebook?” Her mother sprang from the chair.
    Sukie knew what had happened. The worry of what her daughter might be up to on Facebook had yielded to an even greater anxiety: What’s wrong with Sukie that she isn’t on Facebook?
    Sukie powered on and out the front door. Her mom would never follow. She wasn’t allowed to be in the sun for a month, her skin was too tender. Even though the sky today was blanketed with thick dark clouds, Sukie was safe because, as her mom had explained only yesterday, the sun could beam those ultraviolets right through.
    From the doorway her mother begged, “Sukie, I’m trying to have a conversation.” But Sukie pretended that her mom was speaking to the wind, and the wind would carry her words over the trees and far away.
    “Just tell me, sweetie, why aren’t you on Facebook?”
    Sukie concentrated on managing her spiked heels on the gravel driveway, although for a second she considered turning and screaming, “Because I hate you.”
    But that wasn’t the reason.
    She wasn’t on Facebook because she couldn’t complete the questionnaire. It demanded originality. Even the simplest query. After hours of staring at it empty-headed, she had cruised her classmates. Under religion, Autumn had written, “Found God in prison.” How brilliant was that? Frannie’s favorite movie was