trip.”
Mom must mean Grandma Sugar and Grandpa George. She never talks about my other grandma and grandpa in the same sentence like that.
“I bet they’ll bring you girls all sorts of crazy things. You’d better be prepared.”
She’s trying to make me smile. Why can’t I? I lift the paintbrush and dab it in midair. The soft pink of her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the messy brown waves that stick up on top of her head first thing in the morning before she’s brushed her hair. After Uncle Vince lost our money, she’d come home from Double, tie on her apron, and start cooking. Whenever she’s upset or worried, that’s what she does—heads straight to the kitchen. Once it was beef vegetable soup, another time dim sum. This time it was croissants, and this phase lasted for weeks. She set out a dish of malt and flour and sugar to draw the yeast straight out of the air—magic! Layering and buttering, rolling with the heavy wooden pin, proofing in the big plastic bin. In the early-morning hours, I’d come downstairs and find her pulling another pan from the oven. We’d sit, just the two of us, with sweet butter and homemade apricot preserves, a jar of Nutella. We’ll figure it out, she told me, over and over again.
All the things I want to tell her. She loves me, I know. But she’s always moving; her mind is always somewhere else. She’ll be looking at me and nodding, but then I’ll see her eyes drift and I’ll know she’s suddenly remembered the linen order’s got to be picked up, or she needs to call the VIP guests before they leave their offices. The twins need new shin guards, and why is the car making that weird noise?
I skim the very tip of my camel-hair paintbrush to make the finest line that winds all the way to where it started, a dandelion’s fluff of nothing. One exhalation and it explodes and floats apart. I am left holding a limp stem, unaware.
Why can’t I see you, Mom? Why can’t I move at all?
—
“I hate Shakespeare,” Rory complains as I steer the pontoon boat down the lake. She’s lying on her back with her head hanging over the edge, her hair trailing in the water behind her. I don’t tell her she looks like Ophelia. She’s upset about the B she got on her paper. She slaved over it, I know, but it’s a hard class.
“At least you can try to bring it up.” Rory had talked the teacher into letting her rewrite it. No surprise there. Everyone says yes to Rory.
“I’ll probably do worse.” She props herself up on one elbow and frowns at me, sitting hunched in the captain’s chair with my knees drawn to my chest. “Unless you write it.”
“Ha, ha . ” I switch off the motor so we can float in the middle of the dark water. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on my bent knee. The sun beats down on the side of my face.
“I’m not kidding . What if you did?”
“This is why you ditched Mackenzie? So you could talk me into doing your paper for you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Right.” We both know she’s lying.
“Please.”
“No way.”
“But this stuff is so easy for you.”
“It’s not easy for me. I work hard. It’s just easier for me than it is for you.”
A pause, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
“Whatever, Arden. I’m talking about one stupid paper.”
“One stupid paper, a hundred stupid papers. It’s all the same. If my dad finds out he’d suspend me.” My dad has spies everywhere. People like him. They tell him things.
“No, he won’t.”
She’s just saying that. My cheek’s burning. I turn my head and expose the other cheek to the sun. I know Rory’s really upset, not just acting to get her way. I feel bad for her. B’s won’t get her into Harvard, which is all she’s ever wanted, ever since we were little kids, but getting suspended won’t get me into art school and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Besides, I have my own homework—piles of it. “Ask Mackenzie,” I suggest, a little meanly.
“Mackenzie’s an
Mom must mean Grandma Sugar and Grandpa George. She never talks about my other grandma and grandpa in the same sentence like that.
“I bet they’ll bring you girls all sorts of crazy things. You’d better be prepared.”
She’s trying to make me smile. Why can’t I? I lift the paintbrush and dab it in midair. The soft pink of her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the messy brown waves that stick up on top of her head first thing in the morning before she’s brushed her hair. After Uncle Vince lost our money, she’d come home from Double, tie on her apron, and start cooking. Whenever she’s upset or worried, that’s what she does—heads straight to the kitchen. Once it was beef vegetable soup, another time dim sum. This time it was croissants, and this phase lasted for weeks. She set out a dish of malt and flour and sugar to draw the yeast straight out of the air—magic! Layering and buttering, rolling with the heavy wooden pin, proofing in the big plastic bin. In the early-morning hours, I’d come downstairs and find her pulling another pan from the oven. We’d sit, just the two of us, with sweet butter and homemade apricot preserves, a jar of Nutella. We’ll figure it out, she told me, over and over again.
All the things I want to tell her. She loves me, I know. But she’s always moving; her mind is always somewhere else. She’ll be looking at me and nodding, but then I’ll see her eyes drift and I’ll know she’s suddenly remembered the linen order’s got to be picked up, or she needs to call the VIP guests before they leave their offices. The twins need new shin guards, and why is the car making that weird noise?
I skim the very tip of my camel-hair paintbrush to make the finest line that winds all the way to where it started, a dandelion’s fluff of nothing. One exhalation and it explodes and floats apart. I am left holding a limp stem, unaware.
Why can’t I see you, Mom? Why can’t I move at all?
—
“I hate Shakespeare,” Rory complains as I steer the pontoon boat down the lake. She’s lying on her back with her head hanging over the edge, her hair trailing in the water behind her. I don’t tell her she looks like Ophelia. She’s upset about the B she got on her paper. She slaved over it, I know, but it’s a hard class.
“At least you can try to bring it up.” Rory had talked the teacher into letting her rewrite it. No surprise there. Everyone says yes to Rory.
“I’ll probably do worse.” She props herself up on one elbow and frowns at me, sitting hunched in the captain’s chair with my knees drawn to my chest. “Unless you write it.”
“Ha, ha . ” I switch off the motor so we can float in the middle of the dark water. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on my bent knee. The sun beats down on the side of my face.
“I’m not kidding . What if you did?”
“This is why you ditched Mackenzie? So you could talk me into doing your paper for you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Right.” We both know she’s lying.
“Please.”
“No way.”
“But this stuff is so easy for you.”
“It’s not easy for me. I work hard. It’s just easier for me than it is for you.”
A pause, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
“Whatever, Arden. I’m talking about one stupid paper.”
“One stupid paper, a hundred stupid papers. It’s all the same. If my dad finds out he’d suspend me.” My dad has spies everywhere. People like him. They tell him things.
“No, he won’t.”
She’s just saying that. My cheek’s burning. I turn my head and expose the other cheek to the sun. I know Rory’s really upset, not just acting to get her way. I feel bad for her. B’s won’t get her into Harvard, which is all she’s ever wanted, ever since we were little kids, but getting suspended won’t get me into art school and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Besides, I have my own homework—piles of it. “Ask Mackenzie,” I suggest, a little meanly.
“Mackenzie’s an
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