The Real Real by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus
Authors: Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus
Tags: Fiction
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blink my eyes in a struggle to stay awake. “I’m really sorry. The show had me out all night.”
“Doing what? What exactly do they need you all night for?”
“Filming. I guess they’re going to be shooting weekends now, too.”
She sits heavily on the La-Z-Boy. “So you were working,” she says mostly to herself, staring at me in the late-afternoon light. “. . . Okay.” She rubs her hand along the back of her neck. “You really scared us, Jesse.”
“Mom, this show’s just a lot more . . . ” I struggle to put the experience into words for both of us. “I thought I’d be doing my thing and they’d follow and film it 102
and—okay—weird. But not this . This is someone else’s life. With no Caitlyn . I don’t know if she’s going to get over this.” I feel my cheeks dampen, and her expression softens.
She stands and reaches down for my hand, helping me up into a hug. I sink against her. “This is just new, that’s all. Just like any job. The whole house is such a mess you think it’ll never get clean. But one room at a time and it becomes habit. You’re a smart girl; you’ll get the hang of this, Jess.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
She pulls back to wipe my tears with the well-worn sleeve of her down coat. “God willing, you’ll both be at schools in D.C. next year, and this’ll be no more important than when that boy you both liked asked you to the roller-skating party.”
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s pretty bad.” I flash to Caitlyn’s wounded face as I circled past her, tugged along by Josh Dupree’s clammy hand to LeAnn Rimes telling us she can’t fight the moonlight, the only time he acknowledged me all night. All I wanted to do was tell her that up close he looked like a toddler with a blond mustache and smelled like Cheez Doodles and Old Spice. But she didn’t return my calls all weekend. It took weeks for things to get back to normal, for the glint of hurt to fully vanish from her eyes.
Mom takes off her coat and folds it over her arm, fingering a tear in the lining. “Just think how much more exciting it is than filling muffin tins and washing them 103
out all day long. You want to be doing that for the rest of your life?”
“No.”
“Nobody does, Jesse.” She looks up from the dime-sized hole with a tired smile.
The following morning, balancing the stack of Sunday newspapers against my hip, I struggle to get the key into the front door of the Prickly Pear without dropping everything onto the salted pavement. The early sun streaks across the closed storefronts of Main Street, and I note how a fitful night’s sleep has done jack to dull yesterday’s stings. “Crap.” The cold keys slip from my freezing hands and clank to the sidewalk. “Jamie Beth?” I grip the papers and turn to her as she attempts to inhale enough nicotine to fuel her until lunch. “Jamie Beth.”
She squints at me over gray smoke streaming from her mouth.
“Could you maybe . . . ” I glance down at the keys, splayed beside my sneakers.
Gripping the cigarette between her chapped lips, she scoops them up to dangle before me.
“In the door, please?” I gesture with my chin. She pushes the key in and turns the knob with a sigh, the weight of the papers pitching me inside and onto the nearest wobbly table. The familiar smell of bleach and baked goods clears Jamie Beth’s cigarette from my head. So that’s something.
104
“Can you get the coffee going and I’ll get the awnings?”
I ask, knowing full well that she won’t because she’s too busy tackling her first priority: slouching against the counter to pick at her peeling nail polish.
No. I do not want to fill muffin cups the rest of my life.
“Jamie Beth? Please?” I plop the box of coffee filters in front of her. She contemplates them.
I duck back outside into the stark sunshine. Twirling the metal pole overhead, I tend to the windows on both sides of the corner bakery, unfurling the striped awnings that
“Doing what? What exactly do they need you all night for?”
“Filming. I guess they’re going to be shooting weekends now, too.”
She sits heavily on the La-Z-Boy. “So you were working,” she says mostly to herself, staring at me in the late-afternoon light. “. . . Okay.” She rubs her hand along the back of her neck. “You really scared us, Jesse.”
“Mom, this show’s just a lot more . . . ” I struggle to put the experience into words for both of us. “I thought I’d be doing my thing and they’d follow and film it 102
and—okay—weird. But not this . This is someone else’s life. With no Caitlyn . I don’t know if she’s going to get over this.” I feel my cheeks dampen, and her expression softens.
She stands and reaches down for my hand, helping me up into a hug. I sink against her. “This is just new, that’s all. Just like any job. The whole house is such a mess you think it’ll never get clean. But one room at a time and it becomes habit. You’re a smart girl; you’ll get the hang of this, Jess.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
She pulls back to wipe my tears with the well-worn sleeve of her down coat. “God willing, you’ll both be at schools in D.C. next year, and this’ll be no more important than when that boy you both liked asked you to the roller-skating party.”
“I don’t know, Mom. It’s pretty bad.” I flash to Caitlyn’s wounded face as I circled past her, tugged along by Josh Dupree’s clammy hand to LeAnn Rimes telling us she can’t fight the moonlight, the only time he acknowledged me all night. All I wanted to do was tell her that up close he looked like a toddler with a blond mustache and smelled like Cheez Doodles and Old Spice. But she didn’t return my calls all weekend. It took weeks for things to get back to normal, for the glint of hurt to fully vanish from her eyes.
Mom takes off her coat and folds it over her arm, fingering a tear in the lining. “Just think how much more exciting it is than filling muffin tins and washing them 103
out all day long. You want to be doing that for the rest of your life?”
“No.”
“Nobody does, Jesse.” She looks up from the dime-sized hole with a tired smile.
The following morning, balancing the stack of Sunday newspapers against my hip, I struggle to get the key into the front door of the Prickly Pear without dropping everything onto the salted pavement. The early sun streaks across the closed storefronts of Main Street, and I note how a fitful night’s sleep has done jack to dull yesterday’s stings. “Crap.” The cold keys slip from my freezing hands and clank to the sidewalk. “Jamie Beth?” I grip the papers and turn to her as she attempts to inhale enough nicotine to fuel her until lunch. “Jamie Beth.”
She squints at me over gray smoke streaming from her mouth.
“Could you maybe . . . ” I glance down at the keys, splayed beside my sneakers.
Gripping the cigarette between her chapped lips, she scoops them up to dangle before me.
“In the door, please?” I gesture with my chin. She pushes the key in and turns the knob with a sigh, the weight of the papers pitching me inside and onto the nearest wobbly table. The familiar smell of bleach and baked goods clears Jamie Beth’s cigarette from my head. So that’s something.
104
“Can you get the coffee going and I’ll get the awnings?”
I ask, knowing full well that she won’t because she’s too busy tackling her first priority: slouching against the counter to pick at her peeling nail polish.
No. I do not want to fill muffin cups the rest of my life.
“Jamie Beth? Please?” I plop the box of coffee filters in front of her. She contemplates them.
I duck back outside into the stark sunshine. Twirling the metal pole overhead, I tend to the windows on both sides of the corner bakery, unfurling the striped awnings that
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