Wild Swans by Jessica Spotswood

of Alex makes my heart hurt. He’s never been that angry with me before. “Alex and I are just friends.”
    â€œToo bad. He’s cute. And he’s obviously got a thing for you. Are you seeing somebody else?” She takes a bite of her celery stick.
    I shake my head, pushing away thoughts of Connor. I am not about to confide in her about him. Or anything else. Mother or not, I don’t trust her and I am not up for her drunk attempt at bonding. “No.”
    â€œLet me guess. You’re too busy for a boyfriend. How many classes does Dad have you taking this summer? Ballet? French? Painting? Piano? Voice?” She stands up. In bare feet, she’s a few inches shorter than me. “ Shit. Can you sing?”
    â€œNo. Not well.” I can’t tell whether she’s relieved or disappointed to find that we don’t have that in common. Honestly, I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. I tried out for chorus in seventh grade with Abby, and I still remember—vividly, viscerally—when we walked up to Mr. Kerns’s door to check the list. Abby squealed when she saw her name, but mine wasn’t there. Before that, I always sang confidently in the car, in the shower, around the house, assuming I’d inherited a little of my mother’s talent. After that, I’d stopped.
    If you’re not any good, what’s the point?
    Milbourn girls don’t do mediocre.
    â€œDo you still sing?” I ask, curious despite myself.
    â€œNo. Not for years.” Erica evades my eyes and takes a long sip of her Bloody Mary. Everyone says she had a gorgeous voice. Erica even admitted that she was happy singing with her band and waitressing. Why did she quit? And what does that do to a person? Giving up the thing you love most, stifling your talent. Is that why she’s so unhappy? Does it poison you, slow and sure?
    â€œYou didn’t answer me,” she points out. “What classes are you taking this summer?”
    â€œNone.” But I have taken all those classes at one time or another. This conversation is so strange. I don’t know Erica at all, but she knows bits and pieces of my life. She lived them twenty years ago. “I’m volunteering at the library in town. And swimming.”
    â€œThat’s it? He’s letting you slack off.” The celery stick crunches as she bites off another piece.
    I shrug, weirdly stung. Is he? Does he expect less from me than he did from her? “I hang out with my friends. Play Scrabble with Granddad. I read.”
    â€œYou’re such a little nerd.” She says it almost affectionately, but the way she’s looking at me, scanning me from head to toe, is like she’s trying to see straight through my skin. It’s a little creepy, especially coming from someone who hasn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in me for fifteen years. “I don’t see myself in you at all.”
    Neither do I.
    I’ve been searching for a resemblance in sly little moments at supper or passing her in the hall. Studying her when her head’s turned.
    I haven’t found any similarities.
    Not being like her is a good thing. That’s what I’ve been told my whole life. So why does her saying that she doesn’t see herself in me hurt so damn much?
    â€œGood,” I mutter, sliding the pitcher back into the fridge. I should go upstairs. Connor will be here in less than an hour and—
    My mother grabs my arm. Spins me around so fast my hip smacks into the counter and I almost tumble off balance. She’s sneaky without those heels.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Her breath smells like tomato juice and nail polish remover.
    I feel a second of guilt, but only a second. The urge to hurt her back is stronger. “I said, good . I’ve heard about you my whole life. What a screwup you were. What a slut. And selfish. How you didn’t care about anybody but yourself. So far you’ve