Mom gives a baby-voiced, “Wookie who’s here to see us, Z!” to the Chihuahua, and holds up a gauzy-looking scrap of white fabric to my cousin. “This will look so cute with those lime jeans we found for you on Saturday.”
“Thank you so much, Aunt June!” Lana says. “You’re the best!”
As my mom passes, I reach down to pet Zelda’s little apple head and as usual the Chihuahua growls at my hand. Anytime Z snaps at someone, my dad likes to put on a country drawl and say, “That there’s a lookin’ dog.” Mom and Lana are the only two who can touch her without risking a nasty bite.
It’s obvious Zelda is pure evil in the form of a teacup Chihuahua, but I can’t seem to stop trying to win her over. Clearly, my rejection issues run deep.
Mom smiles at the new top as Lana holds it up to her chest and Zelda paws at Lana’s lower legs, begging to be held. I’m getting antsy to exit the Lana Lovefest happening in here in my living room.
The Birds is still on pause in my bedroom and someone is about to lose an eye in extremely gruesome fashion. Nobody makes me swoon quite like Alfred Hitchcock. I mean, aside from Jake, of course, but I’m trying not to think about the cringy way I ducked today when I should’ve let myself be swept away.
I move to escape back into my movie.
“No, wait, Ricki. You need to hear this too.” Lana slaps the seat beside her and looks at my mom. Mom plops down on the couch and Zelda leaps onto her lap in one synchronized motion. I take a half step back, propping myself against the wall and crossing my arms.
Lana hooks her hair behind both her ears, which is something she would never do on camera since she has Nona’s sticky-outie ears. We all do, but Lana’s the only one who refers to them as the “family curse.”
Looking back and forth between Mom and me in order to build dramatic tension, Lana finally says, “Aunt May has decided how she’d like to spend the money.”
Our aunt lives in a yurt about an hour and a half north of us, where she raises wolf dogs and makes jewelry from the rocks and crystals she finds on her daily hikes. Apparently wolf dogs need a lot of exercise, so she covers a huge stretch of ground each day. She recently discovered a modest vein of gold and it turns out that gold is worth, well, more than gold nowadays. Aunt May has always lived free and simple and acts like having so much money is an unnecessary headache and a waste. My mother has been predicting her free-spirited sister will find a way to blow it eventually.
My mom’s not a huge fan of the whole yurt-and-wolf-dog lifestyle. Under her breath, she refers to Aunt May as “selfish,” although I don’t see how my aunt’s choice to live unencumbered by stress is hurting anyone.
Lana looks up at me. “Aunt May is buying something epic for us to share.”
“Us? As in you and me?” I try to envision Lana and me sharing anything. A Venn diagram of our tastes would show very little overlap.
Lana nods. “She’s decided she’s going to get us . . . a car! How cool is that?”
I picture how nice it would be to not have to borrow my parents’ minivan anymore, but I refuse to leap right back on the Lana train to Rejectionville.
“She thinks you and I are going to share a car,” I say. “Like both of us together.”
“Me and you. Fifty-fifty. Fair and square.” Lana grins so big I can practically see the lies oozing between her teeth. Lana does not share.
Mom folds her arms across her thin chest. “Typical May move. I’m sure this sounds like a fantastic idea to you two, like she’s the coolest aunt ever. It’s easy to act like a cool aunt when you’re not responsible for anybody but yourself and a few wolf dogs.”
“You’re a cool aunt too,” Lana says, hugging the shirt on her lap.
I don’t say anything since Lana’s mom, my aunt April, is super stressed lately and consumed with being Lana’s fulltime “momager.” If I claimed April was a “cool aunt,” we’d all have to crack up laughing.
“What kind of car is May buying?” Mom asks. “And who is going to pay for the insurance?”
“Aunt May says she’ll cover all costs.” Lana looks back and forth between us. “And the car? That’s the best part! Are you ready for this? She found us a 1966 . . .” She stands up and raises both hands in the air as she announces, “Buick. Skylark. Convertible.”
Mom and I uncross our arms at the same time and I lean forward off the wall.
“Yup.” Lana nods. “It’s even cotton-candy pink. Just like Nona’s old car.”
It’s the only thing all the females in our gene pool absolutely agree on. That was one fantastic car. Nona used to bond with her three daughters by taking them on individual road trips to northern California. That’s why Aunt May ended up living there.
“I need to talk to May.” Mom stands up, tucks Evil Z under her arm, and strides down the hallway.
A pink Skylark convertible. I picture a shining cloud of pink cotton candy on whitewall tires.
Once, when Lana and I were in sixth grade, we all took a cross-country trip to New York in Nona’s Skylark. The three sisters sat across the front bench seat in order: April, May, and June. Or sometimes the reverse: June, May, and April, with Aunt May always in the middle and never driving. They whooped down the highway like wild teenagers while Lana and I laughed in the wind-tunnel back seat.
We blew bubbles from long wands and wore fake dog noses that people would point to and smile as we drove past. When Lana’s mom got pulled over for speeding somewhere in Iowa, Aunt April told the officer he needed to blame her fast driving on the rocking tunes on the radio. She turned up the volume and we all danced in our seats to Elvis until the officer started laughing—which I think as a law meant he had to let us off scot-free.
It was the best road trip of all time, and I still remember that feeling of connection Lana and I had to each other and to our mothers and even to Nona, who had just that year gone up to heaven.
Generations of women riding free.
Of course, this was back when my cousin cared more about having goofy fun with me than she did about scrutinizing lipstick shades and huffing face powder. Back when wearing an actual rubber dog nose was way better than using some selfie filter.
Now Lana has her own BubeTube channel called Lookie Lana! On it she airs these three-to-five-minute makeup lessons that have become unreasonably popular. She’s closing in on one million eager subscribers, who seem to miss the fact that her heart-shaped face and naturally clear skin are not things they can learn to have. Her Lookie Lana! channel was recently mentioned on some big fashion website, which is when Aunt April quit her law firm job. Managing her daughter is apparently way more appealing and potentially lucrative.
Lana is studying me now. “We are going to have the best summer ever with that car,” she says. “Aunt May’s one condition is that we need to spend most of our time in it together. And she wants photographic evidence to back up our tales of adventure.”
I scoff. “So Aunt May wants us to, what, hold up a newspaper with the date on top in our pictures? Like we’re kidnap victims?”
“Don’t be silly. A timestamp on our photos will be fine.” Lana gives me another big, phony smile.
“I’m honestly thrilled about the car and I’m happy to work out a schedule with you but . . .”
“Aunt May is adamant,” Lana says. “We need to pick the car up together. Drive away together. And send her updated stories and pictures of the two of us enjoying ourselves—together.”
“Why on earth does she care so much about us spending time with each other?” I ask.
“She says she wants us to get back to being best friends.”
“Ha,” I say. “There’s no way we’ll be able to fool her into believing we’re back to besties. You may be a pro, with all of your fake relationship experience—”
“Hey! Erik and I are not in a fake relationship.”
I put my hands on my hips and stare her down until she looks away.
Under her breath she mumbles, “We’re not.” But here
’s the thing. We both know that they are. Erik has his own popular BubeTube channel and the two of them benefit from the crossover boost from each of their fan bases.
Of course, Erik has tons of girls crushing on him and so Lana also got a crossover boost of teenagers obsessed with hating her. According to my mom, she’s received an endless stream of mean comments and messages because of their “dating,” which makes it seem completely not worth it to me. But like I said, I have rejection issues. I’m not even going to pretend to understand Lana’s choices.
“Did you know I’m about to hit a million followers?” She now flips her hair. “I’ve been recognized out on the street. Girls have actually squealed over seeing me.”
“Is that a good thing?” I say.
Lana rolls her eyes and starts scrolling on her phone.
“Yeah, I’m pretty busy these days too,” I say defensively. “Working over at the Starlight Drive-in and planning to be there full-time this summer. Our reopening is this Friday night and it’s going to be truly epic.” Lana looks up at me so I add, “And I do not abuse that term.”
“Cute,” she says smugly. “Friday’s Digifest is going to put me and my channel over the top. In fact, my mom has already been talking to Norealique Cosmetics about possibly starting my very own ‘Lookie Lana!’ lipstick line.”
“As if people can purchase that pout.”
Lana shoots me one of her signature pouts. “But will it persuade you to share an epic Skylark convertible with me?”
I scowl at where she’s still sitting, wrecking my butt groove. “Let me ask you, Lana. You have all of these people following your channel, and squealing at you in public, but do you have a single friend who truly knows you?”
Her face falls for a microsecond and recovers so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. Putting down her phone and rising gracefully, Lana straightens her tight skirt and walks over to where I’m standing. She completely ignores my personal space, moving in so close I can smell her hair spray.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I feel the wall against my back.
“You’re the one who needs to take a look at your life, Ricki.” Lana purrs like a smoky-eyed cat that’s about to pounce. “Stop wasting all your time watching movies. We are going to have an epic adventure in that Skylark this summer, even if I have to chain you to the hood.”
I glance down at her perfectly sculpted arms and wonder how ten thousand hours of Zumba translates in a fistfight. The last physical tussle Lana and I had was ten years ago over a pink popsicle, but I’m practically double her size now so I’m pretty sure I can take her this time.
Still, my heart is beating fast as she leans in close.
When our noses are nearly touching, she tosses her head back and laughs. “You looked so scared just now.” Her voice gets serious. “But I really do need that car for my appearance Friday night. It will be perfect for my grand entrance.”
We look at each other for a full minute. “That car would actually be a sa-weet attraction at the drive-in for our grand reopening on Friday,” I say. “And that’s why there’s no way this can work. You and I will never be able to work out a fair schedule.”
“I guess maybe you’re right,” Lana says. “It’s sad, really. Aunt May is so desperate for me to hang out with you. She’s tried bribing me with other things, you know. Gift cards, facials . . . she even offered to buy me the pet hedgehog I’ve always wanted.”
“Always wanted? When did you decide a prickly rodent would make a good pet? And wait . . . you’re saying Aunt May has been giving you incentives to hang out with me and you still haven’t done it?”
Lana says, “Sorry, I didn’t want you to find out.”
“You literally just told me.”
“You deserved to know.” Lana pretends to check her perfect nails a moment before giving me a look of pity.
“Well, I haven’t really had time to hang out with you anyway,” I say. “Jake and I have been busy day and night getting the Starlight ready.”
“Who’s Jake?” she asks, suspiciously.
“Just my friend Jake,” I say, but this time I hear what she must’ve heard the first time I said his name. A certain richness to the A sound that only someone who really knows me would notice.
“Right. Friend.” Lana moves back out of my personal space, thankfully sitting on the couch opposite my favorite groove.
“What do you know about friends?” I say. “Jake and I have been working together to save the drive-in, and a lot is hinging on a successful reopening.”
“Well, Digifest will basically determine my whole career and future,” Lana says. “I’ll be doing a VIP meet and greet, performing an original song, and hopefully attracting a slew of new followers. It’s the kind of thing that can cement my Norealique affiliation and possibly even get me a book deal.”
“Well, good luck then,” I say. “I guess sharing a pink Skylark just wasn’t meant to be.”
“Come on, Ricki.” Lana sounds enraged. “You are so super stubborn.”
I shake my head. “I don’t really care if Aunt May wants to give you the car. I’m not going to lie to her.”
Lana pauses. “Do you know how at the end of my videos I always say, ‘Be beautiful . . . to each other’?”
“Yes,” I say. “The perfect phony tagline for your perfectly phony show.”
She gives me a Lana Pout™. “Why did you and I stop being beautiful to each other?”
Which is an infuriating question, coming from her. “You know why!” I say. “You left me flat! Out of the blue, you wouldn’t even return my text messages—who does that to their own cousin?” Inwardly, I lash out, You were my best friend, Lana! but I tighten my fists and pull back my rage.
She growls and stands up again. “Ricki, I need that convertible to be mine.”
“I thought it was going to be our convertible,” I mock.
Lana lunges and pushes me hard enough that my back slams against the wall.
She’s strong, but I’m angry. I shove her back and my height/weight advantage sends her reeling backward with pinwheeling arms.
“Oh, it’s on!” Lana flies at me again, this time with even more momentum.
I close my eyes and brace for impact, but she suddenly pulls back mid body strike. She twists so her shoulder bumps into my left boob, barely hard enough to make me grunt. Does Lana finally realize she should feel bad for ditching me?
Then I hear the real reason Lana held back: the approach of tiny claws clicking on the floor.
My mom comes into the room, shaking her head. “I can’t believe May is serious about this whole thing.” Zelda walks neatly beside her and perks up at the sight of Lana and me glaring at each other. As if Evil Z can sense the threat of violence and she likes it.
A huge grin bounces back on Lana’s face and ricochets to my mom.
“It will be just like old times.” Lana dramatically pulls her phone back out and hits the button to show her current home screen. It’s a photo of Lana and me, side by side in the little motorized pink Jeep we shared when we were five. We’re laughing in the photo, and our dark and light hair swirls together as we hold up pool noodles like swords.
Of course, Lana’s driving.
She flings both her arms around me now, and I almost have to use my fingers to stop my eyeballs from rolling at this whole display.
But Mom looks misty.
“Where did you even find that picture?” I pull away.
Lana grins. “You used to say we were just like sisters, but without all the drama of sharing the same parents.”
“No, you used to say that.” I say. “I always said we were more like sisters who got into way more trouble together than we ever did on our own.”
She laughs and nods like she’s thinking of one of our funny antics.
I add, “Except that sisters are always there for each other and we both know that didn’t happen with us.” I close my eyes to stop myself from tearing up.
When I op
en them again Lana’s face has fallen and Mom is giving me a stern glare. Of course, she can’t see how phony Lana is acting—or realize just how terrible her sweet Glam Girl niece can be.
“Ricki,” Mom says. “What has gotten into you?”
Of course, I’m the bad guy here. I’m always seen as the bad one. “It’s just . . . Come on, Mom. Lana and I haven’t been like sisters in a really long time.”
Lana says, “But now Aunt May would like to fix our sisterhood with an amazing cotton-candy pink, vintage Skylark convertible.”
“Aunt May has always been pretty delusional,” I tell her.
Mom nods in agreement even as her face turns red and she says, “Ricki Marie Pumadero! You apologize to your cousin right now.”
Lana stands up from the couch and punches her fists onto both hips in a stance of victory. My eye is drawn to the gauzy white top she’s left on the couch and something in me snaps.
“Really, Mom? You think I’m the one who should apologize?” I say. “I’m so sick of everyone acting as if Lana is perfect when she’s the one who dumped our relationship in the garbage.”
Mom scowls. “That’s enough, Ricki.”
Zelda snarls at me threateningly, like she needs to prove she’s on Mom and Lana’s side.
Lana puts a hand on my mom’s arm. “It’s okay, Aunt June. I guess my big success has just been too much for Ricki. We all know she struggles with jealousy.”
“Jealousy?” I shout before I can grab the emergency valve on my rage. “Gee, Lana, you’re right. I guess I’m just really jealous of your fake life and your fake relationships and your fake face. Everything about you has turned fake, fake, fake!”
“Stop this,” Mom says firmly. “Ricki, I can’t believe you can’t get along with Lana well enough to share an incredibly generous gift from your aunt May.”
Lana sits again, and Zelda chooses her lap over my mother’s. Of course. The evil dog is naturally drawn to any source of aggression.
Lana looks back and forth between me and my mother while Zelda imitates her movements. I can’t tell what either one of them is thinking, but I know them both well enough to know it’s not good.
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