by Delia Ephron
Already, within seconds of seeing her, Sukie felt more sorry for her mom than she did for herself.
“Oh yes, I also got that cake you love, the yellow with the pink frosting. I might even have some.”
There would be no apology, Sukie realized. Flowers, tacos, and cake were the closest her mother could come.
It was a perfect time to break the news. Her mom was vulnerable. She was feeling guilty, albeit without the courage or grace to meet the problem head-on, nevertheless she was trying to inch into Sukie’s good graces while overwhelmed with her own marital problems. She’d never have the energy or inclination now to pitch a fit, and Sukie did not have the tiniest twinge of guilt in taking advantage of that.
“Grandmother’s mirror,” said Sukie. “I’ve been meaning to show you.”
She walked into the bathroom. Her mother followed.
“Oh, dear,” her mom said as she and Sukie beheld their distorted reflections in the splintered glass. “It’s literally gone to pieces. I’ve never heard of anything like this, of a mirror disintegrating like a natural disaster. I’ve seen spots on old mirrors, mottling like the skin on old people’s hands, but this? It has to go.”
“Does it?” said Sukie.
The mirror had reflected every turn her mind took, every anxiety, every wish, every vanity, and it had cracked under the strain, she had no doubt about it. For good and bad it reflected her soul, and that made it, in some true way, a living thing.
How could she get rid of it?
She was even frightened to get rid of it.
How could she keep it?
“Should we save the frame?” said her mom. “Or see if an antique dealer wants it? Is it actually silver? It could be pewter or even steel. Maybe we should simply cart it to the sidewalk and let the garbage men take it.” Her mom rubbed her back against the doorjamb. “I have an itch and I’m practicing for when I’m alone. I mean if your dad and I don’t…” She faltered. “Well, it’s not a big problem, it’s just I’ve been thinking about all of it, large and small.”
“Maybe Señor could learn to scratch you. He’s good at scratching himself.”
They smiled and, in the broken mirror, four broken smiles came back at them.
Her mother stroked the frame. “It’s useless now.”
“Which means…,” said Sukie. “Do you know what that means?”
“What?”
“It’s art.”
Art
“FRANNIE’S here,” called Sukie’s mom.
Sukie stuck her head over the banister and waved her up.
“Where is this thing?” said Frannie as Sukie’s phone rang.
“Here, this way, in the bathroom. Hello. It’s Jenna,” she told Frannie. “She’s parking. She’s getting out of the car, she’s walking up the front walk, she’s ringing the doorbell.”
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Jenna, for me,” called Sukie.
“Hi,” said Jenna, walking in and shrugging off her parka. “Sukie’s expecting me.”
“Well, sure.” Her mom was smiling as widely as her face work could ever permit. “Go right on up.”
Sukie and Frannie lifted the mirror off the bathroom wall and, with Jenna directing and Mikey and Señor getting in the way, carried it into Sukie’s bedroom and laid it on a large piece of plastic spread over the carpet.
Sukie banged the tin of metal polish and pried off the top. “I figure we have to polish the frame.”
“We could distress it too,” said Frannie.
“What does that mean?” asked Sukie.
“After you shine it, you buff it with steel wool. It makes for a great effect.”
“Let’s definitely do that.” Sukie handed out special soft polishing cloths and read the directions aloud. “Rub gently.”
They flopped on the floor and got to work.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Sukie. “We can’t hang it in the bathroom again, because then it’s still just a mirror. Environment is important.”
“That is so true,” said Frannie, “especially with art.”
“And it shouldn’t be vertical because that’s also its normal way of being. Diagonal would be cool, but impossible to hang, so horizontal.” Sukie was bubbling with originality. “And over there, that’s where it goes.” She pointed to the wall above her desk. “By the way, do you want popcorn? Mikey will get it, won’t you?”
Mikey, draped over the bed, rolled off. “What kind do you want?” he asked.
“Just butter and salt for me,” said Sukie.
“Butter and salt, the only way,” said Frannie.
“Butter and salt,” said Jenna. “That must be why we’re all friends. James was always forcing me to have popcorn with truffle oil.” She fell silent as she rubbed more polish onto the frame, unaware that she had said the thing that Sukie had been hoping with her whole heart was true.
Until that moment she hadn’t been certain. Did Frannie and Jenna really like her or were they being kind because they felt sorry for her? Now, dropped into the conversation so casually as if it were self-evident, the fact: They were friends. Sukie finally had friends, great ones. Loyal, soulful, fun. What more could she ask?
Late that night she wrote in her journal that today was maybe the happiest of her life, and, with all that was going on with her parents, how strange was that?
She patted Señor. “In a second I’ll turn out the light, but I have to finish. Besides, you’re in it.”
Selecting a turquoise Sharpie—turquoise being, in her opinion, the color of joy—she wrote: Just as we were done distressing the frame, Simon arrived. Señor, who observes all newcomers from afar, bolted down the stairs and danced around Simon. Simon dropped right down on the marble floor—Mom nearly had kittens—and they rolled around together. Simon turns out to be the only person in the world around whom Señor behaves like a dog.
After we agreed that the placement was perfect, and that really did take time and patience, Simon banged a nail into the wall and hung the mirror. Frannie, Jenna, and I jumped on the bed. That way we were all tall enough to greet our reflections. Jenna demonstrated ballet moves while the mirror fractured them. We swayed and watched ourselves crack into pieces, our eyes multiply, our legs split, our arms separate from our bodies, our hair appear to float. All in all, it was thrilling.
Sukie closed her journal and tucked it into the drawer in her bedside table, thinking that she’d find a serious hiding place tomorrow. She clicked off the light.
“Good night, Señor.” She kissed his wet nose, pulled up the covers, and, comfortably squished into the sliver of space that the dog allotted her, fell instantly asleep.
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t have written this book without Maia Harari’s remarkable research or without the frankness, honesty, and generosity of Jane Weiss. I can never write any book without the emotional wisdom of my husband, Jerome Kass, or the guidance of my close friend Lorraine Bodger. Jill Santopolo, my editor, has my deepest gratitude for her talent and sensitivity. Her contribution was essential and so appreciated, and she makes everything more fun, which is no small thing. Working with her is a joy.
About the Author
DELIA EPHRON is a critically acclaimed novelist and screenwriter. Her most recent book, FRANNIE IN PIECES, received four starred reviews, was a Book Sense Pick, and was named to the New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age list. She is also the author of BIG CITY EYES, HANGING UP, and HOW TO EAT LIKE A CHILD. Her screenwriting credits include The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, You’ve Got Mail, Bewitched, Hanging Up, and Michael. She lives in New York City with her husband and their dog, Honey Pansy Cornflower Bernice Mambo Kass. You can visit her online at www.deliaephron.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
ALSO BY DELIA EPHRON
Frannie in Pieces
How to Eat Like a Child:
And Other Lessons in Not Being a Gr
own-up
Teenage Romance:
Or How to Die of Embarrassment
Credits
Jacket art © 2010 Dennis Hallinan /(re)view/Jupiterimages
Jacket design by Carla Weise
Copyright
THE GIRL WITH THE MERMAID HAIR. Copyright © 2010 by Delia Ephron. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ephron, Delia.
The girl with the mermaid hair / Delia Ephron.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: A teenaged girl is obsessed with beauty and perfection until she uncovers a devastating family secret.
ISBN 978-0-06-154260-2 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-154261-9 (lib. bdg.)
[1. Beauty, Personal—Fiction. 2. Perfectionism (Personality trait)—Fiction. 3. Pride and vanity—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.E7246Gj 2010 2009003061
[Fic]—dc22 CIP
AC
EPub Edition © November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-06-199058-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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