by Robin Palmer
“So when you lived in California, did you get to meet movie stars and stuff?” Lexi asked. She turned to me. “That’s where most of them live,” she explained, as if I lived under a rock.
“We didn’t live in Los Angeles. We lived up north near San Francisco,” Kayley replied.
“There’s movie stars up there, too,” Cassie said.
“So did you meet any?” Lexi asked again.
“Well, no,” Cassie admitted. “But my best friend was on vacation in New York City last year, and she saw Taylor Swift walking her dog.”
“Wow,” I said. “Taylor’s awesome. She’s the first Instagram I check in the morning.”
“She’s okay,” Cassie said, with a shrug.
I just couldn’t win. If I had said I didn’t really like Taylor, I bet Cassie would have said she was her favorite singer ever.
“So we need to focus on the something-old thing,” she said.
I nodded. “I know you don’t like thrift stores, but there’s one right across the street that has some cool stuff, so I was thinking maybe we could check it out.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
Timeless Treasures was my favorite store on Main Street. One of the things that was neat about it was that they had special sections labeled SIXTIES, SEVENTIES, EIGHTIES, and NINETIES. I liked the stuff from the seventies the best. But they also had a big selection of jewelry and accessories, which was where Cassie and I started looking, while Kayley, Lexi, and Sammi poked around in the clothes.
“What do you think about this?” I asked, holding up a thin silver necklace with a butterfly. I loved butterflies. They were all over my room. I once even had a quilt that was covered with them. “Butterflies are good luck.” I wasn’t quite sure about that, but it sounded good.
The look on her face was enough to let me know it was a no. “Okay, then. I guess it’s a no.” Maybe we could just each get Lana something old separately so we didn’t have to deal with each other.
Cassie walked over to the seventies rack and started flipping through it. “So you actually wear stuff from here?”
I joined her. “Yeah. All the time.” As I went through the clothes, I came upon a paisley blouse and plucked it off the rack. I then moved over to where the jeans were. “What size jeans do you wear?”
“Twenty-five. Why?” she said suspiciously.
My eyes brightened. “Perfect.” I did too, so I had a good sense of what was in that section. As I flipped through there, I found them—a pair of dark denim bell-bottoms that had an O on one back pocket and a K on the other. I had been stalking them for weeks. I picked them up and turned to Cassie. “Try these on,” I ordered, handing her the jeans and the blouse.
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully.
“There was a photo on Instagram last week of Taylor Swift wearing an outfit almost exactly like this,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true. I had seen a photo of her in bell-bottoms at one point, but it might have been a year ago. And she wore lots of blouses, but I wasn’t sure any of them were actually paisley. That being said, I knew that this particular outfit was a great combination, because I had tried it on myself.
She walked over and took it from me. “Fine. But I’m trying it on because I like it. Not because I want to dress like a celebrity or anything.”
As she changed in the dressing room, Lexi came up to me. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “You’ve been saving up to buy that outfit.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So by telling her to try it on, you’re pretty much giving her permission to buy it.”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” I replied. But that was a lie. The truth was, even though Cassie was continuing to be a jerk to me, I still wanted her to like me. I hated admitting that, because it made me look stupid, but it was true. It was like I couldn’t help myself. And it wasn’t all about wanting her to like me. It also had do to with my dad and Lana—wanting things to be easier for them.
But even though I didn’t say that to Lexi, she already knew because we were best friends. Which made the look she gave me—kind of like the one you give your cat when she throws up on your favorite sweater, one of total disappointment—that much more difficult to swallow.
Just then the curtain opened and Cassie walked out.
“Wow, that looks awesome on you,” Lexi said. She turned to me. “I actually think I like it better on her than you,” she whispered.
“Gee, thanks,” I said. I hated to admit it, but it did look a lot better on her than it did on me. Luckily, Lexi decided to go take a peek at the shoes. As Cassie stood in front of the mirror looking at herself from all angles, I waited. Finally I couldn’t control myself. “What do you think?” I asked.
“I think . . . it’s . . . interesting.”
Okay, “interesting” wasn’t “Oh my gosh, Avery, you have crazy-great taste and I want you to be my personal shopper,” but it would do.
I walked over to where the purses were and grabbed a brown suede one with fringe. I had a similar one at home. “Here—try this with it,” I said as I handed it to her.
She put it on her shoulder and turned toward the mirror. She nodded slowly. “This could work.”
This could work? It made the outfit! “Okay, well, thanks for trying it on,” I said. “I’m going to go look at the cowboy boots with Lexi.”
To say that I was surprised when I saw Cassie bring the outfit and the bag up to the counter to buy them when she came out of the dressing room was an understatement. I joined her at the counter but didn’t say anything.
As the woman handed her a bag with all of her new finds tucked inside, Cassie turned to me. “I think it’s time to go back and meet my mom.”
“Yeah.”
I turned to head toward the door.
“You have good taste.”
She said it so quietly that someone who didn’t have supersonic hearing like I did probably would have missed it.
“Thanks,” I said with a small smile.
Maybe there was hope after all.
Eight
One of the things I loved most about my mom was how friendly she was. While she might not have been like Lexi’s mom with stray animals, she was definitely a fan of stray people. (“There’s no such thing as strangers, Avery. Only new friends you haven’t met yet.”) On Thanksgiving and Christmas our house was filled with people who weren’t spending it with their families. Mom loved to entertain, and even though she couldn’t cook, she was great at picking out foods at Trader Joe’s. I didn’t know if other kids had things like baba ghanoush and baked ziti and cucumber soup for Thanksgiving, but I did.
“I was thinking it’s been a while since we had people over for dinner,” she said a few mornings later after I came downstairs for breakfast. She was at the table with the coffee mug I had given her for Mother’s Day that year—the one that said “One Sip at a Time.” I knew she had to be on her second cup because she never started conversations before then.
“That would be fun,” I said as I reached for the loaf of raisin bread we had gotten at the farmers’ market a few days before. I loved raisin bread. Especially this one because it was so cinnamony and gooey that you didn’t even have to put any butter on it, but I always put apple butter on it anyway. That way I could say I had had two servings of fruit for breakfast. “Who are you going to invite? Rachel and Ibrahim?” Rachel was also a professor and a good friend of Mom’s. Her boyfriend was this guy named Ibrahim, who was originally from Egypt but had grown up mostly in Paris, so he had a French accent.
“No. I was thinking . . . some new people,” she said as she tore off a piece of my bread when I joined her at the table.
“That couple you met at the food co-op during your shift last week?” I asked. “The ones who just moved here from Vermont?” If you were a member of the co-op, you could volunteer to work there and get discounts. I think Mom did it more because she liked talking to people than because she wanted to save money.
/> “Nope. But I would like to have them over at some point,” she said. “I was thinking . . . your dad and Lana and the girls.”
I stopped midbite. “For real?”
“Yes, for real,” she said. “You’re about to drip apple butter all over you.”
I gulped down the toast so that wouldn’t happen. I was wearing my favorite T-shirt—one of Mom’s that she had gotten at a Billy Idol concert in the eighties—and it had been washed so many times that I was afraid it would fall apart the next time it came out of the dryer. “But . . . why?” I asked after my mouth was no longer full.
“Why?” she repeated. “It’s more like ‘Why not?’ They’re your new family, and I’d like to get to know them better.”
My stomach did a flip-flop at the word “family.” Even though we were planning a wedding, I almost kept forgetting that things weren’t going to end there. That the wedding was just the beginning . . . of the rest of my life being attached to these people. Which, when I thought about it, freaked me out. Which was why I didn’t let myself think about it unless it was pointed out to me. Like, say, now.
“Plus, you were complaining about how uncomfortable you felt in their house—maybe things will feel different when you have them in yours,” she went on. “They can see more of who you are.”
I looked out the kitchen into the living room, taking it in not as the person who lived here, but as a stranger. Mismatched overstuffed chairs that were fraying at the arms. A couch that we called the Leaning Sofa of New York because two of the legs were shorter than the others, so it slanted downward. A bunch of different Moroccan-style rugs that we had found at yard sales or on eBay. Lots of dust bunnies because Mom hated to sweep and I had inherited that dislike from her. Personally, I loved our house. It wasn’t big, and it wasn’t fancy, but it was completely us: definitely not matchy-matchy, not stuck up, and a little off center, but not so much that it didn’t work.
It was the complete opposite of my dad and Lana’s place.
And, in a way, a complete opposite of them.
“So what do you think? Do you think it’s a good idea?”
I looked at her. I wanted to tell her that it was a HORRIBLE idea. But she looked so hopeful. Like Lexi, when I was slowing down on my ice cream and she thought maybe I was done with it and she could have it.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I lied.
“Plus, I’ve been looking for an excuse to cook.”
Okay, that? Not a good idea.
* * *
On Friday afternoon I found myself in front of my closet, throwing in there everything I didn’t want the BBs to see, before dragging the slipcovered armchair that was supposed to be used for reading, but instead was used as a place to put my clothes when I was feeling too lazy to put them away, in front of it.
“But don’t you need to get in your closet to get something out to wear tonight?” Lexi asked from over on the bed. The bed that she was supposed to be making but was instead lying on with her head hanging off the foot of it, almost touching the floor.
I stopped pushing the chair. “Oh yeah,” I panted. “I didn’t think about that.” I dragged the chair back and plopped down into it.
“What are you going to wear?” she asked.
“Well, I was thinking—”
“I think you should wear your denim skirt with your red cowboy boots and the navy shirt with the embroidered sleeves you got at Forever 21 in the spring.”
I thought about it. “That could work. But I was—”
“Oh! Oh! Wait! I have a better idea!” she shouted. “Your capri jeans with your lilac tank with a white shirt over it tied at the stomach.”
This could go on for hours if I didn’t put an end to it. “I’m wearing that purple tank dress I got a few weeks ago with my white braided belt and black sandals.” All of which were in the closet.
She gasped. “That’s exactly what I was going to say next! Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asked as I began yanking off my clothes.
“Well, I mean, of course I want you to stay,” I half lied as I pulled on the dress. “It’s just that my mom says it’s a family thing.”
Lexi pouted. “But I’m family too.”
“I know that, and you know that, but I don’t think my dad does.” The truth was that as much as I considered Lexi family, I was already nervous enough about what I might say tonight, let alone having to worry about what she said.
I put on my belt and shoes. “How’s this?”
She walked around me with her hand in her chin like she was judging a contest at a county fair. Finally she nodded. “It looks good.”
“Great.” I smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I know,” she said as she turned to go. “Don’t forget to send me texts during dinner!”
“Okay.” That I could do. Setting up my iPhone so it faced the dinner table while I FaceTimed her so she could watch it in real time (her other idea) was not going to happen.
I was in the process of getting my necklace just right (a choker I had made that was a leather cord with turquoise stones tied to either end) when Mom popped her head in.
“You look beautiful, honey,” she said.
I turned. So did she. She was wearing my favorite red-and-blue-print Indian dress, and she had her hair up in a messy bun. “You do too.”
“Really? Are you sure this is okay?” she asked.
“Mom, are you nervous?” I asked.
“What? No. Of course not,” she laughed. Nervously. “Why would I be nervous? I mean, it’s just dinner. With your father. And his fiancée. And her three girls.” Her shoulders sagged. “Okay, fine—I’m a little nervous. But it’s okay. It’ll be fine. Well, as long as I don’t burn the dinner,” she joked. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh my gosh. The ziti!” she yelped. She ran downstairs, and I followed.
She had decided on baked ziti after finding a recipe called Foolproof Ziti for Dummies. Our kitchen was always kind of messy, but it rarely had smoke in it, which it did when we got there.
We looked at each other.
“Maybe it’s not burned,” I suggested hopefully. “Maybe it’s just at the point where the cheese is really, really gooey.”
Mom sighed as she bravely made her way toward the stove. “You’re the best daughter in the world for always putting a positive spin on things, but even I know the chances of that being the case are about as likely as me going a day without coffee.”
As she went to open the oven door, I ran up behind her and put my hands on her shoulders for moral support.
She turned her head. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
With a deep breath she opened the oven, and the kitchen immediately became twice as smoky.
“Get the fire extinguisher!” she yelled over the angry beeping of the smoke alarm.
“We don’t have one!” I yelled back. “And they don’t get rid of smoke anyway!”
She ran around the kitchen opening the windows. “Good point!”
After we had opened every window downstairs and could see each other again, we stood in front of the ziti pan to examine the corpse. Every inch of it was charred.
“I don’t understand,” Mom said, holding the printed-out recipe. “The recipe says thirty-five minutes at four hundred fifty degrees.”
I took it from her. “Nope. It says forty-five minutes at three hundred fifty degrees.”
Mom grabbed it and squinted as she held it close to her face. “Oh. I guess that’s what I get for not wearing my glasses.”
I looked at the clock. Dad, Lana, and the girls were due to arrive in twenty minutes. “So what are we going to do?”
Mom thought about it. “I have an idea.”
* * *
An hour later the seven of us were sitting around the living room, smiling at one another awkwardly.
“The pizza should be here any minute,” Mom said.
Dad nodded. “Great, great. I’m starved.”
&
nbsp; She looked at the BBs. “And I promise you—it’s definitely worth the wait.” She turned to me. “Right, honey?”
“Oh yeah. It’s the best in town,” I agreed. “Maybe even in, like, five towns.” But I was so nervous that I was both hungry and nauseous at the same time, with the nauseous feeling winning, which was probably going to stop me from eating.
Mom popped up from her seat. “I’m going to get us some more appetizers!”
“Monica, we’re fine—” Dad started to say.
“Be right back!” she trilled as she ran out of the room.
She returned a moment later with a bag of potato chips and poured them into the bowl, on top of the tortilla chip crumbs we had been snacking on. I hoped this was the new bag and not the one that was a year old and therefore probably stale. She pushed the bowl toward the BBs. “Please. Have some.”
I saw Lana give them a nudging nod, much like the kind Mom gave me when we were visiting my grandparents and my grandmother offered me some of her “world-famous” liver. I’m not sure what world she was talking about, but it had to be one where there weren’t a lot of people, because that stuff was nasty.