Mrs. Wexler’s funeral was the Friday after her accident. Mom helped me buy a black dress. I let her do my hair, I didn’t just put it up in a poof like I usually do. I sat with my back against the couch as she sat above me, comb in hand, towel on my shoulders. She made two plaits on either side, milkmaid braids is what she calls them. It felt like being a little kid again, I’m just as tender-headed as I was then, but it felt kind of good too, even if it was the saddest day of my life. I guess it was that feeling of being a little girl on the rug getting my hair combed by my mom that made me tell her where I’d been eating lunch for the last three years. I took a deep breath.
“Don’t be mad,” I said, picking at the rug, “but I’ve been eating lunch in the library.”
“Mmm. For how long?” Mom didn’t know that she didn’t know everything about me.
“Since fifth grade.”
Her strong, steady hands in my hair paused. I felt her shoulders sag as she sighed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew what you’d say.”
“What’s that?”
“That I should spend more time with people and less time with books. But you don’t understand—”
“I do understand, Sparrow.” I felt the soft tug of her hands finishing a plait. “I just want you to challenge yourself.”
“I made a friend in the library.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that’s where I met Leticia.”
“That’s great, baby.”
“But I don’t think we’re friends anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to go to the funeral with her, but I don’t think she’s going.” Mom started the braid on the other side and I had to hold my ear to my shoulder for what felt like forever. “Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“Will you go with me?”
“Of course.” Her voice cracked. I knew I’d ruin my hair if I turned around to look at her, and I knew she didn’t want me to. I stared straight ahead and wondered why Mrs. Wexler’s death seemed to have Mom as upset as it had me.
That’s what I’m thinking about as I watch Mom rustling around the kitchen trying to get ready for work. She’s wearing the same dress she wore to the funeral. I’ll never wear my black dress again. Mom looks good in hers, but just seeing it makes me sad. I sip my tea and wish she would sit down and eat with me, but I know she has to get out the door. She sees me staring at her.
“What is it, Sparrow?” Mom in a rush is not the epitome of patience.
“Nothing, sorry.” I look at my tea. She sighs, and it sounds like ugh. I tell my face not to react, but I can feel my mouth pulling down at the corners anyway and my face getting hot. She turns her back as she finishes pouring a thermos full of tea and throws a granola bar into her briefcase.
“I’ll see you late,” she says. She approaches me, and I can tell she’s trying to decide if she’s going for a hug or a kiss on the cheek or what. She ends up patting my shoulder and it’s all the definition of awkward. I leave right after her for school. We could’ve left together but I don’t think either of us wanted that.