Saturday night comes fast, and we find ourselves holed up in Seeley’s room, where she’s trying on about ten thousand outfits that, as usual, all look great. Downstairs, her mother is talking loudly on the phone, arguing with one of the doctors in charge of caring for Seeley’s grandma. Grandma Bobby isn’t doing well, and it’s got the whole family worried and on edge. I’m doing everything I can right now to keep Seeley’s mind off it.
“I don’t know about this one.” Seeley is looking at herself in the mirror with a frown. She’s tugging at the bottom of her shirt like she wants to hide behind it, which is hilarious because Seeley has the kind of body most girls would kill for.
“Stop, you look great.” I hop off her bed and cross to where she’s standing, making a face at her in the mirror as I grab some lipstick off her vanity. Lips are kind of my favorite thing.
“Not the red one,” she says, turning to face me.
“Sorry.” I throw it back on the table. I don’t even know why she has it; Seeley can’t stand red lipstick. It reminds her too much of Carrie from history class, whom Seeley has hated since the fifth grade, when Carrie told everybody that Seeley smelled like old cheese. It wasn’t true, of course. Seeley always smells amazing, like strawberries and expensive shampoo, but Carrie is a total jerk. And, for some reason, when Carrie McCreedy tells the whole world that you smell like cheese, the whole world tends to listen. Well, at least the whole fifth-grade world, and really what world is there outside of the classroom at that age anyway?
But I digress.
No red lipstick, then, absolutely not.
I look over the options, grinning when I see the perfect choice. I slide it into the palm of my hand and hold it out to her like an offering. It’s the extra-shiny handmade pink gloss from the shop in town. It makes anybody who wears it look totally kissable, which I figure is exactly what she needs tonight.
She nods, and I unscrew the cap, tilting her chin up and leaning in close to run it over her lips. Seeley shuts her eyes as I set to work, and my belly flutters a little. She looks so pretty tonight, Angie’s not going to know what hit her. Her eyes open, and she breaks out in a huge grin as she admires my work. I set down the lip gloss and pass Seeley the mascara, raising my eyebrows when she hesitates.
“One more coat,” I say, which is strange because, as good as I am with lips, eye makeup is totally her specialty. Seeley has the best eye makeup of anyone I’ve ever seen, in the entire history of ever. She must be super nervous to be this far off her game.
Seeley unscrews the wand, and her mouth pops open in a little O as she wiggles it up her lashes. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“Obviously.” I cross my arms and lean against the wall, waiting for her to finish up. The second she does, I grab her by her shoulders and shake her until she laughs.
“Stop!” she says, but her eyes crinkle the way they only do when she’s really happy. It barely lasts for a second, though, before she’s back to that same freaked-out expression she’s had all afternoon.
“Seeley, this isn’t just a good idea, this is a great idea! Angie is literally perfect for you. Come on!”
“I just don’t need another person to avoid at work if this doesn’t work out. You know?”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “No one is saying you have to make her your girlfriend, seriously. But you guys do have a lot in common, and I think blowing her off would be a mistake. Worst-case scenario, you go out, don’t hit it off, and decide to just be friends; same as you are now. Best-case scenario, you end up getting married and living happily ever after. In which case, I should definitely get a cut of whatever money you collect at the wedding reception.”
She smiles like she can’t help it. “Such a schemer.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and rock up on the balls of my feet. “It’s what I do best.”
“It’s really not, Lou, but whatever you say.”
“All right, maybe hoping for some joyful excitement is a bit of a stretch, but can we at least aim for cautiously optimistic tonight?” I hold up two perfume bottles and wait for her to pick.
She sighs, grabbing one out of my hand and looking back in the mirror. “Fine, cautiously optimistic,” she says. “I can handle that.”
“Yay,” I squeak, snatching my phone off the bed to check the time. “Okay, you have to pick her up in like twenty minutes. You look amazing, she’s gonna love you, ask her about Superman, draw her a picture on a napkin, smile a lot because you know you totally have resting bit—”
Seeley twists around fast and presses her finger to my lips. “Lou, please stop talking.”
“Sorry,” I mumble from beneath her hand.
She drops her arm. “I have done this before, you know?”
I pull out my hair tie and then shove my hair back into a fresh ponytail. “I know, I know, I just want it to go well.”
“Why are you so worried about it?”
“Because a) you are way too amazing to be sitting around moping over Sara, and b) at least one of us should be having the best time ever, and if it’s not gonna be me—”
“Oh my god,” Seeley snorts. “Do not get all mopey on me.”
“I can be as mopey as I want. My summer is a mess,” I say with an exaggerated sigh. “And, insult to injury, I didn’t even get a cannoli out of it.” I smirk when I say that, because I don’t really want to bring her down or anything.
Seeley rolls her eyes and kind of shoves my face a little with her hand as she walks by. “You heading home now?”
I shrug. “I don’t exactly have anything better to do. My hot date is probably on his own hot date with his actual girlfriend.”
“We have got to get you over that boy. Anybody else catch your eye lately? Anybody at all?”
I shake my head, swiping some lip gloss on my own lips and admiring them in the mirror. I look pretty okay right now, actually. I mean, I’m definitely capable of cuteness—I can objectively recognize that my lips are fantastic and my nose isn’t half bad either—but on a sliding scale where someone like Seeley is a ten . . . well, you know.
“Lou?” she says, interrupting my train of thought.
“No way. Nobody. All the rest of the boys are doofy, and everybody else is either taken, straight, or in love with you.” I make some kissy faces at her in the mirror and then spin back around to face her.
“That’s not true.”
I pinch my fingers together and squint my eyes. “It’s a little bit true.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“And you’re almost late,” I say, marching her to the front door. Her mother is mercifully off the phone and nowhere to be found. The last thing Seeley needs is to be worrying about her mom and Grandma Bobby on this date.
We pause when we get to our cars, and she raises her eyebrows like she’s waiting for me to say something. “Go!” I laugh. “And don’t forget to text me when you get back. I want all the details!”
“Fine.” And yeah, maybe it comes out like a whine, but she’s totally grinning and I’m glad. If anybody deserves whatever tiny drop of awesomeness this town can muster up, it’s her.
My dad is in his room when I get home, which is nice because usually when we both end up home without Seeley I get stuck watching hours of American Pickers reruns with him. I yell a quick “Hey, Dad” on my way to my room but then bolt inside and shut my door before he can chase me down. It’s not that I don’t like hanging out with him, I do, but not tonight. Tonight’s for plotting my next move to get this summer back on track.
Or rather, it was supposed to be. But then my dad knocks on my door a little while later, and all my plans and schemes fall to the wayside when I see his face. I can already guess what’s coming.
“We got another postcard from your mom,” he says, each word pronounced carefully, deliberately, controlled. He shifts slightly so he can look at me, and I swallow hard. Just because I guessed it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still feel like a sucker punch.
He pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to me. It’s slightly curved and a little bit warm, and I wonder how long he’s been walking around with it pressed against his thigh. I know how much he misses her, even if he thinks I don’t. I stare down at the picture of the palm tree on the front, the words “Wish you were here!” scribbled across it in cheerful pink letters, scoffing before I can catch myself.
“Did you read it?” I ask.
Dad rubs his hand over the back of his neck and looks down, so that’s a yes.
Mom sends us postcards every few months, pretending like she’s on vacation or something. I don’t know why, she just always has. She likes to ask questions in them too, like there’s some way for us to respond, even though she never includes a return address. I hate that I still get excited when one shows up, even though I’m guaranteed to feel like shit after reading it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“It’s fine,” I say, mustering up a smile I hope doesn’t look too fake. “It’s another postcard. It’s not a big deal.”
“Elouise—”
“It’s fine, Dad, I swear,” I lie, pushing him back a little so I can shut my door.
“Okay. I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”
“Go. Please. Watch TV or something. Relax,” I say, widening my eyes at him. “I’m not worried about it. I have a bunch of other stuff to do tonight.” I don’t, though. Well, I mean I do, but I know I won’t go back to it.
Instead, I wait for my dad to go downstairs and then I turn on some loud music and settle onto the bed, flipping the card around in my hand and psyching myself up to read it. I set it down a little bit in front of me, smoothing it until the edges don’t curl up as much anymore.
I’m not procrastinating really, just . . . taking my time.
She wrote in blue ink this time, remarkable only because her last four have been written in black. I wonder if this was a deliberate choice or if she just grabbed whatever pen was nearby. I wonder if she puts as much thought into writing them as I put into deciphering them.
I slide it closer, my eyes tracing over her handwriting, memorizing the way her letters curve and slant to make my name. I catalog exactly where she lifted the pen at the end of each word and note the small smudge of ink on the upper left-hand side. The postmark in the opposite corner says Miami, but the last one from six months ago was from Atlanta. Her writing slants upward in the usual way, her letters average instead of tiny or large, like she’s not worried about filling extra space or fitting more in. I used to like the steadiness of that, but now it bothers me.
Okay.
Deep breath.
Read.
Dear Elouise,
I hope your summer is off to a great start. How did you do last year? I hope you are keeping your grades up. Only one year left of high school! How does it feel?
I saw a lovely shade of lipstick at the store today. It reminded me of that raincoat you used to wear when you were little. Do you remember the one? You never took it off! I bought three tubes of it and plan to wear it whenever I miss you.
Xoxoxo,
Mom
I set the postcard down on the bed and stare at myself in the mirror. Suddenly, I want it off, all of it. The lip gloss, the makeup. Every bit of it learned from Seeley and YouTube and other mothers because mine wasn’t there to teach me. Mine was too busy buying her own lipstick in Miami and doing god knows what in Atlanta. I shove the postcard under my mattress and race to the bathroom, scrubbing my face until my skin turns pink.
When I open the bathroom door, my father is in the hallway, waiting. He gives me a sad little smile and wraps me in a hug. I burrow in without a word, nodding when he asks me if I want to watch some TV.