8

MOST KIDS GO TO BIRTHDAY PARTIES, SWIMMING pools, or parks on special Saturdays. I go to tablescaping competitions held at various convention centers and county fairgrounds. Rules vary slightly from one competition to the next, but normally there are three divisions: Youth, General, and Expert. Even though any table could win Best in Show, they almost always come from the Expert Division, and they almost always go to one person. That person is not my mom.

Lorna Diamond wears sequined blazers and wins nearly every single time—normally with a perfect score. Mom’s only beaten her once in four years, and that was when Lorna had the stomach flu. Not long after her most recent loss to Lorna, Mom bought the book Winning Isn’t Everything. But I’m pretty sure she hasn’t read it yet.

Mom wipes down every inch of her table with pale blue glass cleaner and a microfiber cloth. We both wear these special white gloves. In her first competition she had points deducted for a fingerprint on a knife and has never gotten over it.

We unpack the suitcases, open the boxes, and organize all the supplies on the floor. “Mabel, would you polish the glass marbles again?” Mom swipes a lint roller over all the linens.

Her theme is Frozen Wonderland, and she’s made a centerpiece of huge, fake evergreen branches spray-painted silver, coated in glitter, and dotted with pearls, like solid dew drops. They’ll be in a vase filled with glass marbles. But what Mom calls her “showstopper” is a small tree that’ll sit on the back edge; it’s a wide artificial cedar about three feet tall, flocked in a thick blanket of fake snow that looks a little too much like shaving cream. The whole table is peppered with silver pinecones.

Every single item is brand spanking new and looks it.

Mom won’t upcycle for her tables. So far, she’s passed on a whole crate of vintage milk bottles, a near-perfect pair of jadeite candlesticks, and an antique brass birdcage—all spot-on centerpiece material in my opinion. She says it’s because she’s scored on the condition of the items, and she can’t risk being marked down for wear and tear. But my guess is, it has more to do with Grampa and how much she hates his collections.

Mom takes a deep breath. “With all that’s going on with your grampa, it’s been hard to keep my head in the game, but I think we really have a chance this time.” She points to the bag of marbles and the cloth I’m supposed to be using to clean them. I know “we” doesn’t really include me.

“Time for the tables to turn.” Mom winks at me.

I help unfold Mom’s tablecloth. It’s almost sheer but also slightly shiny, like thickly woven spiderwebs. My job is to hold it up while she applies a thick mist of aerosol hair spray to prevent any static cling. By the time she’s done, I’m coughing, and my eyes burn. This is going to be a dud day for sure.

“Thank you, hon.” Mom carefully takes the corners from me. She’s already steamed it twice to get rid of the fold lines.

I scan the room. The theme is Wander in Wonderland. There are four Alice in Wonderland tables, a Disney Wonderland table (complete with a three-foot-tall exact replica of the Disneyland Castle done in papier-mâché), and unfortunately, another Frozen Wonderland table that caused Mom to drop a few words I can’t repeat. Not a chipped, worn-in, or worn-out thing in sight.

Mom snaps her fingers and points to the marbles again. She positions a small standing picture frame that holds her fake menu, all courses best served cold. Last year, Tamela Carter broke down in tears when she lost points for including a cheese platter but had no cheese knife as part of her table setting. The thing is, no one actually sits at the tables, much less eats there. Most of the time there aren’t even chairs.

All this stuff bought only to be set up, judged, and never used—I don’t get why Mom loves it so much. This whole room makes me think about all we don’t have in common.

As I rub each identical marble, I think of Grampa. The marbles in his collection are all different, some swirled with colors like ribbon candy, some solid but with tiny air bubbles frozen in the glass. Though I can guarantee not a one has ever been polished, they’re all loved. That’s what makes collections special, and all this stuff here… not so special.

“Done,” I say. “Can I walk around?”

Mom only nods then cranes her head this way and that, staring at the silver branches of her centerpiece like they’ve done something wrong.

I decide to go check out the other wintry wonderland table. Even from a distance, it’s easy to tell the craftmanship is Lorna Diamond’s. The glass goblets are encrusted with little rhinestones. Her tablecloth is a thick blanket of batting used to stuff quilts and plush animals but coated with an inch of fake snow; it’s all been lightly dusted with fine-grain glitter. And the showstopper is a castle made from clear resin meant to look like ice. But the very middle is empty. That’s Lorna’s signature move—to wait until the last minute to place her centerpiece. It always draws a crowd.

I look over at Mom, still inspecting her work. She steps back, flaps out her polishing cloth to get rid of any debris, and starts wiping everything down again. The room reeks of Windex and Aqua Net. I’m thinking the plates on Lorna Diamond’s table are the same strange blue as the glass cleaner when from behind me someone says, “Your mom looks a little frazzled.”

I turn and have to squint. The harsh overhead lighting glares off Lorna Diamond’s gold-sequined blazer; it’s like staring into the sun.

“Maybe she could use a hand?” Lorna flashes her teeth in a forced smile, then eyeballs her table like she suspects I might have tampered with something. In the Expert Division, participants must follow the American Standard Table Setting Rules, a bunch of detailed guidelines all focused on creating the perfect table. A slightly misplaced dessert spoon? Say goodbye to a ribbon.

“Good luck today,” I say with a big smile, then stare hard at her table just to keep her guessing.

Lorna only nods, definitely doesn’t wish me and Mom any luck, and then pulls a rolling suitcase up to the edge of her table. Mom makes a point of turning her back, ignoring the crowd slowly building around Lorna. Lorna Diamond also pretends not to notice, but I see her smile as she snaps open the latches and takes out a centerpiece made entirely of glass icicles, all different sizes jutting out here and there, like an icy sunburst. It’s beautiful.

The crowd gasps and so do I. Not at the centerpiece, but at what it’s resting in. A large pale blue vase with constellation cuts up and down the curved sides. I know that glasswork better than my multiplication facts. It’s a vintage Tiara Indiana Glass Constellation Vase in ice blue.

I’m dying to reach out, tilt up the bottom, and see if the TJ is there like the signature on the bottom of my Amberina basket. That’s not some meaningless brand-new vase. I’d bet my whole collection that it’s a heart find.

When I turn around, Mom has quit pretending not to watch. Her eyes tell me she’s thinking the same thing as me—she’s already lost.

The ride back home is long and quiet. Every time I think about meeting Jasper tomorrow, my heartbeat speeds up. Mom must feel the exact opposite.

She won second place. To Mom, second isn’t perfect, but it’s so close that it’s worse than third. Lorna Diamond winning with practically the same idea must make this loss sting even more than the others. I should say something, but I can’t think of anything helpful.

She has me, so at least she isn’t ice-olated.

Losing is snow laughing matter.

But now isn’t the time for a walk through winter punderland.

Mom pulls into a parking spot in our apartment complex, stops the car, but doesn’t get out. She touches her pearls and looks up to the second floor where the curtains she sewed block the view into our living room. “I was distracted today, but I’ve got to do better than second if I want to change things for us.” She gives me a sad smile. “Another second-place win means I’m less likely to qualify for the National Expo. Winning there would be a life changer.”

I want to tell her that until a week ago I was perfectly happy with my life, but I can’t say that. And I absolutely can’t tell her my plan. She’d say no again without giving it a single thought, just like she does to my ideas for more interesting tables.

So, I just sit there until Mom opens her door with a sigh and walks off without looking back to see if I follow.