Page 218 of Wild Card 13

LUCY

THEN

My mother canceled at seven twelve.

Not six, when I still could have pretended the evening had not rearranged itself around her.

Not five thirty, when I was standing in front of my closet deciding whether dinner with the woman who had left us required a dress, jeans, or running attire.

Seven twelve.

I was already ready.

I had curled my hair loosely because she always used to say she liked it down. I had put on the pale blue blouse she bought me two birthdays ago, back when gifts still arrived wrapped carefully enough to look like proof. I had painted my nails with a color Naomi said made me look like I had my life together, which was kind of her to lie about.

Mom: Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Rain check?

I stared at the words until they stopped looking like language.

She didn’t even take the time to formulate a good excuse. Not I’m sick. Not emergency. Not can we do tomorrow.

Something.The word sat there, small and slippery and impossible to grab with both hands. Something had come up when I needed help getting ready for prom. Something had come up whenshe said she might come to graduation brunch. Something always came up, and somehow I was always expected to be reasonable about being left standing there with my hair done and my hope showing.

I typed three different responses.

It’s fine.

Don’t worry about it.

Sure.

I deleted all of them.

Then I set the phone facedown on the dresser and sat on the edge of my bed as if moving too quickly might make the room realize what had happened and become embarrassing.

Downstairs, Dad and Arlo were gone. Dad had some alumni foundation dinner connected to graduation weekend. Arlo was at a friend’s house, pretending he had plans that did not involve checking on me every forty minutes. The house was quiet in that summer-night way, windows closed against humidity, air conditioner humming, the walls holding the shape of a family that kept getting smaller no matter how hard we tried to fill it.

My phone rang. I let it ring twice, because answering immediately felt like admitting defeat.

Then I picked up. “Do not be nice to me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Naomi said. Café noise hummed behind her. “I was calling to ask why you haven’t sent me a picture of the blouse yet.”

I closed my eyes.

“Lucy.”

“She canceled.”

The noise behind her shifted, softer now. Maybe she had stepped into the back room at Paper Lantern, between shelves of overstock paperbacks and boxes of oat milk. “Oh, honey.”

“I said don’t be nice.”

“Fine. Your mother is being an ass.”

A laugh burst out of me, sharp and too close to a sob. I pressed my fingers over my mouth. “She texted,” I said. “She didn’t even call.”

“Because calling would have required hearing your voice.”