Until the Day I Die(2)
I awoke to the sound of someone tapping gently on the guest bedroom door. It was Sabine, who must have let herself in with her spare key. It was 9:30 p.m. Thirty minutes before Shorie’s party was scheduled to be over.
3
SHORIE
The party’s going okay, I guess. However parties are supposed to go. The nineties mix Sabine put on is playing so loud, it’s making my heart keep time all the way down in the last cubicle.
I’m with one of Jax’s yearlong, paid interns—Hank?—who has the darkest hair and palest skin I’ve ever seen on a human. Not with with; I’m just showing him some of the inner workings of the proprietary GPS program Jax uses. The way my dad used conditional constructs—the if-then-else statements of programming—to tailor it to a typical Jax user’s needs.
I love tinkering like this, digging up the bones of a program, so to speak, but the truth is I have ulterior motives. Hank’s skills seem pretty basic—rudimentary, if I’m being polite—and I’m hoping if I show him something cool, he’ll give me something in return. Maybe tell me what Ben, Jax’s lead developer, has him working on. Possibly send a problem or two my way when I’m at school. Just something on the sly for me to mess around with. He could obviously use the help, no offense.
As I type, I tell him about one of our former interns, a doofus who actually used the password password for his admin account. The story makes Hank (or is it Henry?) laugh. That trips me up, and my fingers freeze momentarily. I’m not used to making boys laugh.
And then Mom rushes into the cubicle, ruining the moment.
“Oh my God, Shorie, I’m so sorry.” She’s not wearing yoga pants, thank God, but her makeup looks kind of half-assed, and the tag is sticking up from the back of her dress. She’s also got that glassy, confused look in her eyes. The look that’s become all too familiar in the past five months—she’s just woken up from a nap.
The intern snaps to attention at the sight of his boss. “Hey, Erin.”
“Hello, Hank.” Mom’s face looks strained. “Mind if we have a minute?”
He doesn’t even glance at me before fleeing the cubicle, and she moves to the desk. Taps her fingers on it. “Shor, I feel terrible.”
I wait for the explanation to follow.
“I was out, running errands, and I went home. I was just going to lie down for a second. But I was feeling kind of off, and I must’ve fallen asleep—”
I push out of the chair. “It’s okay.”
She pulls at the neck of her dress, and I reach out and straighten it for her. It’s the same one she wore to Dad’s funeral, which pisses me off but at the same time makes me want to cry. How could she do that? Wear that dress again? And at my party?
But I don’t cry or yell. What’s the use? It’s easier to be Robot Shorie—which is what my best friend, Daisy, called me one time in ninth grade when I refused to fight with her.
I do wonder what Mom’s been doing all day. Not helping Sabine and me set everything up, that’s for sure. I wonder if it occurred to her that she might not want to take a nap right before my going-away party. I want to slap her, then comfort her, then demand she apologize. All those emotions make me feel so nauseated, I could throw up.
“You look nice,” is all I say.
She doesn’t answer, just bites her lip.
When we rejoin the festivities, Daisy rushes up and presses a flute of what she pointedly announces is sparkling apple juice into my hands. I look around. Somehow Mom’s already got a drink in her hand, real champagne, and is tipping it back.
“That guy likes you,” Daisy says, her eyes like lasers on mine. “That intern, Hank.”
I take a sip and make a face. She’s smuggled me the real deal. I prefer the apple juice. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
She shakes her head. She’s been doing this for me since we met in fifth grade at robotics club—telling me which guys are interested in me. I never seem to be able to figure it out on my own.
“But if he does, maybe he can put a good word in for me with Ben.”
She lifts her brows. “Oh, Shor. Forget all that. You’re going to love school. It’s going to be so much fun.”
“Not as much fun as staying home and working at Jax,” I retort, feeling bolder already. I’m kind of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. And, no offense, but Daisy doesn’t really understand where I’m coming from. She’s 100 percent thrilled about heading off to Georgia Tech, where her parents went. She’s basically been packing for college since she was in diapers.
I head over to talk to Gigi and Arch, my grandparents. They’re all decked out for the party—Gigi in a green dress with a giant diamond starburst brooch on her shoulder and Arch in a natty suit and his favorite Yale tie, blue with little bulldogs all over it. He makes another crack about me going to Auburn instead of his la-di-da alma mater, and Gigi shushes him. But I’m glad to hear him joking. Ever since Dad died, he’s seemed so sad. When I look around for Mom again, it appears she’s melted away. Just then Sabine taps her glass, and the room quiets.
“I’d like to thank everyone for coming,” she says. “We really appreciate every single one of you showing up to wish Shorie success in the next phase of her life. Before we say good night, we’d like to invite you to make a toast. One sentence, short and sweet.” She winks at me. “I promised not to embarrass her.”