The Chicken Sisters(52)

Gus broke off a piece of crust and played with it, then glanced up at her and back at his plate. “I read your book,” he said.

For a minute, Amanda didn’t know what he was talking about. “My book?”

Gus gestured to the table. “Your—the comic. About Carleen. It was on the table last night.”

Right. She’d come home after an uncomfortable car ride with Sabrina, who thought the whole scene with Mae and Andy was just funny, and cleaned up the sketchbook and pencils she had left behind earlier in the day, but of course Gus would have been home first.

Gus rushed on. “And it’s good, Mom. I mean, really good. Your story—I loved it. When Carleen lays the egg in gym class, and all the other chickens are laughing—it’s amazing. The drawings, the way you have them say just enough—it’s so cool. You should show it to someone.”

Now it was Amanda’s turn to stare down at the table. Gus’s praise made her even more uncomfortable than his lingering had. She shrugged. “It’s not really my story. It’s Stephen King. You know, Carrie.”

“I know, but the way you did it—it’s just really cool, Mom. I think you could, like, sell it. I really do.”

Amanda wanted to crawl away. How could she have left her stuff where Gus could find it? And praise like that . . . well, he was probably just being nice. But even if he was just trying to be nice, that was pretty amazing in itself. Teenagers weren’t supposed to be nice to their moms. She tried to smile, although she could feel that it was more of an awkward grimace. “Thanks, Gus. I appreciate that.”

“I mean it, Mom. I’m not just saying it.” Her kid knew her well. “If I didn’t think it was cool, I wouldn’t say anything. I know it’s kind of private. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked. But it’s really awesome, Mom. Seriously.”

Frankie burst out of her room, rushing for the door. “The bus, Gus,” she called, backpack straps hitting the chair as she sped past. “Come on!”

Gus got up, grabbing his own backpack, and reached for his plate.

“I’ll get it,” Amanda said, thankful for the interruption. She went in for the rest of the Pop-Tart, but Gus beat her to it.

“Think about it, Mom,” he said, following Frankie as he spoke over his shoulder. “I mean it.”

Sweet. Her son was sweet. But Amanda hoped he never brought it up again. Tender, possibly a little condescending encouragement from Gus was not what she needed at this moment. What she needed was more and better coffee—not this sludge she had made, which was now cold. And not a Pop-Tart, either. It was going to take something far more decadent and delicious to drown out the thoughts that kept spinning around in her aching head, especially now that the kitchen was empty. If it hadn’t been for Mary Laura and the constant topping off of her Sour in the City, or whatever it was, maybe she wouldn’t have gone to Mimi’s. And if she hadn’t gone to Mimi’s, Andy wouldn’t have come to the door, which just swung open, she swore. It was like her feet just carried her in.

And then he was so—kind. About Food Wars. He got it. “I was nervous,” he said, and then she could admit it—she was too.

“All those cameras.”

He patted the counter, and she hopped up on it while he hung the last of the pans, and then when he leaned next to her, talking, it was a little like being in a car, not looking at each other.

“What made you ask them to come?” He smiled, glancing at her. “If you don’t like cameras.”

“I didn’t think so much about the cameras,” she said, and it sounded a little ridiculous. “I mean, when you watch on TV, you don’t see the cameras.”

Andy laughed, and after a minute, she did too. He wasn’t making fun of her. She could tell. “You just see the people, and they come to life, you know? And it feels so—intense. Like they’re really doing big things.”

“I think that is the cameras,” he said, and there it was, the second time tonight someone made her think about what happened when all of this was over.

“Maybe the cameras leave some of that behind,” she said, and then, because she didn’t want to talk about that anymore: “or at least I’ll still have my stupid haircut.”

“I like the stupid haircut,” he said, and then he touched the back of her neck again, and it had been so long since anyone looked at her that way, or touched her that way, and something just felt right, there in Mimi’s, exactly where nothing had felt right for a long, long time.

And if he hadn’t touched the back of her neck again . . .

That would be such a good memory if it weren’t for Mae and everything that came next. And if it didn’t make her feel so sick inside, like she had betrayed everyone she loved, and if she didn’t know how little she deserved to have any man return her interest, since she’d already proved with Frank, back when they were fighting so hard over the life she had wanted so badly, that she didn’t know her own mind or heart. And if the whole idea of running away from Mae, and Andy, in front of Sabrina didn’t make her feel like erasing herself from the entire planet.

She needed coffee from Patrick, who would be blessedly unaware of her humiliation at Mae’s hands. And one of his glorious, lightly glazed brown butter scones.

Which was a great plan, except that before she could get the coffee, before she could even park at the Inn, she had to drive by Mimi’s, and while she was driving by Mimi’s, she saw that the work of erasing her from the planet had already begun.