The Chicken Sisters(7)

Amanda tried to take advantage of this moment of family solidarity and found herself, as silly as it seemed, trying to appeal to Mimi’s as well. “Mimi’s can stand on its own, Mom. You don’t need Mae. You should just do things the way you always have.”

Barbara blew out an impatient breath. “I don’t need either of you, obviously.” She glared at Amanda. “If I did, I’d be in big trouble. If Mae wants to come do this Food Wars thing, I’ll do it. Otherwise, no. You’re right. We should just keep doing things the way we always have.”

This time, Barbara walked inside and spoke over her shoulder. “I’ll call her tonight.” She slammed the door behind her, and Amanda found herself left on the patio with Andy, who looked oddly cheerful.

“Damn it,” she said, unable to help herself.

“She’ll get over it,” said Andy. “Do you think your sister will come?”

Amanda shook her head. “She hates it here,” she said. Merinac had chafed at Mae since her sister turned fourteen and formulated, almost overnight, a plan for escape that she had always refused to believe Amanda didn’t want to share. Nobody ever did anything here, she said. Get out or die trying, unless you want to die here. When Amanda, shyly, had confided in her sister that she was pregnant after her first semester at the local college, Mae had given her one shocked, terrible look and then marched out of the room, returning with the phone book. “We can take care of this,” she’d said savagely. Stunned, Amanda had knocked the book out of her hands. Mae never believed that Amanda had wanted Gus, wanted the life she chose. Not then, not when Frankie had been born, not after Frank had died. Not ever, and Amanda both loved and hated her for it.

“That’s okay,” said Andy, leaning on one of the picnic tables. “She’ll do it anyway. I mean, it would be cool if Mae came. I don’t know your sister, but she obviously likes being on TV. And cleaning things. And I don’t know if you know, but your mom’s house is—”

Amanda had to laugh at that. “Oh, I know. Mae knows, too. It’s always been that way.”

Patches came back to Amanda and nudged her hand for petting again. Amanda rubbed the dog’s soft head, still missing Pickle, and Andy came forward and knelt in front of Patches, rubbing under her chin. The dog instantly abandoned Amanda and dropped to the ground, rolling over and presenting an enormous belly to Andy for rubbing. Traitor.

But that charm could be useful. “You think Mom will do it even if Mae doesn’t come?” She should know—she was Barbara’s daughter, after all—but she had no clue. Who cared if this guy knew it? He probably wouldn’t be around long anyway.

Andy looked up at Amanda. “Sure,” he said. “It’s too good to pass up. But you’ll ask Mae, right?”

Oh, she’d ask. Andy just didn’t need to know what she was asking for. All Mae really had to do was tell their mom it was a great idea—or better yet, say she was coming and then bail. Still, he was just a little too enthusiastic about even the possibility that Mae would appear.

“You wouldn’t want Mae here,” Amanda said. And really, he wouldn’t. The thought was awful. “She’s—she’s too many cooks in anybody’s kitchen.” And she would think Food Wars was stupid and piddling, even while she took the whole thing over. That was Mae’s specialty. She always made it look easy, and she always made you feel dumb for caring.

“I’d deal. Listen, try, okay? And I’ll get your mom to sign on either way.” He grinned, and it was a very appealing grin to conspire with. Amanda grinned back. Why not?

Barbara came to the door. “We need to get back to work,” she called, and Andy rose easily, seemingly not at all bothered by the implied reproof in her words.

“Sure thing. Gotta be friendly with the competition, though, right?” He turned back toward Amanda. “I’ll call you. I can get your number from your mom, okay?”

Amanda nodded. They probably should keep in touch—it made sense, and it would be much easier than talking to her mother.

And it would maybe even be kind of fun, if he was this excited about Food Wars. Even if he did think he’d like Mae. He’d learn, or rather, he wouldn’t, because Mae would not be here.

Amanda took out her phone as she walked back to her car, typing as she went. Mae had to do this for her. She just had to.

And then it would all begin.





MAE





Mae Moore was wearing her fiercest boots.

It was May—never, despite the name, Mae’s luckiest month—so strappy, expensive, high-heeled sandals might have been more appropriate for a meeting in the skyscraper that housed Glorious Home Television. But this was a big meeting. An important meeting, and possibly, as suggested by that worrying text from Lolly, not a good meeting. Which meant that Mae wanted both feet solidly on the ground and her thin skin well covered.

Standing in her Brooklyn closet, she’d chosen the tough-girl, ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners boots whose heels now hit the marble floors of the lobby with conviction as she flashed the ID card around her neck to Marcos and Jim at the security desk. Marcos pressed the button and waved her grandly through as he always did. They’d been here when she’d first walked into the building for her audition, wearing, she suddenly realized, these same boots. She hoped they weren’t about to see her walk out the doors for the last time as well.