Bright Before Sunrise(15)

“I can’t do dinner—I’m meeting Aunt Joan. Maybe Evy? But no. I’m pretty sure she mentioned plans with Brooke.” Mom’s inspecting the cuticles Pearl just trimmed, her voice matter-of-fact.

“Oh, but …” I swallow the rest of the sentence.

“Do you want me to cancel?”

“No, you don’t have to.” I pull my hand out of my bowl and set it dripping in my lap. Mina clucks her disapproval but continues to shape my other hand with her file. “It’ll be good for me. Relaxing.” My mind is cycling through surprise to extreme relief. I need to hold it together now for Mom, summon enough energy to be excited to see Evy—but then … then I can climb under the covers and hide until tomorrow.

“You could call that boy you went out with last week. What was his name? Joshua?”

“Jeremy,” I supply. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

In the six years we’ve been coming to this salon, I’ve become accustomed to treating it like the kitchen table. Mom used to say, “It’s not like they understand us anyhow,” which makes me uncomfortable in an is-that-racist-or-just-stupid? way. But Mina doesn’t offer her opinions, and Pearl never says anything but “thank you,” “sit,” and “other hand.” They communicate with us in gestures and nods, gossiping among themselves in Korean, though I know they’re both fluent in English. They take their cues from Mom, and she insists that our “girl time” include confessions and no interruptions.

Not that I ever have much to confess. It’d been way more scandalous when Evy sat between us, but she’d quit coming when she was fifteen—choosing to color her nails with Sharpies, highlighters, and Wite-Out and refusing to play Gossip Quest on Mom’s terms.

“Excuse me.” The woman at the table to my left leans over. “You’re Andrea Waterford, right? We met a few weeks ago at Emma Murphy’s jewelry party. You made that fabulous spinach dip. I have got to get that recipe. This must be your lovely daughter; and did I hear you say you’ve got no plans tonight?”

She’s breaking Mom’s cardinal rule of manicures—do not eavesdrop or join our conversation—but I can’t be rude; even though Mom’s brief nod and the tone of her “Oh, hello. Lovely to see you again” treads the line between cordial and dismissive.

I force a smile and a cheerful “A night of downtime every now and then can’t hurt.”

“I’m Brenda Shea. You’re Brighton, right? Your junior prom queen photo in the Gazette was beautiful. You are much prettier than the senior queen.”

I blush and make an embarrassed noise of acknowledgment. Compliments like that are so awkward. Mom’s too annoyed to save me, sighing loudly as she watches a soap opera on the television mounted behind Pearl’s head.

“My son goes to school with you.”

I’ve never heard of anyone with the last name Shea, which immediately makes me feel guilty. Cross Pointe isn’t big. Mrs. Shea seems to know all about me, and I can’t even identify her son. “I don’t think I know him. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, he’s quiet. Anyhow, if you don’t have plans tonight, would you be free to babysit?”

I jerk out of Mina’s grasp and am rewarded with a Pointe-Shoe Pink stripe that stretches from my thumb across the tops of my fingers. “He needs a babysitter? I’m not really comfortable—”

“No.” Mrs. Shea laughs. “He’s going off to college next year—I hope he doesn’t need a babysitter! He’s on a date. I’m talking about my daughter, Sophia. She’s five months.”

“Oh.” I apologize to Mina and turn to give my Mom a relieved look. She’s ignoring me, tapping her foot impatiently against the leg of the table.

“Normally I would never ask, but our babysitter canceled last minute and my son refuses to change his plans with Carly. We moved here not that long ago, so I don’t have a backup sitter yet. I thought if you weren’t doing anything … but if you can’t, I completely understand.”

I don’t know Carly either. Who are these people?

“Um …” I give her a once-over. She’s pretty much a typical Cross Pointe mother: Tory Burch bag at her feet, hair highlighted and sculpted, cardigan set coordinated with her sandals.

Then it hits me. New to Cross Pointe? And there’s a similarity in their dark brown eyes and the shape of their mouths—although her polite smiles are so different from his leave-me-alone scowl. “Wait, is your son Jonah Prentiss?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Shea beams and leans forward. “You know Jonah? Oh, that makes me happy. He’s really struggled with this move. He used to be so social, but since we’ve gotten here, he’s seemed withdrawn. I’m relieved to know he has friends, even if they’re not always over at the house the way they were in our old town. In fact, with the baby, it’s probably good I don’t have to worry about kicking out noisy teens at one a.m.”

This is the type of thing she shouldn’t be telling me. I’d crawl under this table and cry if my mother told a stranger such personal details. And I have no idea how to respond—it’s hardly like I’m going to correct her, not when she’s this excited about the idea of his “friends.” So I smile. “He seems nice.”