Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(47)

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Mom is sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under her, a bare foot resting on the coffee table, a bottle of nail polish in each hand. “DeeDee! You need me to clear out? I wasn’t sure when you’d get home.”

“No.” I collapse onto the couch next to her.

“Where’s Josie?”

“Not here.”

“I got that part. I thought y’all were prepping the show.”

“We were supposed to.”

“And?”

“Now we’re not.”

“Y’all okay?”

“Fine. What’re you watching?”

“Don’t know. Forensic Files or something. Did y’all have a fight?”

“I said we were fine.”

“I pick up on your energy, DeeDee.”

I sigh loudly. “Sorta, okay? We sorta had a fight. But we’re good.”

Mom holds up the bottles. “Green or purple?”

I stare at the TV. “Purple.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“Every time I see someone with green toenails, I’m like, What happened there?”

“It’s a cute shade. Nice springtime color.”

“They’re your toes.”

“I’m gonna do purple. Want me to do yours when I’m done?”

“Sure.” I hook the toe of one of my Chuck Taylors on the heel of the other one and push it off. Then I do the same with the other foot.

Mom shakes the bottle, leans forward, and starts to work on her toes. She works for a while before asking, “How was the fight?”

“Actually pretty fun. We couldn’t see super great, and we sat next to a couple of old nasty pervs, but otherwise…”

“How pervy are we talking about?”

“They didn’t try to grope us or anything.”

“Better not have. I’d cut their nuts off.” Mom’s never been Ms. Motivation, but she’s always found the moxie to be protective of me. Which I appreciate. “Weren’t you there to see your friend?” she continues.

“More Josie’s friend. He’s in love with her.”

“How’d he do?”

“Good but still lost. Barely.”

“Bummer.”

“He took it hard.”

“Well, yeah. Is that why Josie isn’t here?”

“She’s going to see him, even though he didn’t ask and I bet he’d rather be alone.”

Mom wipes off an errant smudge of nail polish with a cotton ball soaked in nail polish remover. I’ve always liked the sharp burn of it in my nostrils. “That’s sweet of her.”

“What? To ditch me?”

“Not to ditch you, but it doesn’t sound like she’s doing that.”

“What do you call it, then?”

“Her friend needs her, and she’s going to him.”

“It would be cool if you’d take my side.”

“DeeDee, I’m always on your side.” She finishes one foot and blows on it.

“Not so much this time.” I slump farther into the couch, leaning my head away from Mom.

Mom reaches down, pulls one of my feet onto her lap, and starts painting. “What do you want me to say? I’ll say it. Want me to say, That little bitch, Josie. I’ll pull all her hair out?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t feel good to hear.”

“Not really.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes while Mom paints and the TV drones. She used to work at a nail salon, so she takes the task seriously. Outside, lightning splashes blue-white across the sky, and thunder rumbles like a distant dump truck driving over a pothole. I shouldn’t love thunderstorms as much as I do. Our trailer isn’t the best place to be during a tornado. But I’ve always loved storms. When my friend Jesmyn lived here, I would make her watch them with me. She thought it was dumb at first, but then she came to love it as much as I did.

Of course, Jesmyn moved and left me behind. We don’t talk nearly as much as we used to. She has a cool boyfriend now who takes up all her time, and pretty soon she’ll be going to Carnegie Mellon, where she’ll find even more cool friends to take up her time.

“Mom,” I say softly.

“What, baby?” Mom murmurs, focusing.

“Why does everyone I love leave me behind?” My voice quavers.

Mom stops and looks at me. Her eyes are deep and soft. She caps the bottle of nail polish and sets my foot on the coffee table, careful not to smear anything. (She is still a professional, after all.) She gently pulls me upright, to her, and cradles my head on her shoulder. “Oh, sweetie.”

I weep quietly for a moment or two.

“I thought maybe this wasn’t just about Josie,” Mom says, her voice muffled in my hair.

I shake my head. “What’s wrong with me? Why am I so broken?”

Mom holds my face in both hands and turns it to hers. “You’re not broken. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“If that’s true,” I say, my voice snagging in my throat, “why do people keep leaving?” Someday I’d love to know why the people with the least to lose are always losing the little they have.