Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(48)

She pets my hair. “I don’t know, sweetie. But I know it’s not because there’s something wrong with you.”

“Then people should stay with me.”

“I won’t ever leave you. Hear me?”

I nod.

“Never,” she says.

I nod.

“Ever.”

I gather the pieces of myself and take a deep breath, ragged at the edges. I lie back again and put my foot in Mom’s lap so she can finish.

“Did Josie say something about leaving?” Mom asks, her voice distant in concentration.

“No. But, like, the danger is there. Creeping on my life from the bushes.”

“Gimme your other foot. Careful you don’t smear the one I just did.”

“Is this what my life is going to be?” I give my mom my other foot.

“What? Having to be careful you don’t smear nail polish?” A roll of thunder, a camera flash of lightning.

“No. Sitting at home alone on Saturday nights. Rinse and repeat until I die.”

Mom half smiles. “I won’t take offense at that.”

“You know what I mean. Obviously I’m not alone at this moment.”

“I think you’re going to have a wonderful life filled with lots of people who love you.”

“Be nice if a few stuck around,” I mutter.

“I’ve seen that for you. I’ve told you that before.”

“I know, but—”

“You doubt my gift?” Mom tries to sound lighthearted, but I can tell she’s hurt.

“I mean…”

“DeeDee! You think I’m conning people?”

“No. Just, I wish your gift worked better on our own household.” My voice trails off. I try to say the last part sweetly. But it never really helps to say something hurtful to someone sweetly, because all it tells that person is that you know you’re saying something hurtful.

Mom deflates, and she smiles sadly. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, looking like she’s trying to appear deep in scrutiny as she paints. Finally, she says in a quiet voice, “Yeah. I wish that too.”

“Mom.”

“It’s fine. No, you’re right.” Lightning. Thunder. “I didn’t know it was supposed to storm tonight.”

“See what I mean?” We both laugh even though it’s not that funny.

“There,” Mom says, resting my other foot gently on the coffee table and blowing on my nails. “Pretty, pretty.”

I wiggle my toes. “Now this gift of yours I do believe in.”

“Ouch.”

“Kidding.”

I half watch the TV and simmer in my feelings. Now I’m wondering why Josie didn’t invite me to go to Lawson’s with her.

Mom finishes and props her feet up next to mine. We have the same feet. We share shoes all the time. She hugs my arm and rests her head on my shoulder.

I rest my head on top of hers. “Mom,” I say quietly.

“Hmm?”

“You’re a good last-person-in-the-world-to-stay-with-me.”

She squeezes my arm tighter. “My gift wasn’t wrong when it came to your dad.”

“You knew?”

“Not that he’d leave. Only that something wonderful would come from being with him, and I was not wrong. I was not wrong at all.”

We sit like that in silence. Mom reaches up a couple of times to brush tears off her cheek.

She’s the only person who doesn’t ever make me feel like I love them more than they love me.

Outside it begins to rain hard, pummeling the windows in heavy pulses, like the air has a heartbeat. One of those dark green spring rains that won’t let up for two days, stripping blossoms from the trees, making morning feel like dusk, and you wonder if you’ll ever see the sun again.





Naturally I messed up the first three or four pancakes I tried to make. But I’d planned for this and had several bottles of batter. At least my parents were at a movie and Alexis also wasn’t home to ask questions. I really didn’t feel like explaining why I was making pancakes on a Saturday night. I tried one of the pancakes, and it wasn’t horrible. Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.

I get Lawson’s address from the Idiot Twins. I thought about asking Lawson, but I want this to be a surprise. Also, there’s a tiny part of me that hopes he won’t be home.

He lives on the other side of town from me, but Jackson isn’t huge, and I get there quickly. I dash to the front door. The wind is picking up, and it looks like it’s going to storm. I have a plastic bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s in one hand (fake maple syrup kinda yiks me out because every time I eat it, I sweat fake maple syrup smell for days, but Lawson seems like a Mrs. Butterworth’s guy) and a plate of warm pancakes covered in plastic wrap in the other. I stand at the front door for a second, feeling weird. It’s late on a Saturday night to be delivering anything unexpected to anyone, much less a stack of pancakes.

Still, I came all this way, so I ring the doorbell. I didn’t sell my dignity by buying squeeze bottles of pancake batter for nothing.

A woman who looks like she could be Lawson’s mom answers the door. “Hi?” she says uncertainly. Rightly so.

“Hi, sorry, I know it’s getting late. I’m Josie Howard. Friend of Lawson’s. I was at the fight earlier. I brought these over to cheer him up. I’m not a weirdo.” Nailed it. Nothing like assuring someone you’re not a weirdo to put them at ease that you’re not a weirdo.