the phone skitter across
the counter. It was amazing her mother didn't break them more often. Picking up
her bowl and cup, Camille rinsed and placed them in the dishwasher. "See
you later."
"Are you going to work?"
Elizabeth leaned against the counter and pulled out a cigarette.
She hated when her mother lit up
around her. "I wish you'd stop that."
"If wishes were horses..."
Elizabeth lit the tip and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out behind her.
"What are you working on these days? A piece on salt water taffy?"
Camille heard the derision in
Elizabeth's voice and felt rebellion rise up her gorge. She was in no space to
pick a fight with her mother today. The last thing she needed was to be in a
worse mood. She reached behind her mother and opened the window. "I have
an interview."
"So do I. In fact, I'm due to
call the attorney general in ten minutes." She looked at her wrist as
though there was a watch there, even though she never wore one. "Who are
you interviewing, Camille?"
A gourd artist. Just thinking it made
her stomach sour. "A local artist."
"How quaint." Her mother
smiled insincerely.
It was a special talent Elizabeth
had, making her feel like the perpetual loser.
"Would you like me to talk to
your editor, Camille?" Her mother flicked ashes into the sink. "I can
have him give you better assignments."
" No ." She shuddered to think of her mother storming into Mac's
office. "I can handle it. Actually, this assignment is pretty juicy,"
she lied.
"Are you sure? After all,
Reginald Waters and I are great friends."
This was where her mother reminded
her that the only reason she was working for the newspaper was because she was
"great friends" with the man who owned the publication. "I'm
sure, but thank you," she forced herself to say.
Her mother eyed her as she puffed
elegantly on her cigarette. "You know why I named you Camille."
Not this again. She shrank on the
inside. "Yes, I know."
"I named you after a dear friend
and great feminist. The original Camille wouldn't have stood for being patted
on the head and sent to a corner. She'd have stood up for what she wanted and
taken it."
That was the thing about being a copy
of the original—the copy was always a blurry version of the original.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Please do, Camille," she
said, stubbing out the cigarette on a dirty plate.
The phone rang, and she sighed in
relief as her mother reached for it. "Darling," her mother effused
into the receiver, a genuine smile lighting her face. "How delightful to
hear from you."
Camille edged out of the kitchen
while her mother was distracted. Grabbing her bag, she walked down five blocks to
catch the 24. It wasn't the most direct way to get to Laurel Heights, but there
wasn't any better option, other than taking a cab. On her salary, taking a taxi
was a rare splurge.
She hadn't exactly told her mom the
truth when she'd said she had an interview with the gourd artist. She'd tried
calling the woman—Gwendolyn Pierce, the fact sheet said—but there'd
been no answer. Camille figured she'd just go to the artist's shop, ask a
couple questions, and get it over with.
Hopping off the bus at Sacramento
Street, she strolled the rest of the way to the gourd shop—slowly,
because her heels were already cutting into her feet.
Laurel Heights was a completely
different world from upper Hayes Valley, where she lived with Elizabeth. Her
mother had bought the house when that area was the projects—it grew into
being fashionable, although it wasn't nearly as high-end as Laurel Heights.
It was eleven in the morning. As she
walked down Sacramento Street, she noted the women pushing strollers and
carrying Louis Vuitton bags that cost more than she made in a month.
Camille envied them—not for
their things but because they looked satisfied. She didn't belong there. She
wasn't successful. She didn't have a Mercedes. She didn't lunch. Frankly, she
didn't have any girlfriends to lunch with. She only had Dylan, and
the counter. It was amazing her mother didn't break them more often. Picking up
her bowl and cup, Camille rinsed and placed them in the dishwasher. "See
you later."
"Are you going to work?"
Elizabeth leaned against the counter and pulled out a cigarette.
She hated when her mother lit up
around her. "I wish you'd stop that."
"If wishes were horses..."
Elizabeth lit the tip and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out behind her.
"What are you working on these days? A piece on salt water taffy?"
Camille heard the derision in
Elizabeth's voice and felt rebellion rise up her gorge. She was in no space to
pick a fight with her mother today. The last thing she needed was to be in a
worse mood. She reached behind her mother and opened the window. "I have
an interview."
"So do I. In fact, I'm due to
call the attorney general in ten minutes." She looked at her wrist as
though there was a watch there, even though she never wore one. "Who are
you interviewing, Camille?"
A gourd artist. Just thinking it made
her stomach sour. "A local artist."
"How quaint." Her mother
smiled insincerely.
It was a special talent Elizabeth
had, making her feel like the perpetual loser.
"Would you like me to talk to
your editor, Camille?" Her mother flicked ashes into the sink. "I can
have him give you better assignments."
" No ." She shuddered to think of her mother storming into Mac's
office. "I can handle it. Actually, this assignment is pretty juicy,"
she lied.
"Are you sure? After all,
Reginald Waters and I are great friends."
This was where her mother reminded
her that the only reason she was working for the newspaper was because she was
"great friends" with the man who owned the publication. "I'm
sure, but thank you," she forced herself to say.
Her mother eyed her as she puffed
elegantly on her cigarette. "You know why I named you Camille."
Not this again. She shrank on the
inside. "Yes, I know."
"I named you after a dear friend
and great feminist. The original Camille wouldn't have stood for being patted
on the head and sent to a corner. She'd have stood up for what she wanted and
taken it."
That was the thing about being a copy
of the original—the copy was always a blurry version of the original.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Please do, Camille," she
said, stubbing out the cigarette on a dirty plate.
The phone rang, and she sighed in
relief as her mother reached for it. "Darling," her mother effused
into the receiver, a genuine smile lighting her face. "How delightful to
hear from you."
Camille edged out of the kitchen
while her mother was distracted. Grabbing her bag, she walked down five blocks to
catch the 24. It wasn't the most direct way to get to Laurel Heights, but there
wasn't any better option, other than taking a cab. On her salary, taking a taxi
was a rare splurge.
She hadn't exactly told her mom the
truth when she'd said she had an interview with the gourd artist. She'd tried
calling the woman—Gwendolyn Pierce, the fact sheet said—but there'd
been no answer. Camille figured she'd just go to the artist's shop, ask a
couple questions, and get it over with.
Hopping off the bus at Sacramento
Street, she strolled the rest of the way to the gourd shop—slowly,
because her heels were already cutting into her feet.
Laurel Heights was a completely
different world from upper Hayes Valley, where she lived with Elizabeth. Her
mother had bought the house when that area was the projects—it grew into
being fashionable, although it wasn't nearly as high-end as Laurel Heights.
It was eleven in the morning. As she
walked down Sacramento Street, she noted the women pushing strollers and
carrying Louis Vuitton bags that cost more than she made in a month.
Camille envied them—not for
their things but because they looked satisfied. She didn't belong there. She
wasn't successful. She didn't have a Mercedes. She didn't lunch. Frankly, she
didn't have any girlfriends to lunch with. She only had Dylan, and
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