headrest. “Spell tree.”
Give Cherie time. Don’t be a jerk,
I remind myself. I try to remember that she’s not one of the twins, and that she has the potential at any time to run into people wanting to take her picture. She wants to look good. Hell, even I made sure to put jeans on instead of my sweatpants today.
When she finally does emerge from the house, I can sort of see why my mom’s worried. Her cheekbones are a little more prominent, her skin is paler, and the bones of her hands and wrists stick out. The rest of her is covered by heavy, layered sweaters, a scarf, and big sunglasses. Her legs look like the heels she’s wearing: long and impossibly skinny. She sways a little when stepping down off of the porch, and she has to grab the banister for support, as if walking makes her dizzy. This girl definitely needs to eat.
I get out and shuffle to the passenger side to open her door for her, a gentleman’s move that always earned me bonus points with girls in the past. Cherie, so used to being chauffeured, merely murmurs a thank you and slides into the front seat as if my chivalry is no big deal.
“Cherie!” Britney cries out. I think she loves her as much as Brenton does, but for different reasons. Cherie is a princess in Britney’s mind; one with pretty makeup and fancy clothes that she might let Britney play dress-up in.
And she’s a star on TV. That never hurts.
“Hey sweetie pie,” Cherie coos, turning in her seat. “What a pretty braid! Who did your hair?”
“Chloe.” Britney grins and bats her eyelashes. I try not to groan audibly.
Cherie turns and puts her seat belt on, saying, “Your sister has the most gorgeous eyes. Who has blue eyes in your family?”
I stiffen and busy myself with pulling out of the driveway. I hate having to talk about my father. “Our dad.”
She nods. “Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting about him. Where does he live?”
I almost have to clear my throat to answer. “I don’t know.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see her nose scrunch as if she doesn’t understand this. I can tell she is going to ask more questions, so I change gears instead.
“Got a list of food you want to buy?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, no, I didn’t make a list. I really don’t want anything; this is very nice of Eva and all, but I just don’t have the stomach to eat anything right now.”
“You’ll have to eat eventually,” I say, and I hate myself immediately for it when her face falls. I may as well have said,
“You’ll have to get over their deaths eventually.”
We silently agree to drop each other’s uncomfortable conversations.
“This car is nice,” she says, but she says it in a way that should have the phrase, “for a high school kid,” attached to the end.
Still, the compliment makes me beam on the inside. There’s nothing I’m more proud of than my car, not even my football trophies. I spent a lot of time lifeguarding last summer to earn this car, and it means a lot that she would pay it a compliment.
“Thanks. Do you have a car back in California?”
She nods. “I have a couple, but they’re in my parents’ names. Probably have to give them back now. Whatever; it doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t gotten a license yet. Haven’t had the time to take the test.”
This is abhorrent to me. How does someone not have the time to take the most important test of their life? “So why do you have cars?”
She shrugs, and the answer is implied, hanging heavily in the air over my head.
She’s rich and famous, dummy! She probably owns monkeys that she doesn’t need, too.
“Here it is,” I announce, pulling into the parking lot of our local shopping plaza. I look in my rearview mirror at a car that is
thisclose
to hitting my bumper. “What the hell? Why is this guy on my –”
Cherie takes one glance back and mutters, “Dirterazzi,” as if she’s bored by the word. “I guess they finally found your house. I thought I saw them
Give Cherie time. Don’t be a jerk,
I remind myself. I try to remember that she’s not one of the twins, and that she has the potential at any time to run into people wanting to take her picture. She wants to look good. Hell, even I made sure to put jeans on instead of my sweatpants today.
When she finally does emerge from the house, I can sort of see why my mom’s worried. Her cheekbones are a little more prominent, her skin is paler, and the bones of her hands and wrists stick out. The rest of her is covered by heavy, layered sweaters, a scarf, and big sunglasses. Her legs look like the heels she’s wearing: long and impossibly skinny. She sways a little when stepping down off of the porch, and she has to grab the banister for support, as if walking makes her dizzy. This girl definitely needs to eat.
I get out and shuffle to the passenger side to open her door for her, a gentleman’s move that always earned me bonus points with girls in the past. Cherie, so used to being chauffeured, merely murmurs a thank you and slides into the front seat as if my chivalry is no big deal.
“Cherie!” Britney cries out. I think she loves her as much as Brenton does, but for different reasons. Cherie is a princess in Britney’s mind; one with pretty makeup and fancy clothes that she might let Britney play dress-up in.
And she’s a star on TV. That never hurts.
“Hey sweetie pie,” Cherie coos, turning in her seat. “What a pretty braid! Who did your hair?”
“Chloe.” Britney grins and bats her eyelashes. I try not to groan audibly.
Cherie turns and puts her seat belt on, saying, “Your sister has the most gorgeous eyes. Who has blue eyes in your family?”
I stiffen and busy myself with pulling out of the driveway. I hate having to talk about my father. “Our dad.”
She nods. “Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting about him. Where does he live?”
I almost have to clear my throat to answer. “I don’t know.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see her nose scrunch as if she doesn’t understand this. I can tell she is going to ask more questions, so I change gears instead.
“Got a list of food you want to buy?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, no, I didn’t make a list. I really don’t want anything; this is very nice of Eva and all, but I just don’t have the stomach to eat anything right now.”
“You’ll have to eat eventually,” I say, and I hate myself immediately for it when her face falls. I may as well have said,
“You’ll have to get over their deaths eventually.”
We silently agree to drop each other’s uncomfortable conversations.
“This car is nice,” she says, but she says it in a way that should have the phrase, “for a high school kid,” attached to the end.
Still, the compliment makes me beam on the inside. There’s nothing I’m more proud of than my car, not even my football trophies. I spent a lot of time lifeguarding last summer to earn this car, and it means a lot that she would pay it a compliment.
“Thanks. Do you have a car back in California?”
She nods. “I have a couple, but they’re in my parents’ names. Probably have to give them back now. Whatever; it doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t gotten a license yet. Haven’t had the time to take the test.”
This is abhorrent to me. How does someone not have the time to take the most important test of their life? “So why do you have cars?”
She shrugs, and the answer is implied, hanging heavily in the air over my head.
She’s rich and famous, dummy! She probably owns monkeys that she doesn’t need, too.
“Here it is,” I announce, pulling into the parking lot of our local shopping plaza. I look in my rearview mirror at a car that is
thisclose
to hitting my bumper. “What the hell? Why is this guy on my –”
Cherie takes one glance back and mutters, “Dirterazzi,” as if she’s bored by the word. “I guess they finally found your house. I thought I saw them
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