Read Online The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns by Margaret Dilloway - Free Book Online Page B

worst, but hope for the best.”
    Dara shifts and glances toward the closed bedroom door. “Riley must be exhausted.”
    “She’s slept long enough. I should get her up. Otherwise she won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.”
    “Teenagers sleep. Haven’t you seen them in your class?”
    “Ha ha.”
    Dara stands. “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to stop in and see if you were all right. Let me know if you need more help.”
    “Going on errands?” I hope she is, so she can get me a gallon of milk. I might even need to dust off my Costco membership if Riley’s going to be staying with me. Stock up on soda and chips.
    “Nope. Got a date.”
    A pang of jealousy stabs pitifully at me. I squash it. Just because I haven’t had a date in, oh, ever, doesn’t mean my friend can’t. I’d had more pressing things to worry about, like whether or not I’d survive my teens. “I hope it’s not the mechanic. He smells like brake fluid and cigarettes.” She has no steady, that Dara; none of them are right for her. Even the ones I’d settle for, she finds some fault with. Heck, any woman would settle for a lot of these guys, the ones who don’t drink, who have steady jobs and hold the door open for her and remember to give her roses on her birthday. Someone’s always not artistic enough, or not romantic enough, or likes watching sports a little too much. Or he talks too little or too much.
    “Not seeing him anymore.” Dara winks at me, checks her hair in the white framed mirror by the door. “This is the accountant. Chad. He has excellent hygiene.”
    “Good.” I brighten. “I need help with my taxes.”
    “He works for a corporation. He’s not H&R Block.”
    “Useless. Dump him.”
    She doesn’t take me seriously. “Remember to feed Riley a vegetable at dinner. I know you don’t have many.”
    “I’ve got some cans in the pantry.”
    “Frozen are better than canned.”
    “She will live.”
    Dara leaves. I stand at Riley’s door, debating whether to knock. I am seized with the urge to peek inside, see whether she’s breathing, like a parent home with a newborn. No. Let her sleep.
    The contents of her backpack are spread across the coffee table. A Neil Gaiman novel. Some comic books with wide-eyed Japanese characters. A black Moleskine sketchbook, like the kind Dara uses. I flip it open. I expect to see depictions of death, skulls and crossbones, and bottles of poison. Instead, there are dancing cupcakes. Big-eyed cartoon animals. Close-ups of flowers—daisies, a few roses. Very good.
    The last is a pen-and-ink portrait. I recognize Becky immediately. It is drawn from above. She is on a pillow, asleep, her mouth open, her long hair spread out as though she is underwater. Fine lines crease at her eyes and between her brows in a frown. Her mouth is open and a trail of drool coming out onto the pillow. If it hadn’t been for the drool and the pillow, I would have thought she was drowning. I have to give it to Riley. It is realistic.
    Riley leans against the doorjamb. “Are you looking through my stuff?”
    “Just this.” I shut the notebook. Was I not supposed to look at art? Is that like looking through a journal? I’ll have to ask Dara. “Don’t leave it out if you don’t want people to see it.”
    She harrumphs and slinks forward to grab her backpack. She’s one of those kids who walks along with a slouch, her eyes trained to the floor as though she expects land mines.
    I try a compliment. “You’re an excellent artist, Riley. You must get it from Grandma.”
    She rubs sleep out of her eye, smearing eyeliner.
    I cluck. “Didn’t you wash that off in the shower?”
    “I need makeup wipes.” She wipes her finger on her sweat pants. “Don’t worry. It’s hypoallergenic.”
    “I was more concerned about mascara stains on my pillowcases.” I fish a pot of cold cream out of my dresser drawer and hand it to her.
    She stares at it like it’s a rattlesnake.
    I place it on the dresser top.