“Oh, honey, I know you’re always careful.” She smiles. “I wish you’d asked me first, but I’ll be happy to meet your new friend. I’ve been hoping you’d invite her over—you’ve been so unhappy and you could stand to have a little fun.”
I resist the urge to cringe.
“Well, great,” I say. “Thanks.”
Mom beams at me, reaches into her purse, and presses a few twenties into my hand. “Just call me when you’re leaving Grovetown, okay?”
I nod and turn back toward the stairs.
“Oh, and don’t forget we’re having dinner at Uncle Randall and Auntie Mina’s on Sunday.”
That sounds like a barrel of laughs. I try to muster up something enthusiastic to say, but I can’t think of anything. Auntie Mina will sit there like a ghost; Uncle Randall will criticize her in between praising Number Two’s latest achievements in the world of plastic surgery; Mom and Dad will nod and smile. And I won’t be able to leave.
Forget it. I’m not going to worry about Sunday. I have Saturday to think about. I paste a smile on my face and trudge back upstairs. By the time Sunday rolls around, there will be a new and improved Sunny in the house. I think about the diary entry that Shiri wrote, the one about me always seeming so sure of myself. That’s the Sunny I want to be. Someone who can always handle things. Not someone who’s too scared to even give her fears a name. Not someone who holds everything inside until it leaks out anyway, until something breaks.
I know my fears. And I’m not going to break.
Not cool enough, not fun enough, not quirky enough. The litany torments me as I ransack my room the next afternoon for something bearable I can wear out with Mikaela. After tossing aside lots of khakis, skinny jeans, and other remnants of my old life, I decide on a “transition outfit”—something I can tolerate being seen in while I shop for clothes that fit the new Sunny.
Whatever that is.
I pull on a pair of baggy old tan cargo pants that are splotched with green from when we painted the dining room, belt them with a black scarf, add a plain black V-neck sweater, and top it off with an Indian-print kerchief in maroon and tan. Under the kerchief, my hair hangs loose past my shoulders. A little weird, but passable.
I head for the bathroom and rummage in my makeup drawer, hardly touched since the funeral, and put on a trace of dark eyeliner pencil and some ChapStick. As I’m leaving the bathroom, I change my mind and decide to put on red lip gloss. You never know who you might run into. Maybe Cody, I think, surprising myself a little. But the truth is, I wouldn’t mind running into him.
When I glance at the clock I realize I’m going to be late. I hope Mikaela’s not the punctual type. I rush downstairs and pull on my newly adorned sneakers.
“Mom!” I shout in the general direction of the living room. “I’m going. See you around five.”
“Have fun,” she says, poking her head into the front hall. In one hand she’s holding the scrapbook we’re supposed to be finishing up for Auntie Mina. For a moment I feel guilty that I’m leaving Mom with the rest of the project, but mostly I’m glad that just this once I don’t have to be reminded of the way things used to be.
When I get back today, I’ll be a new Sunny Pryce-Shah. Not a member of the Zombie Squad. Not the Girl Whose Cousin Committed Suicide. Not that sad little kid who followed around a false idol. I’ll be someone else.
When I pull up in front of the apartment complex where Mikaela lives with her mom, she’s waiting there already, bouncing a little on the toes of her heavy black platforms. The iron entry gate she’s standing near is bent and dented, and the dull tan paint on the buildings is dirty and weathered.
Most of my former friends live in gated communities with fancy cars and security guards, or in newer tract houses like my family does. I haven’t really hung out before with anyone who wasn’t from an upper-middle-class background. Not deliberately. It just seemed to work out that way.
I kind of want to say something, but I’m not sure what to say. I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.
“Aren’t these apartments nasty?” Mikaela slides in on the passenger side and slams the door, letting her purse fall to the floor at her feet. “My mom divorced my dad a few years ago, but she didn’t have enough money to buy a house after we moved here. I’ve been house hunting with her forever, but everything is either too expensive or too pre-fab. Like they’re cloning houses.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. My stomach unclenches a little. “We live in a tract house. Definitely the Land of the Clones.” We both laugh. Then there’s an awkward silence. I just drive, following the occasional “turn left here” or “go that way” from Mikaela. Finally, I open my big mouth.
“Sorry about your parents getting divorced,” I blurt, in lieu of something intelligent. At the same time, Mikaela says wryly, “Nice Volvo; is it yours?”
“Kind of. My dad bikes to work most of the time, so my parents are letting me use it,” I say, blushing furiously. Now I really don’t know what to say, so I just sit there for a minute, clutching the wheel tightly.
“Uh, anyway, sorry about your parents,” I finally manage.
“It’s cool,” Mikaela says. “My parents used to argue all the time, and my mom was sick of my dad being such a tightwad asshole, so it’s definitely a good thing.”
“Oh.” I fidget uncomfortably. The extent of my knowledge about divorce comes from people like James, whose parents seem to be in a constant competition to buy his love. I’m starting to feel hopelessly sheltered. “Do you, like, have to visit him on weekends, or what?” It’s probably a stupid question, but she doesn’t treat it like one.
“Nah, not anymore. Right after the divorce, I was supposed to visit every other weekend, but since we moved here I only see him once every couple of months or so.”
“Oh,” I say again. “Where did you live before?”
“Near San Francisco.”
“Wow,” I say, stupidly. I can’t seem to give her anything but robot answers. My nervousness starts to come back, and I fiddle with the rearview mirror unnecessarily.
“It was pretty cool,” she says. “But my dad’s there, and he bugs me, so I’m glad I’m down here, hundreds of miles away.” She turns to me and smiles. “So where do you want to go first?”
“Uh … ” I haven’t really thought about it. “You’re the guru for the day. You tell me—where do I get my preppy dweeb makeover? I’m ready for anything.”
“Well, why don’t we start with Thumbscrew and then go to the vintage place? If there’s anything else we need after that, we can try the Orangewood Mall on the way back. I know this little shop there that has cheap Manic Panic hair dye and stuff.”
Manic Panic hair dye? I gulp nervously, wondering what I’m in for.
It turns out I have very little to worry about. Mikaela doesn’t try to tell me what I should or shouldn’t wear—unlike some people—but instead just pulls a bunch of clothes off racks and lets me accept or veto items for the dressing room. At first I’m a little weirded out by Thumbscrew, whose patrons all seem to be of the nose-ring-and-tattoo persuasion, but very few of them give me attitude. When they do, Mikaela is quick to glare at them from her full five-feet-one-inch height, and amazingly, they back off.
I look at her. “Good thing you’re here. Otherwise they’d probably bite my ear off.”
“It’s all in the way you carry yourself,” she says, looking me up and down critically. “Your new wardrobe will help—trust me. Although you should keep that head scarf around; it’s very retro.”