Part 9 (1/2)

We both examine Rachel's forehead in the mirror. The bangs do cover a little bit of the stain, but a substantial part of the zigzag line still shows. As we stare at Rachel's reflection, our eyes meet and I can't hold it in any longer, I burst out laughing and, holding up my hand as I double over, I manage to squeal, ”I'm sorry, Rach! I'm sorry ... it's just so -- you look like --”

”Harry Potter!” we both finish at the same time.

I help her rub at the streak with a wet paper towel, until Rachel's forehead is red and raw. We're still giggling when we get on our bikes, with the green dress folded carefully into my backpack. We wave good-bye, and pedal our separate ways home.

I can't remember feeling so light in ages. As I ride back to my house, the wind rakes over my face and through my hair, making my eyes water. I pump my legs faster and faster, then stand up on the pedals and coast, and with the trees and fields whizzing past, I feel like I might take flight. I am free, unburdened, and it is the most wondrous sensation. I ride, the sun behind me, and decide it is time to tell my mom about London. If she agreed to let me go to the dance, maybe she is lightening up.

I pull into the driveway and lean my bike up against the

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garage. I burst into the house, calling, ”Mom! Hey, Mom, I'm home! Where are you?”

”Cora? Hi, I'm here, in the kitchen,” my mother answers.

I run down the hall and find her was.h.i.+ng dishes at the sink.

”Did you get a dress?” she asks.

”Yup. Want to see?”

My mom nods, and I pull the bag out of my backpack, carefully releasing it from the plastic. I feel a little bit giddy. I hold it up against me, once again admiring the rich gra.s.sy green of the silk and the way the fabric catches the light. I sway, letting the gown fan out at my knees. Happy. Hopeful. That's what I feel.

”It's really beautiful, Cor,” my mom says. ”You look so grown up.” She pauses, and I swear she looks a little misty around the eyes. ”I can hardly believe it,” she murmurs, then shakes herself. ”Anyway, what about shoes?” She wipes her hands on a dish towel and comes closer to rub her fingers against the smooth silky material.

”Got them, too,” I tell her, marveling at how normal our conversation is. How good it feels to be talking with her like this, peacefully. I reach into the bag and grab the shoe box, sliding it out, and opening it to show my mother the gold sling-backs with the tiny heels and slender straps. I slip them on and suddenly feel very grown-up.

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”You'll look gorgeous, Cor,” my mom says softly. ”So mature.”

This is it, I decide. Things are going so well; it is time.

”Hey, uh, Mom, could I ask you something?” I begin as I slide my feet out of the shoes.

”Sure,” she responds distractedly. She is holding up one of the pumps.

My heart pounds like a jackhammer. ”So, my art teacher, Ms. Calico, told me that she thinks my work is really good,” I say hesitantly.

”Really?” she replies. ”That's nice.”

”Yeah, well, she thinks it's really, really good; she said she thinks I have a lot of potential.” My mother is paying attention now, looking closely at me, wondering where this is leading. I continue, ”And, um, she wants me to apply for this summer art school that has a mapmaking course.”

”That sounds great, Cor. That is really nice of her. Is it at the high school?”

”Well, no, that's the thing,” I hedge. ”It's kind of -- well, it's in London. But all the expenses are covered, everything but airfare, and I figured that I could use some of the money that Grandma and Grandpa gave me, and --”

”London?” my mother interrupts.

”Uh-huh.”

”Is she kidding? Who does she think she is?” my mom

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thunders. ”Trying to send my kid so far away, off to some foreign country?” Her face is growing red, and the crease between her brows has deepened.

All of the lightness and joy drains out of me, as quick as a flash of lightning, leaving me burnt, empty, and hard.

”What is wrong with you?” I hiss. ”Why can't you let me do something fun, something that's good for me?”

”It's not safe for a girl your age to travel so far by herself,” she hollers. ”And I will not have you talking to me like this. Watch your tone, Cora!” she warns.

”You don't want anything good to happen to me. You just want to control me!” A momentum to my rage is building. ”You thought you could control Nate, but you didn't know the first thing about him.” My voice has grown cold and quiet. ”You're wrong about everything. Everything.” Now I feel I am losing control, and my chest burns and tears are p.r.i.c.king my eyes. I can't stop. ”You didn't know Nate at all, and you rode him so hard; you pushed and pushed him. He was an artist, he made things, and I bet you didn't even know that! You just yelled at him all the time, and now you're doing the same to me!” I scream.

”You little brat!” My mom has her hands on her hips and her face is twisted into the angriest grimace I have ever seen. Like some ferocious creature, her eyes flash. ”You don't know a thing, not one single thing about your brother! How dare you! How dare you speak to me this way, and about your brother,

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when you don't know a single thing! Get out of my sight!” she rages. ”Get out! I don't want to see you!”

”With pleasure!” I spin around and run up the stairs to my room, which is starting to feel like a well-trod racecourse. I fall onto my bed in a flood of blistering tears. I don't know where all this anger, this vitriol comes from. You'd think that after Nate died, Mom and I would have grown closer, that we'd have come together. But, no, we've dug a moat between us, and it goes deeper every day.