Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Okay. Start again.”
After I ascertained that Eileen had left Audrey home alone, I went inside and got comfortable. Dan, her father, is due in twenty minutes from his dental office. I figured it was best to have the conversation over the bills with the slacker also known as my mother in person, with witnesses present, and Dan is honest as the day is long.
“Brielle said that everyone else already got their periods and the later you get your period the smaller your boobs are and boys like big boobs.”
I grab my Diet Coke off the coffee table and take a long, slow sip in an effort to temper the words that want to come screaming out of my mouth. Audrey doesn’t blink, waiting patiently for my answer as if I’m about to come down from Mount Sinai with the word of God.
Was I this clueless at her age? No, I don’t think I was. I was also too busy raining hell down on Eileen any way I could. From putting dog shit in her mailbox, to setting it on fire on their front steps, to constructing a makeshift sling shot and hurling it at their white garage doors.
“Brielle is a freaking genius.”
“Really?”
“No, Audrey. I can’t believe that you would listen to that twat.” Oops, by the wide sea foam colored eyes I’m looking at I’m not supposed to use that word. “I mean chick. Whatever, you know what I mean. Why didn’t you Google it? Why would you take the word of that braniac?”
“Brielle knows stuff. Her sister’s a senior and she’s dating the captain of the baseball team and he’s super cute.”
“Well, bully for Brielle. Too bad her older sister is dumber than she is.” I rub my temples to soothe the tension headache this conversation is causing and consider what Camilla would say to a scared thirteen year old girl. “It doesn’t matter when you get your period, Audrey. It’s genes. Mom is really tall and I’m not. I probably got that from my father, but who knows for sure. I got my period just after my thirteenth birthday. And trust me once you get yours you’ll wish you could’ve waited longer.”
“Mom has implants,” she blurts out. Like I didn’t notice the double Ds Eileen was sporting after her trip to the “Bahamas” last year.
“I think it’s a little early for you to be thinking about stuff like that.”
“I sing,” she blurts out, again. I guess this indicates a change of topic. I’m both surprised and pleased––at both the change of topic and the discovery that Audrey has something she’s passionate about. “And play the piano.”
“Are you any good?”
Her eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment before they move to the stain on her leggings. Picking at it, she shrugs.
“That’s great, Audrey. Maybe you can play for me sometime? I’d love to hear you sing.”
As she nods, we hear the door leading to the garage open and the click-clack of heels on the tiled floor. A minute later Eileen walks into the living room carrying several large bags from various clothing stores. Typical.
My mother’s problem is that she’s beautiful. I came to this conclusion at the ripe old age of fifteen. She’s a doppelgänger for Christie Brinkley in every way except where it counts. Where as Ms. Brinkley parlayed those looks into a magnificent career, my mother parlayed it into a kid out of wedlock. A career would entail getting out of bed at a reasonable hour and putting in some effort also known as work. Eileen couldn’t be bothered. She’s self-centered and naturally lazy as fuck, couple that with beauty and you get a perfect disaster.
Eileen the beauty queen. Her nick name in high school. I’ve heard the story a billion times. So of course every time she would mention it, I would respond with something like this, “You made it through high school? I thought you only went as far as junior high.” Or “Your Special Ed school went all the way to high school?”
I was a kid. I was angry. Don’t judge.
Her turquoise eyes land on me sitting next to Audrey on the couch, and she stills.
“Amber? What are you doing here?”
“Took you a minute to remember my name, did it?”
She gives me one of her surly looks. One that makes her look like the wicked stepsister in Cinderella.
“Mom, can Amber stay for dinner?” Audrey says, her tone holding the typical angsty desperation of a teenager. Meanwhile, I am horrified.
“If she wants to.”
“Nope. Nope, can’t. I can’t,” I answer over Eileen. Leaping up from the couch, I remember why I came in the first place.
“I’m here because we need to talk.” Tilting my head in Audrey’s direction, I add, “In private.”
“In the kitchen. Audrey stay here.”
“But mom! I want Amber to stay, and if you guys fight she’ll leave.”