Zayne shakes his head, brows still furrowed. “I don’t know.”
Across the table, Zayne’s brother Lenny clears his throat. “The programming for it would be quite simple, actually. If Little Birdie was capable of creating the app in the first place, certainly this new system they’ve created would be easy to pull off as well. In fact, Little Birdie may have even set it up so they could be completely hands-off from here on out. Oh…and I hope it’s me who gets chosen.”
Zayne frowns at his brother. “What are you talking about, Lenny? You signed up?”
“Actually, I’m hoping to get nominated, since the app says the person who gets chosen should be someone who’s observant. Someone who would make a good Little Birdie. Personally, I don’t feel right entering myself, but I’d love the opportunity to showcase my version of school coverage.”
I don’t know Lenny well, but I’ve heard from Dot he has very refined interests, including fantasy shows and different types of leaves, mushrooms, and historical facts. Dot covers her mouth as she gazes at him, like she’s trying very hard not to laugh for Zayne’s sake. “Um, Lenny? I also really hope you get chosen, to be honest. You as Little Birdie would be amazing.”
Zayne sighs, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
I clear my throat. “My point is that I understand why you don’t want things to be weird. With Little Birdie coming back, it’s probably smart to avoid drama at all costs.”
Dot bites her lip. “We go toFallbrook, remember? Somehow, I don’t see that happening.”
As much as I want to reject that notion, I can’t help but feel like she’s right.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, and when I get home from school, Mom is all over my look for tonight’s party.
When I present myself to her in what I would consider a cute outfit, she cringes. Actually cringes.
“Wallflower,” she says. “That’s the vibe this outfit is giving. Lord knows I didn’t raise you to fade into the background, Rue. Be the strong, bold girl I know you are.”
Wallflower.
It’s a word I relate to immensely, and one I’ve seen many times—mostly because it’s my password to everything. Still, when I hear it this time, it stings. It shouldn’t, because it’s Mom saying it, and I should know by now not to be offended by anything that comes out of her mouth.
My face heats. “Seriously? But I thought this one?—”
“No.” She holds up a hand. “Chanel Sullivan doesn’t let her daughter walk out of the house like that.”
“Please don’t refer to yourself in the third-person,” I mutter.
“I am theonlyperson, thank you. The only person willing to tell you the truth!”
“That’s not what third-person means!”
“Don’t you raise your voice at me!”
I take a deep breath. “It’s fine. I’ll just go change.”
She grins. “Good daughter. Now, let me do your eyeliner. Then go dig up that one pair of jeans that makes you look taller, will you?”
I know better than to argue with her, and I also know how to do my own eyeliner, but I can’t possibly rob her of this joy—helping her daughter get ready for a high school party with the mediocre products she signed up to sell during a previous business venture. After all, experiences like these are part of the reason she chose to have me. And bychose, I mean it. My motherwas way too independent to ever get married, but she decided in her thirties to become a mom on her own with the help of a donor—a story she retells me at every possible opportunity.
“And the day you were born,” she told me, “you had the honor of being named after me. RueChanelSullivan. The kind of name that turns heads.”
Unfortunately, I can’t help but agree. Despite my efforts to avoid the spotlight at all costs, Little Birdie terrorized me and the other theater students for years before he or she disappeared. I can only hope whoever takes their place will be different this time and choose someone else to focus on.
Before I head upstairs, I ask, “Any suggestions for my top?”
She twists her mouth in thought. “Well, it’s cold out, so go for a delicate long-sleeve. Something in purple, maybe. With a black leather jacket, too.”
I nod. The outfit she’s presenting comes to life in my head, so I squeeze out of her bathroom and go to my room to put it on. Every time Mabel and Meredith come over, they comment on my room and how plain it is. How the walls could be anything but a neutral gray, and my bedspread is whichever of the white down comforters from the laundry room is clean at the time. They point out how, if I just hung some photos, everything could tie together better. I know they’re just being nice and trying to give me helpful inspiration, but all I can think is,Your room is boring, Rue. Boring, like you.
The only encouragement I have that I’m possibly not as boring as I think is the framed wall art Mom got me a few birthdays ago that reads:
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
