Once I finally had her upright and no longer crying and a clerk hadarrived to mop up the mess, I spun back to the customer service desk—where the cashier with the hot-pink feather earrings was talking to a uniformed police officer with a Tom Selleck mustache. He held out a big clear evidence bag. The smug cashier dropped the scissors inside, a look of pure crime-fighting satisfaction on her face.
I hurried the twins to the nearby pastry case, too focused on eavesdropping to stop them from opening the glass doors and pawing the donuts.
“See the dried blood? And there’s a name, right there on the handle,” the cashier was saying with the eagerness of Elle Woods during her first week at Harvard Law. “Turner. Nobody ever said the Satanists were the sharpest crayons in the box. You can get forensics to dust for prints. See if they match with anyone in your database.”
“Thanks for the advice. So helpful,” the cop said dryly. He nestled the evidence bag in his shopping basket and headed toward the supplements.
“We’re moving,” I told the twins. But as I turned to follow the police officer, a woman stepped in front of me. Despite the changes rendered by twenty-five years (and plenty of tweakments), I recognized Miranda Carson instantly. She had the same icy blue eyes, but her hair was an even more fiery shade of red, and her skin looked poreless and smooth, like she’d been airbrushed (or, more likely, relentlessly lasered). She must’ve made a deal with the devil, or the best med spa in the Treasure Valley.
“Tilly! Tilly Turner!” she cried. “It’s been too long.”
No, no, no! I had to get those scissors back—I did not have time for a catch-up chat with my high school nemesis. Back when I was Mr.Potato Pants, the North Boise High School mascot, I’d suffered Miranda Carson’s condescending presence as alpha cheerleader at pep rally practices our sophomore and junior years. She’d been Boise High royalty, while I’d been an oversized anonymous potato with googly eyes. But the truth was, I’d loved being Mr.Potato Pants.
Then, at cheerleading camp the summer before our senior year,Miranda Carson and her drunk buddies triggered a cabin search. Coach Nichols discovered a mostly empty bottle of vodka in my duffel bag. Even though I was sober and everyone knew the vodka belonged to the girl our high school class had voted Most Likely to Get Her Way, I was defrocked of my Mr. Potato Pants costume while Miranda was promoted to head cheerleader.
“Miranda,” I said now, watching the cop disappear down the aisle dedicated to supplements geared to support the flagging male libido.
“So good to see you!” Miranda cried. My mother—who’d held a grudge on my behalf—had reported karma had yet to come for Miranda. Not only did she still look thirty-two, she was married to a Micron exec, worked as a social worker for Child Protective Services, and lived in a mansion on Warm Springs Road. She’d never had kids, which made sense. Someone so selfish shouldn’t procreate. Now Miranda bent down to be eye level with the twins. “And who are these perfect dumplings?”
Not only was Alice covered in dressing, both twins looked generally feral and ill-tended. They’d taken to heart my earlier edict that in-store snacking was okay—rainbow sprinkles coated Alice’s face, while Phoebe was tucking into a maple bar.
“Any advice on how to tell you two apart?” Miranda cooed. I barely resisted the urge to kick her in her perfectly bleached teeth.
“I have a birthmark on my back,” Phoebe said. “It’s shaped like Florida.”
“Mommy says it’s an all-natural Florida tramp stamp,” Alice added, helpfully.
“Haha! She’s kidding,” I said. “I don’t really say that.”
Miranda laughed gamely. “You havealwaysbeen so funny.” She batted the air with her hand to show off her pumpkin-colored manicure. “So many people said you’d never make it in Los Angeles,” she continued. “But I always said, ‘No, that Tilly Turner is so funny.’”
“Hmm,” I managed. My abs tensed involuntarily for the gut punch I knew was coming.
“Such a shame how things turned out,” Miranda continued. “Who would’ve guessed Mickey Larynx was anactualpervert?” There was the Miranda I remembered. Before I could interject, she was on to another sensitive subject. “And I’m so sorry about your mother. She was always so proud of you for making your way in LA, all on your own.”
My eyes smarted and I vowed not to cry in front of Miranda. I could only imagine what she’d say if she knew I’d never been able to make ends meet on the Best Coast, not after the girls were born. No matter how many waitressing shifts I’d worked at Italian Kitchen on Ocean Park Boulevard, I’d never had enough money. Whenever I got a check in the mail from my mom, I’d always call her to say, “You didn’t have to do that, we’re fine.” But I always cashed the checks. There is a particular shame in finding out after your favorite person dies that she was impoverishing herself to support you.
“I’m sure my mom will want to give you her condolences too—she’s around here somewhere,” Miranda said.
Back when Miranda and I were in high school, Mrs.Carson had a pet parrot with clipped wings that rode on her shoulder and squawked “You’re so pretty!” into her ear all day. She’d seemed to enjoy negging me about not being “cheerleader material” and gave me copious “helpful” tips on how to “liven up” my Mr.Potato Pants dance.
“She called this morning to see if I’d take her shopping,” Miranda explained. She leaned in to whisper, as if we really were old friends. “She can do it herself, but she likes the attention. Today I didn’t think I had it in me.” For a half second, I almost liked her.
Now, like a demon summoned by the sound of its own name, Miranda’s mother appeared from behind a display of croutons. This could not get any worse. A glance to my left revealed the cop lining up at the register. I’d have to approach him in the parking lot.
“Mom, it’s Tilly Turner,” Miranda said. “She’s back from California.”
Mrs. Carson, who was probably in her late sixties, wore a fancy cashmere cape and blond hair upswept in a French twist.
“California!” she cried. “The land of fruits and nuts!”
“Mother!” Miranda stage-whispered. “You can’t say fruits! Or nuts!”
“Nonsense!” Mrs.Carson said. “Next thing you’ll tell me I can’t say Merry Christmas!”
The cop was no longer in the checkout line.
“I just remembered I forgot to unplug my air fryer! Gotta go!” Waving goodbye at evil Miranda and her awful mother, I herded the twins out of the co-op in time to see the police cruiser rolling out onto Ninth Street.
