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“You know,” Betsey says, glancing at the two people ahead of her. She takes a few steps forward and we follow. “We haven’t said it in years, but you guys are my sisters. But more than that, you’re my best friends.” She looks from Ella to me. “Don’t forget that, okay?”
“I won’t,” I say, unable to hold back the tears. It makes Ella and Bet cry, too; we all hug, then wipe tears on our shirtsleeves and sniff back runny noses.
“Driver’s license and boarding pass,” the security agent says with no emotion, despite our blubbering. Bet sniffs one final time and gets it together; this calms Ella and me. Betsey hands the items to the guy, then looks at me and says quietly, “It’s okay to forgive her.”
There’s no time to answer; the man waves her through. But I’m not sure I would’ve said anything if there were.
Ella and I hop out of line and watch Bet take off her shoes and jacket and go through the metal detector. When she’s on the other side, she stops, turns, and holds up a hand. A hand that matches mine.
“Live your life,” I whisper to her. There’s no way she hears, but somehow I know that she understands. She nods at me, then walks away.
“Come on, let’s go,” I hear from behind me.
I turn to see Ella moving toward the exit to the parking lot, expecting me to follow. I look from her to Bet and back again, watching them pull away from me in different directions, marveling at how whole I feel in spite of it. I’ve craved individuality, but a little part of me feared that with it might come loneliness, too. But I don’t feel lonely today; I feel full. I feel strong.
Smiling, I look once more at my sisters—left, then right.
Ella is on one path. Bet’s on another.
And I’m okay right where I am.
epilogue
Two weeks before our eighteenth birthday, Mom gives Ella and me early presents: plane tickets to visit Betsey in Massachusetts so we can celebrate the milestone together. To save on parking costs, Mom drops us at the airport with a typical “goodbye and be careful.” We enjoy the Birthday of a Lifetime that weekend, but when Ella and I return, we find Sean waiting to pick us up.
>“I’m quitting,” I say, trying to look disappointed. “I pulled a muscle in my calf that won’t heal if I keep cheering. Plus my mom’s making me get a tutor. Apparently I suck at science.”
“Not as much as I do!” she says, laughing. “Well, I’m sorry about your leg—and the tutor—but I’m glad you’ll have more time to hang out. Meet you after school by your locker?”
“It’s a plan.” I turn to go, then look back. “Hey, Alison?”
She looks at me expectantly. “Yeah?”
“My friends call me Lizzie,” I say. “I hope you will, too.”
When I get home from school, Ella and Mom are in the living room together. I catch a snippet of the conversation: Ella’s talking about her new school.
“… just so much more challenging, in a good way,” she says.
“You’ve always been my overachiever,” Mom says, smiling warmly.
“I take that as a compliment,” Ella says, smiling back.
Then they notice me standing there.
“Lizzie!” Mom says, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Come join us. Tell us how your first day back went.”
The scene is so normal—just a mom and a daughter bonding. I could try to bond, too. But something keeps me frozen in the doorway, something that smells a lot like distrust. It’s self-centered, but in a way I feel like Mom wronged me most. Maybe it’s that I found her out; maybe it’s because she wouldn’t let me date Sean. Maybe it’s because she’s still never apologized for just leaving me in San Diego when Maggie came knocking.
“It was fine,” I say, hiding my emotions. The day was a lot more than fine, but I’m not ready. Mom and I may have a truce, but that doesn’t mean I have to overshare. “I’m getting a soda and going up to do my homework. Sean’s coming over later.”
I stare at Mom, waiting for her to protest. Waiting for her to say that Sean’s not good for my image, not good for me. Waiting for her to Mom me.
Instead, she says, “He seems like a nice boy.” And then, “There’s soda in the garage; bring in a bunch, will you?”
“Happy New You,” Sean says, beaming, when I open the front door. I check out his un-gelled hair, thermal shirt, black hoodie, faded jeans, and sneakers and think that he’s my brand of perfect. He’s holding out a wrapped present; I take it and smile curiously.
“You’re so sweet,” I say. “What is it?”
