Page 5 of Play Nice

I hook a nail through the jump ring and hold up the charm. There are a few ways I could take this. Veronica chose this charm for me because it’s the edgiest and most expensive in her collection and suits my style better than a heart or key or flower or whatever. Or I could be offended that she would gift me the snake, read too far into it. Thinking back, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to her that would earn me the title of snake, but who knows.

My feet find the floor and I shuffle over to my dresser, to my jewelry tree, pick out a suitable chain, slide the charm on, and clasp it around my neck. I lift my eyes to the mirror, to my reflection, to study how the charm looks resting against my skin, but instead I see my mother, the traces of her face in my own, and I remember she’s gone. She’s dead, and I’m supposed to go to Dad’s today. Which means I need to take New Jersey Transit. As if the one tragedy wasn’t enough.

I find my phone still in my clutch, battery at ten percent. I plug it in and call Dad on speaker.

He answers right away. “Hey, sweetie. How you holding up?”

“Oh, fine, fine,” I say, yawning. “Are Daffy and Leda there yet?”

“They’re here. Amy’s making them pancakes,” he says.

“Dang. I love Amy’s pancakes.” My stepmom’s lone success in the kitchen.

“What time do you think you’ll be here?”

“Not sure yet,” I say, staring at my unmade bed, at the mountain of unwashed clothes in the hall. A wicked idea pops into my head. “I have to do laundry. I have to pack. How long am I coming for? Will there be a funeral?” I force my voice to break. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just, I wasn’t ready for this.”

“I know, Cli,” he says. “Why don’t I come pick you up?”

Too easy. “Really? Are you sure?”

“I don’t want you taking the train if you’re this upset. Let me go tell Amy and I’ll be on my way.”

My father. Steady and reliable, the captain of the ship, the benevolent king of our lives, his love as sure and powerful as gravity.

“Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I’d feel bad, but it’s not so far. An hour and a half, two with traffic. And, yeah, I may be a twenty-five-year-old woman calling her daddy to come pick her up, but the train is such a nightmare. I’d do worse things to avoid it.

I leave my phone plugged in, shove the laundry pile into the washing machine, and take a quick, cold shower. Towel off, then brush my teeth. Start my morning skincare routine. Consider what to wear.

Dad didn’t answer my question about a funeral, but I’m assuming there will be some kind of service. I own so many black dresses, yet none of them seem appropriate for mourning my mother. Which maybe is appropriate since I don’t know how to mourn her.

Would she even want to be mourned? She didn’t believe in death.

Once my makeup is done, I climb back into bed, unplug my phone, clip on my selfie light, and take a photo of myself in my bra and my necklace, my shiny new charm on display. It’s good enough to post to the grid. I tag Veronica, tag Shine Inc. Caption it with a snake emoji, a diamond emoji, some stars.

I stare at the picture. It’s obvious to me that my smile is fake. But it won’t be obvious to anyone else.

Another lesson from my mother, one she taught by unfortunate example. By showing us what not to do. By showing us how important it is to be in complete control of your emotions. It’s too dangerous the other way around.

—

Several hours later Dad is cleaning out my fridge and I’m still packing.

“It’s all takeout in here, Cli,” he says scoldingly.

“What can I say, cooking isn’t a priority for me. And before you lecture, remember feminism.”

“I know, I know,” he says. “You sound like Daphne.”

Daphne thinks she’s the most progressive in the family, but she got awfully judgmental when I told her I was considering starting an OnlyFans.

“All right. I’m going to take out this trash, and then we should be getting on the road,” he says. “I’m sure your sisters are anxious to see you.”

“I’m sure,” I repeat. We all love each other, but Daphne and Leda don’t always get along. I’m the family’s social lubricant, the special sauce.