Page 5 of She’s a Doll

That would’ve been a good time for me to say the line. We’re all mad here. It wasn’t actually Hatter’s line, but it would’ve worked. If I’d nailed the delivery, I could’ve even made it sound suave. But suave had never been my forte, especially not when Ginger was whispering in my ear, her rosewater perfume sweet and sharp in the air.

“Oh . . . um . . . yeah . . . sorry about that. Being weird.”

“No. It’s OK. I like you weird.”

My cheeks prickled as I turned to face her directly.

Ginger was taller than usual, her heels propping her up an extra couple of inches. As if she needed the help. She’d always been the tallest kid in class, her grinning pink face popping up from the back row in all the school photos, from kindergarten all the way up to year-twelve graduation.

We were twenty now. I was almost twenty-one. But I still felt small standing next to her.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“For . . . ?”

“Here’s to the end,” she said, addressing the room. “The end of the semester, the end of exams, the end of another year!”

I gave an automatic cheer.

Everyone else just dinged their teaspoons against their teacups.

There was something surreal about it. The circle of smiles, the shimmer of dresses, the chorus of stainless-steel cutlery against ceramic. I wondered if this was going to be a memory I would have for the rest of my life. I wondered if, perhaps, it’d be a funny one. The time I went to high tea with the popular, posh kids dressed in a top hat, tails, and a bow tie the size of a dinner plate. It felt like it had the potential to become one of those gently embarrassing stories adults liked to whip out at Christmas parties. A charming, slightly awkward anecdote.

“Lucy,” Ginger’s mum said, holding out her phone. “Be a dear and take a photo of all us ladies together, would you?”

Or maybe it’d be the sort of memory I’d unpack slowly, over years on a therapist’s couch. That time I passed up 15 percent off Thai food to embarrass myself in front of a room full of people I barely knew . . . all because I thought I was going to get drunk with the girl who wrote with a glittery pink gel pen.

3

I should’ve stayed.

I should’ve stayed.

I should’ve tasted each and every one of those teas, ten times over. I should’ve made a tea tier list and put the most disgusting one at the top, just to see who’d be gutsy enough to argue with me. I should’ve met Mrs. Béliveau’s lizard stare with one of my own, a bigger lizard stare, a Tyrannosaurus rex stare, accompanied by a matching Tyrannosaurus rex smile, lipless and toothy.

I should’ve told them all it was my graduation day. And, sure, maybe they would’ve rolled their eyes and said it was only a certificate, that it wasn’t really a graduation, not the sort that matters . . . but, on the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t have. Maybe, instead, they would’ve congratulated me, cheered, and poured a bottle of bubbly into one of the teapots.

Maybe I would’ve seen Marilyn Monroe’s smile again. Maybe Ginger would’ve kissed me on each cheek like I’d run a race. Maybe I would’ve ended up sitting awkward and alone in the corner.

Either way, I should’ve stayed.

I should’ve stayed.

I should’ve fucking stayed.

4

The first quarter hour was awkward.

The second uncomfortable.

The third exhausting.

The conversation flowed around me, zippy and fast, interlaced with inside jokes and the names of people I didn’t know. Whenever I tried to join in, everyone defaulted to the same sequence of questions and answers, like NPCs stuck on an infinite loop.

What are you studying? Business? Oh. That’s cool. Where? Here? Remote learning? I couldn’t do that. University life is so fun! I’m doing a bachelor’s, but I’m enjoying it so much, I might get my master’s once I’m done. What about you? Oh. A certificate? That’s smart. Way less expensive, I bet. And more practical! You’ll get a job in no time. I love your Willy Wonka costume, by the way.

I did my best to stay on script, smiled when a camera roamed in my direction, and slurped down as much tea as my stomach could handle.