Page 60 of Nixon’s Promise

“Why wouldn’t you tell him you think his eyes are pretty?” I asked and finally looked over.

“You can’t do that,” she insisted.

“Why not?” I was trying to hold back my giggle at the horrified look my sister was giving me.

“Because he’s a guy. A senior. He’d think I was totally lame if I told him his eyes were pretty.”

“Bet he wouldn’t,” I told her. “Do you like it when a guy compliments you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, don’t you think that maybe he’d like to hear a compliment from you?”

While Mandy was contemplating the merits of my observation, I took the time to savor the fact we were standing in the kitchen talking and there was no hint of any attitude. I was also taking the time to bank the feeling. It had been a long time since Mandy had trusted me with anything. In teenage girl land this was huge. She was telling me about a boy she was crushin’ on and doing it openly.

I wanted to pump my fist in the air and scream, ‘Hell, yeah.’ Thankfully, I knew better than to do that.

“I guess he would,” she admitted. “But wouldn’t me telling him his eyes were pretty sound girly?”

“Hate to point out the obvious, but you are a girl,” I told her.

“No. Too girly of a compliment.”

“Is he really as hot as you said he was?”

“Um. Yeah. Like every girl in school thinks so. They throw themselves at him.”

Jeez.

“So find something other than his looks to compliment him on.”

“Like?” She scrunched up her nose, and her forehead wrinkled.

“You have to know how beautiful you are and I’m sure guys tell you all the time how hot they think you are. It’s easy to see, so it’s easy to try and flatter you by telling you you’re beautiful. But what if one of those guys saw past your looks and told you they loved your artwork. Or if they took the time to read one of your short stories and told you what a fantastic writer you were. Wouldn’t that mean more to you than some guy saying, ‘hey, babe, I think you’re hot’?”

Mandy’s eyes slid from mine and I prayed to God that dickhead creep Deputy Dillinger hadn’t seen any of her sketches or read any of her work. He was a predator—he’d know to praise her about the things that meant something to her.

“I haven’t drawn anything new since Mom and Dad…”

She trailed off and tears hit my eyes. I tried to remember the last time I’d heard her say the word mom when it hadn’t been yelled in anger toward me.

“You should start again. You’re talented. You don’t want to lose that part of you.”

“It doesn’t feel right. Mom was the artist. She taught me how to draw. And if she’s not…” Mandy shrugged her shoulders and changed the topic. “Anyway. Would it be okay if I stayed after school for the game?”

“Yeah. But after the game, I want you straight home.”

“Thanks, Micky.”

I went back to chopping the tomatoes when Duke started barking his head off. It was now or never. I sucked in a breath and asked, “Mandy?”

“Yeah?”

“I really wish you’d think about drawing again. And there’s an…um…. summer art class at Washington College I’d like to sign you up for. Think about it, yeah?”

“Sure.”

I was finding it seriously hard to breathe. Mandy didn’t throw the offer in my face or cut me off. She hadn’t said yes, but she hadn’t told me to mind my own business, either. Which was what I was afraid of and why I’d been putting off asking her about the summer program.