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“Why? Is your dad famous or something?”
“Even worse. He’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugs like he means it. “He did all of these great things before he died. He went to business school and was a marketing whiz. He and my grandfather built Wilde World from nothing and my mom wants me to step in and do the same.”
“Is that like AstroWorld, but with animals?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No, it’s the name of my family’s business.”
“Oh…” I glance around the library. If this is his house, his family must have some sort of huge business. This library is bigger than our entire apartment and has more books than the public library in my neighborhood.
“So, you’re going to be in charge one day?” I ask him in awe.
“Yeah. I guess.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
“You should count your blessings. I wish I had a family business or something more than my mother’s pretty dresses to inherit,” I tell him.
He flushes. “I know I’m lucky. I know. I just… I don’t know. I want to be myself, too. They want me to be just like him. I just want to play basketball.” He slumps forward and stares forlornly at the carpet.
“The best way to get people to stop telling you what to do is to show them what you can do. If you want to play. Play. Can she really stop you?”
“I like that. Your mom’s advice?” he says slowly.
“Nope. Cosmo. If I listened to my mother, the only advice I’d be able to give you is that you could never be too rich or too pretty,” I say and stare at the door, my eyes trained on the handle for signs of it moving. I really want to have time to get behind that curtain again if snakehead comes back.
“So, what have you done to disappoint your mother?” At his unexpected question, I turn and find him watching me closely. I blush and let my hair fall forward so it hides my face. I worry the tasseled edge of the huge rug with the toe of my peep-toe heels. I can’t wait to take them off.
“Have you heard of The Fly Girl?”
“Yeah.” A flush stains his tanned cheeks and he laughs. “Everyone knows The Fly Girl. aka, public enemy number one.”
My stomach dips. A lump forms in my throat as his words hit home.
“Really? Why?” I whisper.
“Don’t know why. My mom’s little gossip circle calls her a home-wrecker.”
“She’s not,” I protest and look him in the eye earnestly. My mother’s a lot of things, but she’s not that.
“How do you know what she is? Are you a fan?” he asks in amusement.
“She’s my mother,” I grit out.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” He winces
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s just what everyone else thinks.” I do really hate my mom sometimes. But for some reason the idea that anyone else would makes me want to cry. It’s always just been us.
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that—it’s just dumb gossip. I don’t think any of them have even met her. Just seen her picture all over the place.” He peers at me. “I see it, though. The resemblance.”
“That’s because she recreated me in her image. Take the makeup off and throw some water on my hair, I don’t really look like this.”
My mother’s always telling me that girls like us have to use what we’re born with. Except, I wasn’t born with what she was. She’s a bombshell. I’m her skinny, frizzy-headed daughter. When I’m not dressed like this and people see us together, there’s always a double take when I call her “Mama.”
It’s not just that, without her head to toe makeovers, I look like a Fraggle. It’s because she’s only sixteen years older than me and we look more like sisters than mother and daughter.
She treats me like a sister, too. It’s fun when that means we stay up late and watch Grease and paint our nails. But most of the time, I wish she would check my homework, tell me no, and give me a curfew. Instead, she brings me to parties like this.
