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I take my sad-clown face into Dorrit’s room. Now she’s on the phone. I can tell by her side of the conversation that she’s comparing notes with one of her friends. Sh
e bangs down the receiver when she spots me.
“Well?” I ask.
“Well what?”
“What do you think about my makeup? I was thinking of wearing it to school.”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of comment about my hair?”
“How would you feel if I showed up at school tomorrow looking like this?”
“I wouldn’t care.”
“Bet you would.”
“Why are you being so mean?” Dorrit shouts.
“How am I being mean?” But she’s right. I am being mean. I’m in a mean, foul mood.
And it’s all because of Sebastian. Sometimes I think all the trouble in the world is caused by men. If there were no men, women would always be happy.
“C’mon, Dorrit. I was only kidding.”
Dorrit puts her hands on top of her head. “Does it really look that bad?” she whispers.
My sad-clown face no longer feels like a joke.
When my mother first got sick, Dorrit would ask me what was going to happen. I’d put on a smiley face because I read somewhere that if you smile, even if you’re feeling bad, the action of the muscles will trick your brain into thinking you’re happy. “Whatever happens, we’re all going to be fine,” I’d tell Dorrit.
“Promise?”
“Of course, Dorrit. You’ll see.”
“Someone’s here,” Missy calls out now. Dorrit and I look at each other, our little tiff forgotten.
We clatter down the stairs. There, in the kitchen, is Sebastian. He looks from my sad-clown face to Dorrit’s pink and blue hair. And slowly, he shakes his head.
“If you’re going to be around Bradshaws, you have to be prepared. There could be craziness. Anything might happen.”
“No kidding,” Sebastian says. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, the same one he was wearing at Tommy Brewster’s party and on the night we painted the barn—the night we first kissed.
“Do you always wear that jacket?” I ask as Sebastian downshifts on the curve leading to the highway.
“Don’t you like it? I got it when I lived in Rome.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve been swept under a wave. I’ve been to Florida and Texas and all around New England, but never to Europe. I don’t even have a passport. I sure wish I had one now, though, so I’d know how to deal with Sebastian. They should make passports for relationships.
A guy who’s lived in Rome. It sounds so romantic.
“What are you thinking?” Sebastian asks.
I’m thinking that you probably won’t like me because I’ve never been to Europe and I’m not sophisticated enough. “Have you ever been to Paris?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “Haven’t you?”
“Not really.”
