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"Nothing for me," Abigail said, walking to her closet, thumbing through the depths looking for a shirt with buttons. Why? No clue. But she wanted to please Leif after trying to ditch him and their date.
"Jeez, it's not going to make you fat," Birdie said.
Abigail could hear some muffled conversation before her daughter said, "Dad says he likes you with a little meat on your bones."
Abigail twitched in irritation and wanted to say, "I don't care what he likes," but she didn't. Instead she said, "I won't be here."
"Why not?"
"I have a date." Abigail pulled out a plain white shirt with snaps. Would snaps work? She looked at the other meager offerings. Snaps would have to work. She snagged a pair of jeans, and after a flicker of indecision the nude pumps with the gold nail head studs around the heel.
"With who?" Birdie sounded shocked.
"Your art teacher," Abigail said matter-of-factly.
"Mr. Lively? You're going on a date with him?"
"Don't act so shocked. I'm not dead, Birdie."
The phone was absolutely silent. Abigail held it between her head and shoulder as she slipped the shirt off the hanger. A few more seconds ticked by.
"I need to go, honey. Have fun with your father," Abigail said.
"Mom!" Birdie squealed, not hiding the outrage in her voice. "You can't go out with him. Dad's coming over. And-"
"Why not? He's a nice guy. Plus, he asked me."
"Why? You don’t even like him. You’re rude to him. And not to mention, you're all wrong for him."
Hurt zinged straight to her heart at her daughter's statement. "How so?”
"You just are, Mom. I don't mean you're not pretty or anything, but you're just, uh, just not like him."
"Iknowthat. It would be weird if I were."
Birdie sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to be mean, but you're older and you're nerdy. You don't fit with him."
"Eva Brigitte, you ought to be ashamed. I may not be cool, but I'm not a nerd."
"Have you seen your clothes? Or the music you listen to? You're dangerously skirting lamedom, Mom. And Leif's, like, hot. I don't understand why he would want to take you on a date."
"Maybe it's because I put out," Abigail said, punching the end button, her breath coming faster, her fists knotting at her side. "That little-"
And then she realized what she'd said...to her twelve-year-old daughter.
Crap.
Who said something like that?
She picked the phone up, dialed Birdie, but got no answer.
So she texted BirdieSorry about what I said. It was a joke. But you hurt my feelings. Have fun with your father. I’ll be home later.
Then Abigail grabbed some whimsical earrings her mother had bought her at a craft fair and slid them on. Then she snapped on her shirt and pulled on the coolest jeans she owned, ones with a ripped knee. A swipe of lipgloss and a spritz of her favorite perfume and she closed the bedroom door, feeling determined to enjoy herself in spite of her daughter’s words.
She knew she wasn’t cool. But that didn’t mean she was lame. Or whatever kids said these days. Grabbing a jacket and her phone, she headed downstairs.
Leif sat with Alice Ann, who leafed through a huge photo book that showed the renovations of Laurel Woods.
