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  She flails an arm at us. “Get out! Get out!”

  We know better than to say anything. We get out.

  Somehow we manage not to laugh until we’re safely in my room.

  4

  Friday, 4:15 p.m.

  Mimi: The Magazine

  Friends, enemies or frenemies? Find out where you stand. Also, don’t be chicken: ten bold new ways to serve your favourite fowl. Available on newsstands now.

  Selena’s rolling on the floor, killing herself laughing, when all of a sudden she winces. “Yowch! What the…?”

  She gets up, rubbing her hip. She’s annoyed for a second, then her face just, like, blooms. She reaches into her pocket and goes, “The thing!…I forgot about the thing!”

  She jumps onto the bed beside me, all excited. I get this little memory of being about nine and the two of us finding something—I can’t remember what, an old key maybe—and thinking it was magic. We were too old to actually believe that kind of stuff but it didn’t matter. It was our own little world. We could believe whatever we wanted to back then.

  I’m looking at Selena still sort of bouncing on the bed and I suddenly remember the whole concept of “fun.” It’s like I stumbled on a picture of someplace I forgot I ever even visited and, just like that, all the fabulous things I did on the trip start coming back to me. I get this happy feeling in my stomach. I almost laugh. Life’s so weird. Half an hour ago, I didn’t even want to answer the door. Now, I don’t know, I feel part of something again.

  Selena slumps against the wall and goes, “Damn.” She tosses the thing at me. “I thought it was some big honking sapphire,” she says, “but it’s just some ugly football ring.”

  I smile and shake my head. Who cares what it is? I slip the ring over my thumb and try to read what’s written on it. It’s kind of grubby, as if it’s been through a lot. “‘Port Mutton, N.S.…’”

  “That’s Minton, you moron.” Selena makes this little one-ha laugh. “Port Mutton. Are you nuts? Who’d name a place Port Mutton?” She gives me this squiggly eyebrow look.

  I squiggle my eyebrows right back at her. Old buddies. I say, “Yeah, well, someone named a place Boca Raton. You know, like, Mouth of Zee Rat? Doesn’t stop rich people from going there.”

  “And I guess you’d know about that, wouldn’t you,” she says.

  My face goes hot. Is she pissed off? Does she think I’m bragging? Why would I brag about being rich? Like I need to be anyone else’s target.

  Selena clicks her tongue. “Still doesn’t make it Port Mutton.”

  Relax. She’s okay. She’s just joking.

  I say, “Fine. So it’s Port Minton High School Panthers. Whatever. What’s my mother doing with a high school football ring in her bedroom?”

  She winks. “Do you really want to know?”

  Anita would kill her if she heard her say something like that. I just gag.

  Selena says, “Sorry,” and gags too. We both laugh.

  I stare at the ring. It’s huge, even for me. Mimi could no doubt wear it as a bracelet.

  If I’d found it anywhere else, it would have been yeah, so what? A football ring. Big deal. But finding it in Mom’s room is just plain bizarre. Mimi has nothing in her room. Nothing, I mean, that a decorator or a stylist or an assistant of some type didn’t pick out, buy and unpack for her. Even that picture of me came from Anita one Christmas. Where would Mimi get something like this?

  And where did it come from exactly? It couldn’t have been on the chair. I would have noticed. Was it inside the chair? That’s even weirder.

  I say, “Seriously though. Don’t you think someone like Mimi would be more likely to have a big honking sapphire than a football ring? I mean, really. A high school football ring? Not her style at all.”

  Selena doesn’t disagree. She just doesn’t seem to find it all that interesting.

  “Who’s to say it’s even Mimi’s?”

  Good point.

  “Maybe it’s your Dad’s.”

  I go, “My Dad’s?”

  Selena bugs out her eyes and says, “Joke.”

  We crack up. Dad’s the lead singer in this lame rock band. He’s the only person I know with a smaller ass than Selena’s. He’s hardly the type to play football—unless, of course, they needed someone to play goal post. Besides, Mom hasn’t talked to Dad in at least five years. (I can’t imagine how long it’s been since he was in her bedroom. Ick. Don’t even want to think about that.)

  “Okay, then whose is it?” I say.

  Selena’s looking for split ends. “How am I supposed to know? Could be anyone’s. Maybe the guy who upholstered the chair hid it there. Maybe the moving man dropped it. Maybe”—she goes totally cross-eyed trying to inspect this big hunk of hair—“you should just ask your mother. Seems easy enough to me.”

  “Yeah,” I say—but what I think is As if…No way would I mention this to Mimi. Selena has completely misread our relationship. (She shouldn’t believe everything she hears on TV.)

  I let it drop. The silence starts getting awkward. I wish we were both laughing again but too much time has already passed for me to go, Wasn’t that hilarious when the chair…, or, Did you see the look on Anita’s face when…That kind of stuff has got to be natural to work.

  I rack my brain for something to say but all I can think is, Danger. Danger. I’m so weird around people now.

  Why wouldn’t I be?

  You think someone’s your friend and you’re all happy and relaxed until you find out they just want tickets to the show or a chance to meet Robert Pattinson or even—and this is my favourite—a good shot of the dimples in your thighs so they can plaster it all over the Internet. How many times do you have to let yourself get burned before you say, “I’m not playing any more”? How many times do you have to get sucker-punched before you realize you can’t trust anyone?

  Selena’s still picking through her hair. It’s like she couldn’t care less about me. That’s somehow reassuring.

  I should just chill out. We’ve known each other since we were babies. Selena could get tickets to You, You and Mimi whenever she wants. She was here when Beyoncé and Pink and all those girls came for Mimi’s Celebrity Sleepover. She must have lots of incriminating pictures of me. She’s never done anything with them. She wouldn’t. Anita would kill her.

  What am I afraid of? We’re having fun. It’s okay.

  I wet my lips. I say, “So, like, what are you up to these days?”

  She’s going at her cuticles now. She’s clearly not trying to impress me. That’s good.

  “The usual,” she says. She doesn’t even look up. “Working full-time at Willie’s for the summer. Babysitting most nights. When I find the time, hanging with my friends. What about you?”

  “Uh…Nothing,” I say.

  Now she looks up. “Nothing? No job?”

  She doesn’t wait for an answer “No. I guess you don’t need a job, do you. So whaddya do, then?”

  “Don’t know,” I say. I try to smile. “Not much.”

  “You still draw?”

  “No.”

  “Read?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  “Go shopping?”

  I shake my head. What have I started?

  “You must do something. C’mon. Go to movies? Get your nails done? Commit acts of vandalism?…Stop me if I’m getting warm.”

  I’m not sure if that’s contempt or sarcasm I’m hearing but it doesn’t matter. I recognize the signs. She’s seen who I really am and she doesn’t like it. Oh well. So much for my little trip to Funsville.

  I wipe my tongue over my teeth and look away.

  “Seriously. What do you do all day? Stare at the walls?”

  I go, “Whatever.” I’m so pathetic. Getting all excited! Did I really think we were going to be friends again, just like that?

  I start looking at my hands as if it’s my turn to fix my cuticles. My skin is dry and scaly. My thumbnails are all weird and ridged and stubby. I
bunch my hands up into fists so she can’t see them.

  She gets up off the bed. “People like you make me so mad.”

  I can’t believe it. “Why am I making you mad?”

  She pauses, I presume, for effect. “I’ll tell you why. Because I work two jobs all summer long. I pay my mother a hundred and fifty bucks a month room-and-board. I work for every T-shirt I own, every lip gloss, every minute of my cellphone plan. I’d love to learn to dance or take guitar lessons or do Pilates, but I can’t because I have to clean the apartment and do the laundry and buy the groceries. Meanwhile, you!…You! You’ve got all the time in the world. You live in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. You’ve got your own Visa and a bank account that somebody else fills up for you. You’ve got the life I dream of. And what do you do? You waste it! You apparently don’t even wash your hair. I can’t stand it.”

  She thinks she’s so smart but she doesn’t get it at all.

  “Like, seriously. Why don’t you quit schlepping around and just do something?”

  I make it as simple for her as I can. “Like what? There’s nothing to do here.”

  She holds her mouth open as if she’s too shocked to speak. (I should be so lucky.)

  “Right. Nothing to do here!” She makes a big point of looking at my computer, my sound system, my drum kit, my clothes. “Okay. Then go somewhere else!”

  Sure. Where’s this miracle place that would make everything better? My eyes can look as scary as hers. I say, “Oh yeah? Like where?”

  She pretends to strangle me. “What difference does it make? Paris…Rome…Hong Kong!”

  I smile. “Been there. Done that.”

  She picks the ring off the bed and biffs it at me. “Go to frigging Port Minton, then! Find the guy who gave this to your mother. Join the cheerleading squad. Sell peanuts at halftime. I don’t care. Quit being such a spoiled brat. Get up off your ass and do something!”

  She wipes the corner of her mouth and smooths out her polyester tunic. She looks me up and down. “I don’t get it. How come you got to be so lucky? You got money. You got brains. You even got boobs! You won the jackpot—and you’re too stupid to enjoy it.”

  She sashays over to the door.

  “See you later,” she says. “Unlike some people, I’ve got things to do.”

  Oh, she loved that snappy little rejoinder! I try my best to laugh.

  5

  Friday, 5 p.m.

  You, You and Mimi (rerun)

  “Streamlined Living.” Five leading organizational experts show you how to declutter your home, your life and your personal relationships.

  Selena’s standing by the elevator. She looks like she’s watching for cops while her buddies rob the joint. Anita’s dragged me to the door so she can keep giving orders all the way out. I don’t fight it. The longer I can keep my mouth shut, the faster they’ll both get out of here.

  “There’s a nice low-fat meal for you in the oven. I got the recipe from Tuesday’s show. Eat the vegetables. I’ll know if you throw them out. Don’t forget—tomorrow’s Saturday. You’re going to your dad’s. Tony will pick you up for the airport at twelve forty-five. That leaves you plenty of time to see your grandfather in the morning. Visiting hours are ten to twelve. Don’t look at me that way. Just because he doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. What else?…Oh yes. I packed some gym gear in your bag. You need to get some exercise. It’ll help you get out of this slump. Remember to bring your retainer. I don’t want to have to FedEx it all the way to San Francisco again. That’s expensive. Don’t wear those sweats on the plane. They’re disgusting. It’s not fair to the other passengers—and besides, you’re a beautiful girl. You should flaunt it. Quit sneering at me. It’s true. You have lots of lovely clothes to wear. That nice blue-green shirt your mother brought back from Barcelona matches your eyes perfectly. I laid it out in your room with a new pair of jeans. They have angled back pockets that are very flattering for your figure type. It’s time you washed your hair. People would kill to have that gorgeous auburn hair—so look after it. Believe me, that new girlfriend of your father’s is not the kind to understand dirty hair. And why don’t you start wearing your contacts again? It doesn’t make sense, you going around in those ugly old glasses when you’re so pretty in your contacts. Tony will make sure you’ve got your purse. Your passport is in the zippered pocket on the right. I also put in a couple hundred bucks just in case you don’t have time to get to the ATM or your dad forgets to pick you up at the airport again. In the meantime, turn off the TV, for heaven’s sake! Why do you need to watch that endless “Mimi Marathon”? You can see your mother when she comes home. Which reminds me. She called. She’s very upset. She hates to miss your last evening home but this new syndication deal is more complicated than she thought. She’ll try to get back before you go to bed—which, by the way, should be no later than eleven. You look exhausted. Use some of that Visine I left in your bathroom.”

  Selena sighs. “Ma, c’mon! The elevator.”

  Anita waves her off like a cat batting away a mouse. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  She turns back and looks me right in the eye. “What am I forgetting? Money, ID, retainer, clothes, grandfather, father, mother…” She bites her lip. “I guess that’s everything. No. There’s one more thing…”

  I know what’s coming. It’s going to hurt.

  She reaches up and puts her arms around me. I pull back but she just hangs on tighter.

  “I forgot to tell you how much I love you. I’m going to miss you. I don’t know what’s bothering you but I know things have been rough for you lately. I know we’ve been at each other’s throats. You need a break. Maybe when you get back, you, me and Selena can all go out somewhere. Just like old times…” She kisses my cheek and, even though she’s way smaller than me, rocks me back and forth like I’m a baby or something. She mumbles, “My little Birdie…”

  I can feel her face is wet. I’m going away for three weeks and she’s crying.

  I should ignore her but I can’t. For a second, I feel myself kind of melt. I lean on her. I want to just let go, give in. I take a breath and stop myself.

  “Fine, okay,” I say. “See ya.” I should say I love her too, but I don’t. I turn away.

  Anita rubs my hand against her face before I can pry it loose.

  “Text me as soon as you get there…And lock the door behind you,” she says. “I’m staying here until I hear the dead bolt click.”

  6

  Friday, 8 p.m.

  You, You and Mimi (rerun)

  “Sweet Treats.” Remember when Mimi was a redhead? This early episode is an interesting trip down fashion’s memory lane. It also features a particularly cute cooking segment.

  This is an old episode. I know that because there are pictures of me in the opening montage. Mom and me riding a tandem bike. Me getting my hair cut for the first time. That cranky English lady teaching us which fork to use. I forgot I used to be in the opening. When did they change it?

  Why?

  What did I do?

  This must be a Wednesday show. “Eating Like a Birdie” is on. I remember it perfectly. This girl named Mattea Cacchione was a production assistant back then. She was so nice. Anita would bring me to the studio about an hour before start time. Mattea would meet us in the lobby and take me upstairs. They’d put me in my little white chef’s uniform. Annalise would do my makeup and fix my hair. It was bright red and really curly back then. If I was lucky, Mom would get her makeup done at the same time. Sometimes she was too busy and I wouldn’t see her until my segment came on. I’d be really excited by then. The audience would all go oooh when I ran out and hugged her.

  Here I am now. I don’t look nervous at all. Funny. I’d be freaked if I had to do it today. Back then it was just natural. My life.

  I walk out on set. I have to keep pushing my chef’s hat up out of my eyes. It’s kind of cute. The wardrobe person probably made it too big on purpose. (Wha
t was his name? Darryl? Darrin? He acted nice but he wasn’t really. He kept on mentioning my “nice round tummy.” I wonder how he’d feel if I kept talking about his “nice bulbous nose.”)

  Mom’s waiting for me on the kitchen set in her I’m just following orders! apron. I scramble up onto the stool so I can see above the counter. She says “Hello, Little Birdie!”—something she picked up from Anita—and I say, “Hello, Big Mama!” She pretends she doesn’t like to be called “Big.” How dumb is that? I’m probably the only person in the whole studio who’d think she’s big. I’m about five. Everyone’s big to me.

  She asks me what I’m going to cook today. I say, “Peanut butter truffles!” just like Anita and I practised. It comes out “twuffles.” The audience loves it.

  The truffles aren’t much more than sugar, peanut butter and chocolate chips. Mom and I each have a bowl and a big wooden spoon. I tell her what to do. She always says, “Yes, ma’am!” or “Right away!” I mix everything together, then take a fistful of dough and roll it into a ball. I’m concentrating. I don’t want to make a mistake. Anita’s told me to make just three truffles, not the whole batch. I’m old enough now to know that you can’t take too long doing stuff on TV. You have to leave time for the commercials.

  I push my hat up again. Everybody laughs really hard. (I remember this so well!) I didn’t know why. I look around to see what’s so funny. The camera zooms in on this big smear of peanut butter across my forehead. A chocolate chip is stuck right in the middle. Close-up on Mimi. She’s screwing her face up in this really exaggerated way, like, Should I tell her—or shouldn’t I?

  I’m worried we’re taking too long. Why isn’t she doing anything? She hasn’t even started to roll out her truffles. I say, “Hurry, Mommy, or there won’t be time for our sponsors!” Huge laugh at that.

  Mimi jumps into action. She’s being very messy. I don’t understand. She’s never messy at home. She’d be mad if I ever did that. This can’t be good. I’m not sure what to do. The show had just started to get big. Lots of people are watching. People in twenty-three countries worldwide! I know that because Anita lets me watch the show every day while she’s making supper. Mom shouldn’t be making a mess in front of everybody.