“I poured that for myself, Sutton.” She’s glaring at me. “I needed it.”
Funny, when Laurel is around our family instead of my friends, she takes on the role of the whiny, annoying, self-righteous, victimized younger sister. “Why did you need it so badly?” I ask. “It’s still summer. Just go back to bed.”
“I’m hanging out with Thayer all day, and we’re planning on watching a meteor shower tonight,” Laurel snaps. “I’m going to need energy.”
Thayer. I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek. Is that why he didn’t text back—because he was texting Laurel? “Where are you watching this meteor shower?”
Laurel’s eyebrows shoot up, and I suddenly wonder if I’ve seemed too eager and curious. “Why do you care?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I say quickly.
Laurel huffily fixes herself more coffee. Our parents flit around trying to get ready for work—my father is a doctor, my mom a lawyer. I check my phone under the table, glancing at it without actually expecting much—but I’m rewarded with a bright new speech bubble indicating a new message. A little hum shoots down my spine. I silently scroll a thumb over the screen.
It’s Thayer.
Where do you stand on savory sorbets?
I smile. Okay, that was a cute message. Maybe, just maybe, it was even worth the wait. Is it an invitation of some sort? I said I wanted to see him—does he want to go out for sorbet?
I suppress a grin, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I feel relieved, maybe too relieved, that he wrote me back. But I’m in no rush to respond.
Now he can wait.
Mom sits down at the table with a bowl of granola and soy milk. “So, Laurel, is it nice to have Thayer back from soccer camp?”
Thayer. He’s everywhere. That fluttery feeling is back.
“Uh-huh,” Laurel stammers. Her eyes dart back and forth nervously and her movements are suddenly jerky, like a marionette.
“He grew a few inches, didn’t he?” Mom asks between bites.
“I haven’t noticed,” Laurel says, but a rosy flush creeps up her neck and perspiration beads her upper lip. She fiddles with her Tory Burch studded leather wrap bracelet, winding it forward and back across her wrist.
I swallow hard, the fluttery feeling inside me turning slightly acidic. I’ve known forever that Laurel likes Thayer, but I wonder if her feelings have intensified with his summer upgrade. The thought fills me with jealousy—and drive. Stealing a crush from my sister is old news, another trick that’s seriously beneath me. But maybe, just maybe, this is another perk to getting Thayer to like me. It will be nice to remind Laurel that no matter how things are with Mom and Dad at home, she isn’t the blazing superstar everywhere she goes.
8
BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED
I open my eyes and look around. The room is cast in a blue-black haze, images shapeless and sounds muffled, as though the entire scene were unfolding underwater. Wherever I am, it’s nighttime, and I am not alone.
In the dim light, I make out the four walls of a small, nearly bare room, a curtain-less window looking out into a parking lot. The air smells of pine-scented room spray and stale cigarette smoke. I hear a banging, then murmurs of conversation coming from somewhere nearby, some place outside of this room.
I’m not sure where I am. I’m not sure how old I am, either. Not seventeen, certainly—more like four, five. I look down and see a threadbare floral nightie that barely skims my knees on my body. The elastic cuffs of the sleeves cut into the flesh of my upper arms, and a stiff, scratchy, polyester motel blanket is pulled up to my chin. When I look over, I see a shadowy figure sitting at a small metal table by the window, drumming her fingers across the surface, staring into space.
“Mom?” I call out.
The figure turns, but I can’t see her face. I try my hardest—I want just one memory of my real mother, something I can hold on to. Only, this makes no sense: I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old, not four. I don’t have any memories of my mother. I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. Still, I struggle to see. Then, a hand that’s the exact shape and size as my own taps me on the shoulder. I turn again and look into another face. A mirror.
“Hello?” I ask. My mirror image doesn’t speak.
I start awake with a small scream. This time, I’m in my regular bedroom. My butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets are tangled in a sweaty ball at my ankles. My bare legs are cool and sticky from the blast of the air-conditioning. I look at the clock—it’s not even midnight. I fell asleep early tonight, exhausted after several hours of playing tennis with Charlotte at the court down the street; I don’t want to give Nisha the satisfaction of being rusty when the season starts next week.