“Hey, honey! Who won the game?” Mama asks from her bedroom. My light-brown hair is free of the wig cap and my face is scrubbed clean of makeup. The black hoodie has been replaced with one depicting my high school’s name and mascot.
Carrying a brown paper bag, I close the short distance from the main living area to Mama’s room. I drop it on the TV tray on the side of her bed before crawling in next to her.
“We lost. But it was close,” I say.
Mama digs in the bag and a smile breaks out across her face. “Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t have.”
Cinnamon wafts through the room, and my heart nearly bursts seeing this small moment of happiness over something as simple as a late-night treat. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re getting too skinny.”
Mama unwraps the bakery paper and the big fat cinnamon roll looks as decadent as it smells. “My favorite,” she whispers.
“I know,” I whisper back.
While she takes small bites, I pick up one of the square pieces of paper from the stack on the bedside table and start folding it in the way she’s taught me. Mama watches me while she eats, not correcting me when I make a wrong fold, instead letting me find my mistake on my own.
After several minutes, the small white origami swan takes shape in my hand.
“Oh, that’s a pretty one,” she says, plucking it out of the palm of my hand and adding it to the collection on the built-in shelf in her headboard. There are lots of different paper animals in all colors and sizes standing like sentries guarding over her. Mama has always been good with her hands; but no matter how many times she shows me, the swan is the only one I’ve mastered.
She’s about half done with the cinnamon roll when she’s wrapping it back up and putting it on the table next to the bed. “I’ll finish the rest tomorrow,” she says, even though we both know she won’t. It’s amazing she ate as much as she did.
“What are your plans the rest of the weekend?” she asks as she snuggles back down in the bed.
“I’m working at the flower shop. Big wedding tomorrow night.”
She turns her head toward me, her frail hand reaching out to my face. “You work too much. It’s your senior year, you should be out with your friends, having fun.”
I shake my head and swallow down the huge lump in my throat. “I can do both,” I lie. And we both let me get away with it.
“Have you heard back from any of the colleges you applied for yet?” Mama asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet, but should be any day now.” I can’t tell her I never applied because we couldn’t spare the application fee, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, she probably won’t be here to see I’m still stuck in this small town come fall.
“I know they’re all gonna want you. You’ll have your pick.”
I nod along but don’t say anything. But then she’s leaning closer and clutching my hand.
“One day soon you’ll be all grown.” She lets out a laugh and adds, “What am I saying, you’re already there. Taking care of me and everything else. I want so much for you, Lucca. A home and a family of your own one day. I want you to have that house we’ve always dreamed of. Maybe you can build it in that fancy new neighborhood near the lake.”
“And I’ll have a room just for you,” I add, playing along with the fantasy. “We’ll paint it green since it’s your favorite and you can get one of those beds that has a canopy on top. We can plant a garden in the backyard.”
She reaches up and pushes a stray clump of hair out of my face, then tucks it behind my ear. “We’ll grow tomatoes and cucumbers.”
“And carrots.”
Her eyelids get heavy. I know she’s only seconds from slipping back into sleep, even though she’s probably slept all day. “Of course, carrots. They’re your favorite. And I’ll make you a carrot cake.”
She falls asleep and I lean over to kiss her cheek, trying not to panic over how cool her skin feels. I add another blanket to the mountain she’s already burrowed under before scooting out of the bed.
I head straight for the tiny room at the front of our trailer that is nothing more than a large closet, but it’s like stepping into another world when I pass through the door. Before cancer ravaged her body, Mama spent every day in this room behind her sewing machine and craft table. Mothers came from all over North Carolina to have her make pageant dresses, prom dresses, and even the occasional wedding dress for their daughters. When I was little, I’d sit at Mama’s feet and watch these plain girls walk in and then somehow be transformed once she got her hands on them. It was in that moment that I learned you can become someone else with the right hair, the right dress, and the right accessories.
Bolts of fabric and rolls of ribbon are stacked against one wall, while the particle-board shelving behind the sewing machine holds jars stuffed full of feathers and rhinestones and any other trimming you could imagine.
When Mama first got sick, I took over her orders. I’d been helping her in this room for as long as I can remember, so it wasn’t a big leap. But pageant dresses and custom-made costume jewelry didn’t bring in enough money to get Mama the treatments she needed or pay for all the medication she was on. So I had to get creative.
The job opening at the flower shop in nearby Greensboro was just the answer. Women love coming in the shop decked out in their best jewelry. They love talking about the parties they are hosting and the impressive guest list of those invited. And of course, they need us to deliver the arrangements and make sure everything is just right.
With so much pre-party commotion, it’s easy to slip in a forgotten room and unlatch a window. The key is not to take something when I’m there delivering flowers. That brings too much suspicion on the small group who were there early in the day. It’s better to let the missus get dressed for the party. Let her pick through her jewelry to decide what will look best. Make sure she remembers what was left in that little jewelry box before the party kicks off.
And then, when the house is bursting with guests and valet and waitstaff and bartenders, the forgotten flower shop girl has a chance to slip back in and grab the pieces that didn’t get chosen for the night. The police will inevitably ask when the last time Mrs. Albritton saw these three pieces was, and she will say it was just before the party started, therefore taking the flower delivery people out of the running of possible suspects.
I also learned that it would be best to keep that version of me separate from the real version. Lucca Marino is a seventeen-year-old high school senior who sews dresses and makes costume jewelry to help her mother pay the bills. The girl at the flower store has different hair, different makeup, and answers to a different name.
It takes some time to pry the stones from their settings before I can drop the gold into a small melting pot. Next week I’ll drive in the opposite direction, crossing into Virginia, to get rid of the stones and gold. No one ever recognizes their stones once they’re free of their settings.
It’s a lot of risk for a couple hundred bucks, but we need every penny we can get. I’ve learned you’ve got to target the exact right woman. She’s well off enough that she hires a professional florist to decorate for her party and has a few nice pieces of jewelry that she feels comfortable enough to shove into a bathroom drawer but not so well off that there’s a safe to crack or a security system to disarm.
I work carefully. Looking at each piece through an LED magnifying lamp, it’s slow work prying each prong off without damaging the stone. Mama would have had this done in minutes. Well, not really. She’d beat my ass if she knew what I was using her tools for. I had to decide a long time ago that what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
I finish up just before midnight. I still have a paper to write, and Mama needs another dose of her meds before I can crawl into bed. Putting the tools away and cutting off the light, I’m already thinking about the wedding tomorrow night.
Chapter 8
Present Day
It takes ten minutes to get myself under control. Panicking was a dumb move, and one I hope I don’t end up regretting.