Belly Up Page 25

  “So I picked a school,” she said quietly, a couple of weeks after Cass was born. “And my parents are on board. We’re going to officially accept the offer this weekend.”

  “Oh?” A knot of dread formed in my gut at the possibility of Devi time reduced to holiday breaks and a summer when she had to split time with Bubbe, but then she said, “Yeah. Curry for the RN program. They have a campus in Plymouth I can commute to, no problem. That way I’m still around for you and her.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I appreciate it, but it’s your life. You can go anywhere you want. Don’t hold yourself back ’cause I got knocked up. I thought you wanted to be an astronaut.”

  “Excuse you. It’s not all about you, Sara. I want to go to Curry in Plymouth so I can spend more time with my wifey and niece.” She smirked. “Curry has an awesome nursing program. The fact that it’s local is just bonus points. And there’s this thing about astronauts being in danger a lot. I’d rather not leave my family behind. Especially not this little cutie. Huh, cute thing?”

  She coochie-cooed under Cass’s chin.

  I was so happy about it, I cried.

  ...again.

  Come to find out, crying was not just a pregnancy activity. It extended postpartum, too.

  Awesome.

  Wednesdays were Leaf days. He fed me, he stroked my hair. He changed diapers and crooned to my baby. He brought me my weekly work for school and delivered completed packets back to teachers, as set up through Mrs. Wong with permission from both my mom and Mr. Leon. He remained the world’s best boyfriend, tolerating me, tolerating my fawning grandmother and banana-pants mother. I missed him the days I couldn’t see him, but every night before bed, he FaceTimed me to tell me he loved me and was looking forward to the weekend when we could see each other again.

  Every night, I went to bed feeling cherished.

  Right up until Cass woke up again demanding boob.

  The two hours were nice, though. Appreciate the time you have, Ferris had said. I was trying to stick to that.

  Thursdays were Jack days. Most often he came with his mom, the two of them taking turns feeding her and burping her and changing her and doing all the things one should do around a newborn. But about a month after Cass was born, Jack showed up with Nimrod Father, who stood on the front porch with his hat actually in his hand like the tired, old cliché he was. He hadn’t seen his granddaughter yet, and I was starting to think he never would. But he knocked on that door and when Mormor answered, her brow lifted, her mouth pinched in a grim line, he looked her in the eye and said, “I was upset and I took it out on everyone else and I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I’d like to meet my granddaughter, if that’s alright. If not today, another day maybe. Jack’s here to see the baby in either case, but...”

  He didn’t make qualifiers about “if” she was his granddaughter. He didn’t try to excuse his behavior and make it anyone else’s fault. He took responsibility for his actions, he took ownership of his grandkid. It didn’t make everything better, but it helped and was, ultimately, why Mormor was even willing to ask me if I’d allow Mr. Ianelli near the baby.

  One look at Jack’s tired, anxious face, and I said yes. Mr. Ianelli came into the house a humbled man. He looked at me, he nodded, he offered the same apology he’d given Mormor and then he looked at his granddaughter and he cried. Kinda like how Cass cried when she’d just unloaded in her diaper. That gnarly, nasty old man who nearly got clubbed to death by Mormor’s shoes practically sobbed, his fingers pressed to his eyes, his shoulders heaving.

  It was weirdly cathartic and made me think he was human after all. I told Mom to stop calling him Nimrod Father after that.

  She was so disappointed.

  “Next, you’ll tell me I can’t call Santa the Chimney Shitter, either.”

  ...Mom had some issues, okay?

  Fridays became my free-for-all day. We used to gather in Morgan’s basement room with the Patriots paraphernalia from hell to watch movies but Mormor’s house became hangout central. The teenagers took over the living room, Leaf, me, Devi, Morgan, Erin and now Jack, who had become part of our group. There was no reason for him not to be invited—he was our age, he was cool, he was Cass’s father. Sometimes he brought his girlfriend over, but most times she took those nights to hang out with her friends. Jack was fine with that. He fit in great, and spent the majority of the evening holding his daughter and fawning.

  While we babysat Cass, Mom babysat Mormor.

  They started a Friday night mother-daughter dinner and a movie at the discount theater ritual, which was basically a huge cover for “get Mormor out of the house so she didn’t aggressively feed or chastise any of Serendipity’s friends.”

  “Mormor got to pick this week’s movie,” Mom announced to all of us after she’d changed out of her work clothes. She shouldered into her insulated vest, daring to take the weather-liar on TV’s word that March wouldn’t swing from fifty degrees to twenty. “It’s a drama about 9/11. I’m going to buy those anti-snoring nose strips in advance so I’m not rude.”

  “Astrid! It’s relevant social commentary. It has to be better than that thing you had me watch with the space people,” Mormor protested. “I didn’t like the angry green man. I liked the blond gentleman in the tight pants, though. I could watch a whole movie about him.”

  “Mom, you strumpet. Lucky for you, there are at least three of those. A Hemsworth for every day of the week.”

  Mormor tsked before stomping outside to the car. Mom waggled her fingers at all of us, pausing to press a kiss to the top of Cass’s big bowling ball–shaped head, and then one to the top of my big bowling ball–shaped head.

  “Be cool, my babies. Actual babies and teenagers alike. We’ll see you later.”

  I made Cass’s tiny hand wave bye-bye and then, as my friends chattered among themselves, as Leaf adjusted his grip on me so I could better lean against his chest while I held my daughter, I realized how good things were. It wasn’t the life I’d planned. It wasn’t the life anyone would have probably wanted for me, but it was a life, and it was good.

  And most importantly?

  It was mine.

  That’s all that mattered.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Dead Little Mean Girl by Eva Darrows

  Acknowledgments

  Every artist needs a good support squad and mine’s pretty fabulous.

  Thank you, David, for breakfast every morning and putting up with me all the fluffin’ time. That’s no easy feat. I am a huge pain in the butt region.

  Thank you, Becky, for helping me through the worst of the stress all day, every day. You are a treasure.

  Thank you, Lauren, for being the best friend anyone could truly hope for. I don’t know where I’d be without you.

  Thank you, Eric, for always making me laugh. Also for your occasional bits of wisdom, which I attribute to your fabulous beard.

  Thank you, Greg, for being the go-to guy...the one who I can always count on to take the lead when I’m just too tired.

  Thank you, Emily, for coming into my life with your take-no-prisoners attitude and ready smile.

  Thank you, Sioban, for being the woman who will always have my back, armed with pointy sticks if necessary.

  Thank you to Elsa, Dill, Evie, Sarah, Corey, Ana and all the other folks who hold me accountable for my words. You are great friends first and foremost. The wonderful helper part is secondary but appreciated.

  But wait, there’s more!

  Thank you, Miriam, for being both agent and part-time therapist when my brain stalls out and doesn’t let me believe I belong here. You are my number one defense against imposter syndrome.

  Thank you, TS, for always keeping my best interests in mind and rallying for me when I don’t know how to rally for myself. You’re a friend and an a
dvocate and I adore you.

  And...

  Thank you to my parents, all of you, for making me the person I am and supporting the weirdness that comes tumbling from my fingers. I love you.

  Thank you to Dorothy, my muse, who should have been around to see all this. She did, it, Dot! She did it.

  Last but not least:

  Thank you to the readers. I wouldn’t be here without you. None of us would. Your imaginations and willingness to come on long adventures keep authors afloat. Heck, it keeps the world afloat. Keep on being rock stars.

  Dead Little Mean Girl

  by Eva Darrows

  Chapter One

  Quinn Littleton was found facedown in my garage at nine in the morning on a Monday, her corpse dressed up like Malibu Barbie. Her boobs were crammed into a homemade coconut-shell bra that tied off behind her back with pink ribbons. She wore a hula-style grass skirt she’d trimmed so short it barely covered anything, and thanks to her unflattering final position of facedown, rump pointed at the garage doors, the first thing anyone saw of her corpse was a sliver of thong bisecting perfect butt cheeks.

  Quinn Littleton was dead.

  And it was sorta my fault.

  Did I mention she’s my sister?

  I probably should have explained that with the whole “dead in my garage” thing. Hot, popular girls don’t just die there like it’s some kind of suburban elephant graveyard. Quinn is—was—related to me. Sort of. She wasn’t my birth sister but she was for all intents and purposes my stepsister. The only reason she wasn’t my actual stepsister is our moms hadn’t married yet. So Quinn and I lived together, had rooms next to one another and were forced to endure holidays together all without an actual and factual sisterly bond.

  I wouldn’t have wanted one, given the choice. We didn’t jell.

  Quinn was a mean girl. We’re not talking “mouthy” or “occasionally moody” or “sharp around the edges.” We’re talking “full-throttle mega-mean girl with acid spit and laser eyes.” That’s awful to say about the recently departed, but you had to see her in action to understand. If she didn’t like you, she took insidious glee in decimating you until you were a twitching pile of pudding beneath her stilettos. Worse? She got away with it. People allowed a lava-spewing horror show to rule the school because she was hot and popular.

  High school is gross.

  It didn’t help that I’m one of those nerdy girls—brainy, glasses, I wear jeans every day and my morning beauty regime consists of washing my face, brushing my teeth and sticking my hair into a ponytail. It was mortifying for Princess Pedicure, who got up a full hour and a half before we left for school to make sure she had time to set her curlers, apply her makeup and match her underwear to her miniskirts.

  There’s nothing wrong with investing in your appearance. There is, however, something wrong with telling everyone they’re disgusting because they don’t go on the latest kale-and-prune-juice diet to be “Africa skinny.” That’s a direct quote, by the way. Africa skinny.

  Quinn’s worldview was severely limited.

  * * *

  Quinn and I met a year after our moms started hanging out. We had no idea that they were getting it on behind closed doors, but they hadn’t advertised it, either. They were two quasi-recent divorcées who had joined a women’s support group and found one another. It was martinis on Fridays, late-night conversation and a lot of texting. Which became a lot of shopping trips and dinner dates. And weekend day trips. And then full weekend getaways to Cape Cod and weeks in Maine.

  Nine months later, my mother sat me down in the kitchen to inform me that she was dating Karen Littleton, who was a lawyer and “a wonderful person who makes me feel special.” I was surprised, yes, but not bothered. Mom’s business was Mom’s business. I didn’t want to think about her sex life regardless of the gender of her partner. But Karen had reported that her daughter, Quinn, “who is the same age as Emma and I’m sure they’ll be fast friends,” took it poorly. There was yelling and screaming and a lot of “how can you do this to me?”

  I was a peach by comparison, especially since the only reaction I could manage was, “Her daughter needs to calm down” and “Man, Dad will be pissed.” Which she did, and he was, and I predicted all that because I’m smarter than the average bear.

  Three months after the big reveal, Mom and I had another sit-down talk because Karen and Quinn were moving in. I hadn’t met either of them by that point—Mom had kept her relationship separate so I wouldn’t get hit with shrapnel if things went bad. But a romantic week in Aruba and the happy couple determined it was time to take the next big step. I wasn’t super excited about living with strangers and I said as much. Mom apologized but it was pretty clear it was going to happen whether or not I liked it. When I told Dad, he offered an open door, but...

  I love my dad. It’s just that he took the divorce to mean open season on thirty-year-old females. I didn’t want to have to deal with seeing him as the Godfather of Skank, nor did I want to be home by myself the rest of the time—he was a pilot and out of town a lot. Stuck between two bad situations, I picked Karen and Quinn.

  To this day, I’m not sure that was a smart decision.

  * * *

  The first meeting of the East and West Side lesbian families was “interesting.” My mom is short, curvy and olive-skinned thanks to her Sicilian heritage. The hair at her temples is graying, but the rest of it is a beautiful chestnut that hangs to her tailbone. She has round features and her eyes are a pale, pretty brown. She’s an art teacher, so she spends a lot of time picking paint and clay out from under her fingernails. Karen is her absolute opposite. Tall, lithe and imposing, she wears suits and carries a briefcase and actually owns more than one pair of high heels. She’s a Nordic empress with blond hair, blue eyes and skin so pale she makes paper look tan.

  From the moment Karen stepped out of her silver Mercedes with the black leather seats, I was uncomfortable. She was dressed in her version of casual—khakis and a white shirt—but she obviously had money and she comported herself like it. I grew up blue-collar middle class, and seeing her polish made me feel grubby by comparison. I fidgeted as she approached, her capped teeth gleaming in the sun.

  “Hi, Emma. I’m Karen. So glad to finally meet you.” She flashed a smile before settling into Mom’s side. Mom shifted her weight, her cheeks flushed. She was nervous, though I didn’t know if that was because I was meeting Karen for the first time or because she was finally meeting Quinn. To Karen’s credit, she noticed my mom’s discomfort. She grazed her fingers across Mom’s biceps. Then she glanced at me to see if the contact freaked me out. I was more impressed that she cared about Mom’s welfare than to sweat a display of affection.

  “Hey. Hi,” I said. “It’s... Yeah. Cool.”

  I sounded like a stammering moron. But what if Karen turned out to be Cruella de Vil? What if she hated me? What if she made my mom unhappier than my dad did after that whole midlife-crisis flight-attendant-humping fiasco?

  “Quinn incoming. I’m sure you two will get along,” Karen said, motioning at the Mercedes. “She’s worried about going to a new high school in the fall.”

  Karen sounded so very certain, like an Emma-and-Quinn friendship was a preordained thing. I had a momentary flash of hope that Quinn and I could watch Doctor Who together or maybe nerd out about CW shows. If she was a reader, I had four bookshelves in my room loaded with comics and trade paperbacks and all The Dark Tower books.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad, I said to myself. Maybe it’ll be cool. Then Quinn stepped out of the car. She was perfect. Her strawberry blonde hair hung to her elbows, her skin so flawless it’d make a model weep. I was short, chubby and dark. She was tall, willowy and golden. I wore three-dollar flip-flops. She wore Gucci pumps that cost more than my entire outfit. Her makeup was perfect; my lip balm was a dollar-bin find. I held a book in my h
and, she held—

  —a purse dog. A Chihuahua, to be exact, that I later found out was named Versace.

  She stood there, her mongrel snarling at me like it wanted to eat my face. I hugged my well-loved copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban like it was the last bit of sanity in an insane world. She eyed me, I eyed her and both our faces fell. The universe had conspired to bring high school elite and high school nerd-herd together, and wasn’t that hysterical?

  “Hi,” I said, forcing my lips into something that resembled a smile but probably looked more like I wanted to puke.

  “Oh, good. Lesbian is hereditary. Not cool, Mom,” Quinn snapped before tromping back to the car, her familiar yapping all the way. She slammed the door and pulled out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen. She was talking about me already—to people I didn’t know. And she thought I was...

  “I’m not a lesbian,” I said to the Mercedes. I turned around to blink at Karen and Mom. “I’m not a lesbian,” I repeated stupidly. It wasn’t that I minded the misperception, but I felt a need to clarify for Karen’s sake. Or maybe I wanted to say something that wasn’t, “Wow, Karen. Your daughter sucks.”

  Karen groaned and ran a hand down her face, her gaze swinging up to the summer sky. “I am so sorry. She’s taking this poorly.”

  From that point on, so was I.

  Chapter Two

  Karen and Quinn moved in just before my junior year started. Quinn sulked, brooded, complained and was an all-around Misery Princess for the first week. Day eight was when my raging hate-on for her was born. She’d started the day with, “Girls are supposed to have two boobs, not one. Get a bra that fits,” over breakfast, and that was annoying, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. The conversation I overheard with her father later in the day, however, was another story.

  My mother had worked hard to make Quinn feel welcome. The month before Quinn and Karen’s arrival, Mom painted Quinn’s new bedroom Quinn’s favorite color, refinished her floor to beautiful hardwood and bought her a new, expensive bedroom set. She’d stocked the house with Quinn’s favorite foods, and cleared space for her in the upstairs bathroom. She bought her a desktop computer so Quinn could do her homework with relative ease, and even added Quinn to the car insurance so Quinn could take advantage of her driver’s permit.