Page 2 of Sunshine

But then she says it. “It’s Jason, sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Mom,” I demand, my tone sharp enough to cut glass. “What is it? Just say it!”

A long sigh, and then she does. “He’s . . . he’s dead.”

CHAPTERTWO

THEN

“Layla!” my mother calls from somewhere downstairs.

I move toward my open doorway, shouting back in the general direction that her voice is coming from. “What?” I know she hates when I respond this way, that she’d much rather I make the effort to go find her than have us hollering back and forth through the house. But honestly, if she wanted a face-to-face conversation, she’s perfectly capable of coming up to my room.

I hear her sigh. “Are you going to make your lunch before you leave? You’re running late!”

“No,” I bellow back down, “I’m going to buy lunch today.”

Her response is only silence—I’m not sure if that was the answer she was looking for, but it’s my first day of high school and the last thing I want to do is lug around the dorky pink lunch box that I’ve carried since the sixth grade.

I return to the small vanity in my room, swiping my purplebrush through my dark wavy hair. As I look at my reflection, I frown, wishing that my wild strands—a gift from my biological father, I’m told—were tamer. My mother’s hair is straight and glossy, and I’m endlessly envious that my little sister inherited it. But then again, her father’s hair is thin and balding, so maybe the jury’s still out on who won the game of DNA roulette.

I’m wearing my new eyelet-embroidered dress with a scalloped hem and rhinestone-dusted sandals that sink me deep into my girly side, and while they make me feel pretty, it feels . . . stuffy. I’d much rather throw on an old pair of cutoffs and a loose, airy tank to battle the heavy humidity that’s a nightmare this time of year. But the first day of high school only comes once, and I have a lot riding on it.

My mother’s approval, for starters.

At least in a big-world sense. As she likes to remind me, this is the first day of one of the most foundational and transitional seasons of my life. These next four years of school will shape the woman who comes out on the other side, and could be the difference between future Layla being valedictorian with a cheerleading scholarship or a mediocre graduate with a fancy admission to community college.

I’m honestly more curious about future Layla’s fashion sense and how many times she can get away with ditching class before she gets caught. But I know better than to try to harness Mom’s expectations—especially when they’re raging in full force—so I resign myself to being agreeable if not supportive of her vision.

“Layla,” I hear her yell again. “Five-minute warning!”

I let out an exhale and watch through the mirror as a strand of hair blows away from my face. I’ve swiped on mascara and asmidge of eyeliner, and my lips are glossed in a pouty pink that enhances the blush on my cheeks. I scrutinize my face for any signs of blemishes or obvious makeup lines, but I don’t see any. This is as good as it’s gonna get.

I stand, snaking my arm through the shoulder strap of the lilac backpack resting on my chair, and feel it thump against my ribs. There are more books and supplies in there than I know what to do with, and the weight of it all feels like an omen on this muggy Tuesday morning. I’m looking forward to getting my locker assignment so I can shove the monstrosity inside and lock it away.

My eyes sweep the room as I mentally process through my checklist before leaving for the day and, once content I haven’t missed anything, I hustle down the stairs where my mother’s waiting in the kitchen.

It’s only seven thirty in the morning and she’s already dressed to the nines in a formal, cream-colored pantsuit, her iron-curled hair framing her small but severe face. Her hazel eyes pop from smokey, brown-shadowed lids, diamonds glinting brightly from her ears. As usual, she’s dripping in tasteful luxury . . . and it makes my stomach roll with unease. She smiles when she notices me approaching from the hall. “Good morning, bug! You look darling in that dress.” Her eyes sparkle as they slide down my frame. “Are you sure you don’t want to go with the close-toed mules?”

My eyes drop down to my sandals, white-polished toes in formation across the top of each one.

“No?” I respond with a slight lilt of uncertainty.

She waves a hand to disregard the thought. “You look perfect, sweetheart. Do you have your cheer bag ready?”

I nod. “It’s by the door.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to bring lunch? I’m not sure the school’s options are the healthiest . . .”

“Mom,” I cut her off. “I’m going to be late.”

She presses her lips together and gives a curt nod. “You’re right. And I need to get to the office anyway. Let’s go.” She grabs her purse from the console table by the door and a small leather briefcase that I haven’t seen before—I roll my eyes.

My ever-so-charitable mother recently volunteered to run a new employee-retention program at my step-father’s company. She’s been driving herself down to his office in the city for the last week and a half to “work,” like she has some whole new career or something.

And now, it seems, she carries a briefcase.

“Okay,” she starts as she swings open the front door, looking back at me with a smile as I bend to pick up my cheer bag. “Don’t forget that Suzanne will collect you from school later. Your father and I should be home around dinnertime.” I instantly trip on her use of the wordfather, but after righting myself I decide to let it go.

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