Page 50 of You and Me, For Real
For an awkward moment, I think she wants to hug me, but I don’t get up from my seat. I’m just not quite there yet. I need more time. She always served as Mom’s lackey. I’m hesitant to believe she wants to see me of her own will, and not as part of some grand scheme Mom has to swindle me back onto the show.
She slips into the chair across from me. She’s wearing soft pink overalls, her hair in some unique twist. It looks good on her. Playful and fun. More like the carefree girl I used to know. One who never shied away from getting dirty playing outside or was too prissy to play sports with the neighborhood boys.
Unsure of how to greet her, I just dive in. “I ordered you a water, but the waiter will be back to take the rest of our order if you want something different to drink.”
“Thank you.” Her small purse and keys clatter on the table.
The awkward silence between us is stifling, yet I can’t bring myself to break it.
“How’ve you been?” Cecily’s shoulders are as tense as mine.
“Good. You?” This is so awkward.
“Great, actually. I’ve been going to school. If you can believe it.”
“College? Really?” Well, color me surprised. The teenage version of Cecily, my mom’s mini-me, would never have considered such an avenue. It was beneath her. Our wealth and notoriety were enough to sustain her existence for quite some time. Besides, they had the show. They had no need of another career.
Apparently, a person could change quite a lot in five years.
Cecily’s face lights up, and she adjusts her seated position, leaning closer. “Yes! I started last fall. I’m taking some art classes.”
“I didn’t know you had any interest in art.” She constantly doodled in notebooks growing up, but I always assumed they were bubble hearts with her name and whoever her current boy infatuation was.
“I’ve always loved drawing, but now I’m learning to paint and I love it.”
I remember the paint splatters on her jeans the day she came into the shelter.
“And what does Mom say?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stuff them back in.
At the mention of our mom, it’s like a cloud immediately darkens this tentative relationship between us.
She shifts in her seat and looks across the wrought-iron railing to watch the cars passing by. “She doesn’t know.”
Of what she’s revealed so far—going to college, taking art classes—this shocks me the most.
“How is that possible? I figured she’d know everything about your life. Honestly, I’m surprised she even lets you take classes with the show’s time constraints.”
She puts her elbows on the table. “I’m not on the show anymore.”
I huff. “Yeah. Right.”
“I’m not. I thought you knew that?”
“How would I know that?”
“Don’t you watch TV at all?”
“No, just movies.” Excluding my current binge ofMalibu Shores.
“What about social media?”
“Don’t use it.”
“How?” She laughs like I’m joking—like the sheer idea of not using social media is an impossibility.
“It’s quite easy, really.”
She withdraws her hands and plops back in her seat. “That’s incredible.”
