Page 64 of Road Queens
“It’s real,” Cassandra had continued with interesting intensity. “We look real in these. Nobody’s posed. Nobody looks stiff. Nobody has a frozen smile while hiding the pain of a broken wrist.”
“True,” Amanda mused, looking them over. “Nobody’s doing those things in our pictures. Mostly we’re giving each other devil horns and wet willies.”
“That’s all I want.”
Then the three of them combed garage sales all over the Twin Cities metro area. The hide-a-bed couch? Liberated from a literal fire sale in Saint Paul; Amanda had attacked it with Febreze until it no longer reeked of smoke. The bookshelf? Sidney cobbled it together in her parents’ garage. Same with the desk. Kitchen appliances? Silverware? Curtains? Donations from Sidney’s folks, who were downsizing to a tiny house now that they were empty nesters.
Tablecloths, towels, washcloths, etc.? Cass crocheted them herself. Observing the lovely things that grew from Cassandra’s hook, Amanda decided it was a good time to learn to crochet. Unfortunately, Cass was a crappy teacher: “It’s easy, see?” This while her hook was flashing and her fingers were flying, and Amanda hadnoidea what was going on.
“I can’t believe you’re moving away over this. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Watch me.”
Before Amanda could comment further, there was a no-nonsense knock on the door, followed by “Fuck me sideways, it smells like my alcoholic grandpa’s closet in here.”
Amanda had to stifle a chuckle. One of Sidney’s finest qualities? Howspecificher insults were.
“Now what’s all this shit?” Sidney continued, hands on her hips, eyeing the wreckage of Cass’s life. Another fun fact about Sidney Derecho: she had no idea how cute she looked when she was scowling. Her curves, curls, liberal use of bronzer, and bright-black eyes gave her the air of an aggrieved forest fairy. “Well?”
“Cass is leaving for a bit.”
“Yeah, that’s not what your text said.”
Cass looked up from transferring shoeboxes to another, bigger box. Her favorite black flats were on top. “You can both text till your fingers go numb—”
“Thanks, we will. Till theybleedif we want.”
“—but it won’t make a difference.”
Amanda sighed. “Aw, man. I love those shoes.”
Cass wordlessly tossed the box at her.
“Thoughtful! Except for the fact that you have feet fit for clown shoes, and I have squashed arches and cramped toes.”
“Throw them out, then,” Cassandra snapped, which was more pure goddamned insanity. “Jesus Christ with all the bitching and needling.”
“Whoa. Okay.” Sidney stepped between them by pretending she wanted to look at an empty box. “Take it easy, both of you.”
“Hard pass,” Cass muttered.
“It hasn’t been that long. Maybe you just need more time to wallow in self-pity,” Sidney suggested, which was code for “I love you and don’t know how to help you, and I find that frustrating but please don’t leave.”
“Are you two reading from the same tedious script?”
“I also suggested she needed more time,” Amanda said with a modest half bow. “Great minds and all that.”
“Well, Amanda’s smart, and I’m smart, and it’s great fucking advice, and you should just shut up and take our fucking great advice already.”
“Sure, I’ll get right on that. Thanks for coming over uninvited, byeeeee.”
“Oh. Now we need invitations?”
Nearly out of tape, Cassandra was trying to fold the top flaps of the box so they would stay closed, and failing because she always put the wrong flaps down first.
More disturbing than her complete inability to understand tape or boxes: all her riding gear was in a box by the front door marked “Goodwill.” Amanda had nearly tripped over it on her way in. Not some gear. All. Not temporary storage. Donating.
She went back, easily opened the box
