TWENTY-THREE
That night, when I got home from our second somewhat-failed-but-ultimately-very-successful play rehearsal, Lucy’s car was in the driveway, but not Millie’s, and Monty didn’t do her “Anne is home” bark when I opened the door.
“Hello?”
“In here.”
Lucy was waiting for me in the living room, in a very worn pair of yoga leggings and her second-favorite school mascot sweatshirt, celebrating the Homerville Bears with a picture of a bear that I swear is a panda (not a bear), but no one asks me about these things. She looked. . .tired. Her hair was down and not sprayed up into a helmet. Which was interesting.
“Where’s Millie?” I asked.
“Millie thought we should talk,” Lucy said. “Alone.”
“Okay.” I dumped my bag. “You mean about the play? Mr. Davidson told me you thought it was okay. Right?”
“Yes.” Lucy shook her head. “I mean, no.”
I froze. “I’m confused.”
“No, I just wanted to say—” Lucy stepped forward. “I just wanted to say I’m so sorry, Anne. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. I knew you didn’t do anything to the Spencer yard, but I didn’t tell you that. I should have and I’m very very sorry. It’s just with everything happening, I got so caught up with being worried about the you who is my daughter at Greenville and all that’s going on that I forgot about. . .you.”
Looking at her, in her own skin, a rare occasion, I realized that while I spent a week in a white T-shirt trying to fit in, Lucy had spent every day since she’d arrived in Greenville in a crisp green prison suit, trying to get Greenville to treat her like anyone else doing her job.
“So, I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you,” I blurted out. “And I’m sorry I told you, you know, ‘fuck you.’ ”
“Thank you.” Lucy let out a long slow breath. “I knew this was going to be hard, I knew Greenville was going to be hard.”
“Medium hard,” I joked halfheartedly. “Standard hard.”
“Really hard,” Lucy added. “I know you handle yourself so well with all this stuff—mostly. We’ve been so many places and you adapt, you’re much better at this than me when I was your age. I think sometimes I forget that it’s a big thing to ask a teenager to handle herself well when it seems like everyone’s against you—like everyone wants you to break. I forget that as much as I know what it’s like to be on the outside, I don’t know what it’s like for you to be on the outside. I don’t know what it’s like to be the only person who looks like you in a whole town. I mean, I know but I don’t know. And I should have talked to you about it more, and I’m sorry.”
A lump swelled in my throat. “I mean. . .they wanted to see us both fail, right? Maybe for reasons that were different but kind of similar? I don’t know.”
“Is that how it feels?” Lucy let out another long breath and put another elastic in her hair, which was clearly already tied up with at least two elastics.
“Yeah,” I said. “It feels pretty horrible.”
“I don’t know how to make this better,” Lucy admitted. “I really don’t, Anne. It’s my job and I don’t. And every night I go to bed and I try to think of how to make it better, and every night I can’t think of anything. So I just lie there and worry.”
“I mean you did most of it already,” I said. “No matter what some of Greenville says, and a lot of what it says sucks, I know you and Millie love me for who I am. You tell me that all the time. Like a million times. You taught me how to disco and let me run with that. I am one hundred percent me and I know you and Millie are cool with that. I think there’s lots of kids who don’t get that from their families. You know, here in Greenville even.” I smiled. “So, good job.”
“Hey.” Lucy wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m supposed to be giving you the speech.” Her voice was croaky.
“You gave me all the speeches,” I said. “So, so, so, so many really great and let’s say well-thought-out speeches. And you apologized for not believing me when I told you I didn’t set Tanner’s house on fire. So we’re good. And please don’t stop what you’re doing. I won’t let you fail, Mom. I mean, we’re not failing. You’re not. So go to sleep.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“And I”—I took a deep breath—“I should have told you, you know, what was happening. So I’ll do that now.”
“Yes.” Lucy looked deep into my soul. “You have to tell us, Anne, we won’t break if you tell us something feels broken. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The front door opened with a dramatic slam as Monty bounded in the room the way golden retrievers do, like there’s a party going that they almost missed.
“Okay, that’s good.” Lucy bit her lip. “We love you so much, kiddo.”
“Damn right we love you, kid. We love you with all our bones and muscles,” Millie crowed.
And then Monty jumped on me, and I crashed to the floor and bonked my head on the side table.
Small detour to big family hug, but we got there.
Crying is good for you, did I tell you that? It’s like the body’s filtration system. So it’s probably good we spent the rest of the evening watching a live-action Cinderella and crying.
Who doesn’t—if not love—then at least appreciate, a mean stepmother?
(Relax! Not me! Anymore! Geez.)
That night, Mr. Spencer sent a very short email saying he would no longer be seeking damages. He didn’t say why, but I could guess. And we just sort of let that go because I do think there’s a right and wrong way to win certain battles. Plus I had two moms who loved me and a friend who looked out for me and a date. What did I care about a dick like Mr. Spencer?
The next morning, Lucy and Millie confirmed both that I would be able to be the lead in Peter Pan (yes!) and be able to go to the dance with Gilly (yes!).