Skylar listened, letting Gabby’s words soak in. She tried to muster some sympathy, but it was hard. She wanted to say, People expect you to be perfect because you act like you’re already perfect. And as far as Skylar could tell, Gabby was a lot like her older brothers—she had plenty of friends and admirers, with or without Em and Zach.
“I’m going to go make myself one more drink,” Gabby said suddenly, standing up from the couch and heading back toward the kitchen. Skylar accompanied her, gulping down the remains of her own watered-down beverage.
Gabby poured equal parts of rum and juice into her glass. “It’s not like I don’t love being busy and helping plan things and, you know, being a girl—caring about clothes and my hair and stuff—but I guess I’m just . . . worn-down, or something,” she said, holding her drink in one hand and absentmindedly fiddling with her key chain, which had been on the table, with the other. She was saying she was run-down, but her anxiety seemed to give her a frantic quality. “People don’t understand that. They think it’s all fun-fun-fun. But sometimes”—at this, her voice got quiet—“I just want a break.”
There was a silence as her words sank in. “So why don’t you take one?” Skylar finally asked. “It sounds like you’re going to burn out.” But Skylar knew that Gabby wouldn’t take a break—why would she, when things were going so well?
Gabby nodded. “I know I should, but . . .”
But it’s just too nice to bask in the glow of perfection, huh?
Gabby was staring down at her keys, still fidgeting. Dangling from the chain was a plastic frame about the size of a matchbook. Gabby thrust it toward Skylar. “Look at this,” she said.
The photo was of Gabby and Em. They were both making funny faces, and their arms were draped around each other. The photo was supersaturated; the colors were vivid.
“I know we look so immature, but I love that picture,” Gabby said as she refreshed Skylar’s cocktail. “We just took it this fall—my mom went to a broadcasting conference in New York City, and we went with her. That was in Times Square.”
“This was just a few months ago?” For a second Skylar forgot she was sulking. She was genuinely surprised. “Em looks so different now.” And it was true. The girl in the plastic frame was not the same girl Skylar knew. The Em that Skylar knew would never be so . . . silly. And the Em that Skylar knew had something heavy behind her eyes. The girl in the photo with Gabby—there was nothing in her eyes but joy.
“I know, she looks different these days,” Gabby said, taking the key chain back and placing it carefully beside her purse. “She’s skinnier. And paler. Not that she looks bad. I mean, she’s always had great skin. . . . I totally envy it.”
Skylar scoffed. “You have great skin too, Gabs.”
“Well, thanks,” Gabby said, blushing slightly—or was that the rum? “Thank god you’ve never seen me after I’ve eaten shellfish. I’m totally allergic. One bite and my skin gets all red and puffy. . . . I used to have nightmares about my skin being like that all the time.” She shuddered.
As they went back into the living room Skylar had a vision of her and Gabby taking a photo that would replace the one of Gabby and Em. It gave her comfort. Despite the rum and juice, Skylar felt like she was starting to see more clearly: Gabby liked her. Gabby was on her side.
Settled into the couch again, Gabby flipped to the page in her scrapbook dedicated to last year’s Valentine’s Day dance, which had an “eco-friendly” theme.
“Everyone was really on a going-green kick last year,” she told Skylar, giggling a bit as she took another swig from her glass. “And you know, V-Day is all about looooooove. So the theme was We Heart the Earth. People liked it. All our stuff was recycled—you know, like the cups? And part of the proceeds went to Greenpeace.”
Skylar ran a hand through her hair and felt how greasy it was; she wished she’d had time (or energy) for a shower over the last day and a half. Gabby may have been complaining about being tired, but she’d obviously still washed her hair. “Have you had any ideas about this year’s theme?”
Gabby pouted and finished off her second drink. “No. I really want to come up with a killer idea—I’ve been waiting for the light bulb to go on over my head! But . . . nothing.” And then, noticing her empty glass, she sprang up from the sofa. “I’m going to get one more,” she said, scampering off before Skylar could say a word.
While Gabby was in the kitchen, Skylar checked the time on her phone: 8:15. Nora would probably be home within the hour. She’d have to get Gabby upstairs by then, considering how tipsy she was getting.