Mom hauls the mixer out from its hiding place above the fridge. “I have an old contact at Versace. I’ll write the name down for your parents. They’re great at whipping up something special on short notice.”
I slide into my favorite seat at our kitchen table (the one with the perfectly-sized back-hole for my tail) and watch Mom putter around the kitchen, a rare smile on her amber face. Since when does she know anyone at Versace?
“Thanks so much, Momma Lewis.” Cissy draws circles on the tabletop with her finger. “Want me to get something for Myla, too?” She looks expectantly from me to my mother.
“Nonsense!” Mom juts out her chin. “I attended my share of diplomatic events back in the day; I saved all my dresses. I have the perfect one for you, Myla!”
My face stretches into a sly grin. “All this talk about diplomatic events must remind you of someone.” As in my father. I shoot her a look that says ‘this is me, not giving up.’
Mom gathers up my long auburn hair, piling it at different angles atop my head. “We’re not talking about that, Myla.” She lightly pinches my cheeks to turn them blush-red. “I know just what we’ll do with your hair and make-up too.”
I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?
Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”
Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”
I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”
Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and I won’t start now.”
I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”
Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.
Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.
Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.
‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”
‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”
“Not one eensy beensy bit?”
“No.”
“But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.
“No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”
Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”
I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.
Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.
I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”
Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”
“I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”
“And shoes too,” adds Cissy.
“Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.
All in all, a good day.
***
A bony finger pokes my bare toe. I peep out from under my comforter, seeing Walker at the foot of my bed.
“You are called to serve.”
I glance at my alarm clock. “It’s 5 AM, Walker.” And tonight is Zeke’s party. “This makes it twice in one week.”
Walker shrugs, rubbing his sideburns with his bony hand. From the other side of our ranch house, I hear Mom nervously clunking around the kitchen.
I roll over and stare at Walker out of my right eye. I know there’s no way out of this (not to mention that there isn’t anything else I’d rather do with my morning), but that doesn’t stop me from giving him a hard time. “Couldn’t find anyone else, eh?”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “No.”
“In that case, I guess I could go.”
Walker steps toward the door. “Don’t worry, there’s another fighter that I could–”
I jump in front of him, blocking any exit from my room. “Don’t you dare!”
Walker smiles. He really is way too handsome for ghoul. “So, you will fight?”
I punch him in the upper arm. “You know it, slim.” I speed through getting dressed, stuffing my face with cereal, and passing my morning interrogation with the Maternal Grand Inquisitor.