“Just pick one,” Clara said and turned to look down the aisle at the register.
Amy was walking towards her and she stiffened. She never saw Amy at this grocery store. She figured Amy lived on Evan’s side of town, but then she remembered Oak Tower Trail just a few streets over, and her heart sank. She instantly feared Amy lived there and that she spotted Clara at night swiping newspapers from the residents’ recycling bins. No one had made fun of her at school about it, but she panicked that Amy knew and was waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate her.
She watched as Amy drew nearer to her, terrified that Amy would try to engage her in conversation, Clara stuttering and stammering her every reply. Amy was beautiful. There was no denying it. She tossed her long black hair over her shoulder as she walked, boring her light blue eyes into Clara’s face. Clara could feel them burning holes into her, instinctively touching her cheek to see how bad the damage was.
Amy stood taller than Clara and wore her clothes with confidence, wrapped in a tailored dark gray pea coat that reached her hips and sporting skinny jeans and designer boots. Clara thought she was glamorous, and in that moment she felt her whole being was of great insignificance—she was just a girl with a coat that was too small for her wearing jeans from three years ago.
Clara shrunk back against the boxes of hot chocolate as Amy passed by. She glanced at Clara’s face then up and down her body before snorting disdainfully and walking on. Clara looked down at her boots, the rubber ones fitted with wool lining that were unflattering and ugly but kept her feet dry in the snow.
“Clara? Who was that girl?” Beatrice asked. “She looks familiar.”
“She’s no one, Bea,” Clara said and took the box of hot chocolate from her sister’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” Beatrice said. “But she looks familiar.”
Chapter 16
Evan came over the next day to help the girls finish decorating. Beatrice was full of words that day—more than usual, Clara thought—and it exhausted her listening to her sister ramble on. She couldn’t shake her irritability and tried hard to hide it. She wished, though, that Evan hadn’t come over, and then she could wear her bad mood openly and not care. She could stomp to her room and slam her door, and Beatrice would be wise enough to leave her alone. She could cry her frustrations into her pillow, scream into her pillow if she liked, and then hopefully feel better. Instead, she walked around with pent-up rage, afraid that it would explode suddenly and frighten away the only boy she was sure would ever pay her any attention.
“The nutcrackers go on the mantel,” Beatrice said directing Evan who had just pulled two out of a box.
“So who started collecting these?” Evan asked placing them exactly where Beatrice pointed.
“Mom did,” Beatrice replied. “Since Clara’s name is the same as the girl’s in The Nutcracker. She took us one year to see the ballet.”
“Did you like it?” Evan asked.
“Oh yes. It was enchanting,” Beatrice replied, and Clara rolled her eyes. Beatrice saw. “It was enchanting, Clara,” she insisted.
“Mmm, very,” Clara said flippantly. She pulled the tree topper out of another box and tossed it on the couch.
“Whatever,” Beatrice said. “You wanted to be a ballerina for years after seeing that ballet.”
“No I didn’t,” Clara argued. “That was you.”
“Was not,” Beatrice countered. “I’ve never wanted to be a ballerina. I want to be an actress. You wanted to be Clara in The Nutcracker, and that’s why Mom started collecting nutcrackers for you.”
“Just stop talking about it, Beatrice,” Clara snapped. The mention of her mother was too much.
“Well, that’s the truth,” Beatrice said in that sulky way that children do when they want the last word without provoking further argument.
Clara was in the middle of closing up the box when she excused herself and stormed out of the living room. She heard Beatrice say, “She’s just mad that she’s not a ballerina.”
Clara sat on her bed holding her pillow tight to her chest. She heard a soft knock on the door but did not acknowledge it.
“Clara, you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Evan asked poking his head into her bedroom.
“Nothing,” she replied curtly.
Evan walked in and closed the door gently.
“Well, we’re waiting out in the living room for you. Beatrice didn’t want to put the star on top of the tree without you,” Evan said. He walked over and sat next to Clara on the bed.
“I don’t care about the stupid star,” Clara replied.
Evan took Clara’s hand. “Is this about your mother?”
“What about her?” Clara asked, ripping her hand out of Evan’s.
He searched for the words. He knew he would do a lousy job. He wasn’t good with these things, but he knew he needed to try. Clara needed to talk about it, and he wanted to help her.
“Clara, I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now with your mother gone,” Evan began. “Is that why you’re upset?”
“Actually, no it’s not,” Clara said. It was a partial lie. She was upset about her mother, but it really had to do with Amy.
Evan tried for patience. “Clara, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”
“Why are you dating me?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You heard me. Why are you dating me?” Clara repeated. “I’m ugly, and my clothes are ugly, and my house is ugly.” She turned her face away as she felt the familiar stinging in her eyes. She was so tired of crying.
Evan took her hand and she didn’t resist.
“Clara, I don’t know where this is coming from—”
“I saw your ex-girlfriend yesterday,” Clara interrupted. “At the grocery store. I’ve never really noticed her before. Not really. But yesterday I did. And she’s beautiful—so beautiful—and popular, and I don’t understand why you broke up with her.”
“Because I don’t love her.” It was a simple statement that Clara should have been able to understand, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.