It Started with Goodbye

“Tatum, we’re going to show support for your sister.”


I really wanted to protest that A), Tilly was my stepsister, emphasis on the step, and B), didn’t forcing me to go kind of cancel out the whole support thing? I always thought support was something you gave freely, without coercion, but maybe that was just me. Then again, I reminded myself I had my own client-finding agenda, and brightened.

“Is Blanche going?” I asked hopefully. She’d mentioned it at our “secret” meeting the other night. Maybe she and I could walk around the exhibits together.

“No, she has something else on her social calendar.”

I glanced over at Blanche, who was busy stirring her honey-flavored Greek yogurt. “I just feel awful, but it couldn’t be rescheduled. My old friend Carolina is leaving town tomorrow and won’t be back until after I’ve gone home. I made plans to have dinner with her the moment I knew I was coming to Virginia. Matilda understands, and she’s already said she would show me the video of tonight’s performance later on.” Blanche smiled warmly at her granddaughter and stirred once more. She took a bite and looked pointedly at my stepmother. “I have already, I might point out, purchased our tickets for Matilda’s culminating performance with her dance company. No shaming from you.” Another score for Blanche.

I’d have to go it alone then. I reminded myself that this was the very last item on the end-of-school checklist before I morphed into “girl with no life.” And by no life, I meant I would be serving my hours, hopefully painlessly, and earning money via my new business and pet sitting. I was fairly sure I could make it through tonight, even without Blanche to entertain me.

“Oh,” I said absently, remembering my swag was supposed to arrive that day. “If a delivery truck comes with something for me, can you let me know right away? Please?”

Belén and Tilly looked up from sipping their coffee, in unison, and Belén’s deep-brown eyes narrowed, either out of curiosity or suspicion. Probably the latter.

“You’re expecting a package, Tatum?”

Crud. “Yes.” I willed myself to think of something she wouldn’t question. “It’s a college guide. One of those really thick ones. Jam-packed with statistics.”

Belén nodded in approval. “The truck usually comes before noon.”

“Great,” I said, and sipped my tea so I wouldn’t be compelled to say anything else. I couldn’t wait to see how the pens turned out, and smiled to myself at the thought of things coming together.




After a long day researching various community service options, I sat down to an uncomfortable dinner, where I was forced to listen to Belén and Tilly go through every teeny step of the dance routine Tilly would be performing that evening, and the matching facial expressions. Just before we got in the car and made our way to the school, I stuffed my purse with express-shipped TLC business cards and pens, complete with angel wing logo. I had beaten everyone else to the front door when the truck pulled up, and practically launched myself at the poor, unsuspecting delivery guy. To my amazement, the promo items had come out far better than I could have imagined. I felt very professional, knowing my swag could get me real, paying clients so I could finish off that ludicrous fine before September. And, in my more optimistic moments, I dreamed I might get that tablet after all. I spent the ride thinking of ways to discretely leave my cards and pens about, my fingers idly stroking the smooth metal of the keychain in my pocket.

As soon as we entered the school, Belén and Tilly vanished. I wasn’t sure what time Tilly was scheduled to perform over the course of the evening; I just assumed she went off somewhere to warm up, and Belén was either planning to hover over her or meet up with the other helicopter parents to gush over their perfect children. It was just as well. I didn’t think either of them would register my presence in the audience, so I strolled around the other exhibits instead of spending my energy to find out where and when Tilly was dancing.

The art on display was in the cafeteria on large portable partitions and the walls. Like all school cafeterias, the smell of stale french fries permeated the air, and I wrinkled my nose. The whole setup took me back to the very first time one of my own pieces was in an art show. I was ten, and so terrified that Belén had stuffed a paper bag into her purse for fear I’d hyperventilate before we got to the art studio. While she and my dad walked around the displays and checked out all the artwork, I made a beeline right to my painting. It was the century-old carousel from Glen Echo Park, in watercolors. My dad and Belén had taken Tilly and me there one spring afternoon when the light made the colors on the old wooden horses practically shimmer. They’d walked around; I’d sketched. When I approached my piece, I noticed two ribbons lying on the ground nearby—one red and one blue. Which one was mine? My little heart sped up, hoping against hope that the blue one was for me. First place. My dad and Belén would be so proud of me.

I picked up both ribbons and, without thinking twice, stuck the blue one to my painting and the red one to the pastel drawing next to it. I stood there with permagrin, waiting for my dad and Belén to make their way over. Which they did. With a judge right behind them. I blocked out much of the conversation that followed, but I specifically remember feeling small and confused. I was only trying to do what Belén had told me to do—do my best. First place was best, right? My dad took me aside, explained that the better choice would have been to ask the judge which ribbon belonged with which painting, and then ushered me over to said judge to apologize. The photograph of me and all the other elementary-school artists, rightful red ribbon in hand and red eyes looking at the floor, used to sit, framed, on the mantle at home. I may or may not have been responsible for hiding it in a drawer, never to be seen again.

With a sigh and a quick glance around the room, I spied my target. A long folding table was set up near the far exit, covered in what looked like brochures and program literature. Bingo. I crossed quickly, on a mission, and stepped up in front of the woman, a McIntosh parent I assumed, plastering a confident smile on my face.

“Hi there, ma’am,” I said through my grin, and waited for her to look up.

“Yes, dear, how can I help you? Can I interest you in next month’s trip to Italy?”

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