We moved to Maya’s room. I busied myself with changing the hamster’s water and food while Tilly sat primly on the bed and stared at the wall. I wondered how she wasn’t sore all over from holding her back so straight and mashing her knees together, bent at perfect right angles.
Upstairs pets taken care of, I headed toward the door to feed Gus and set up shop downstairs. “Come on,” I called to Tilly, who plodded behind me like I was leading her to the guillotine. She hovered nearby while I scooped the cat food into Gus’s silver bowl.
“You could pretend to be happy about spending time with me.” Job done, I led her into the living room, sat on my favorite couch, and pulled my laptop from my bag. “Sit down, you won’t regret it.”
Tilly perched gingerly on the edge and the cushions gave way to her slight weight, sending her sprawling backward, legs full-on in the air. Laughter erupted from me, spilling over the both of us, so engulfing that Tilly started giggling too. When we’d both calmed down enough to speak, I was overwhelmed with a sudden sadness.
“I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh,” I said quietly.
Tilly’s mouth formed a horizontal line. “Me either.”
I smiled. “Maybe you need to come over and sit on this couch with me more often.”
“Maybe so.” She smiled back. “All right, about this portfolio. We’re clear that it needs to be contemporary, right? I felt like you were siding with my mom this morning, and were going to make one for classical ballet to be mean.”
“No way. That was just A, to buy us time to work on it here and, B, so you can prepare yourself to tell her you don’t want to wear tutus anymore.”
“I hate tutus with a passion, Tatum. You have no idea.”
I shook my head, amazed. The things Tilly had kept to herself.
“Oh, I think I definitely do.” We both laughed again, which felt unbelievably good and like something between us shifted into place.
Being the overachieving planner that she was, Tilly had given me access to her online storage drive packed full of photographs and videos of her dancing this summer. She played a few of her favorites for me, and it took me back to watching the girl on TV who had captivated me so much. But my stepsister was surprisingly more talented at it. The clip I liked the best showed Tilly dancing erratically to an old Nirvana song, of all things, and the angst on her face was terrifying. I totally related.
“This is unbelievable. Your mom will die when she sees this.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Maybe just a small stroke.”
“Was that a joke you made, Matilda? About your sainted mother, no less?”
She giggled. “Possibly.”
I pulled up a template I’d created for the basis for SK’s site, and quickly added Tilly’s photos and uploaded her résumé, now complete with contemporary experience. We could make it pretty later. “Don’t you want to add in some ballet stuff too? That’s the bulk of your experience.”
“I guess you’re right.” She picked out the most beautiful shots, showcasing her technique and strength, and a video of her dancing the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy last Christmas.
Bolstered by our tentative joking and perhaps my willingness to help her pull one over on her mom, Tilly became bolder as we neared the end of our evening together.
“Do you miss her?” she asked as we worked.
“Who?”
She sank deep into the couch, dwarfed by the pillows. “Ashlyn.”
Oh. She wanted to go there. “Actually, yes, I do miss her.”
She sighed, the sound muffled by all the canvas and fluff. “I was always jealous of you guys.”
“What? Did I hear that right? You jealous of me?” I stuck a finger to my ear and pretended to clean out imaginary wax. There was no way she just said that.
“Yes, you heard me correctly. You guys were two peas in a pod. I’ve never had a friend like that. Do you remember Ashlyn’s dad’s party that one Christmas?”
“The one where your mom blew everything out of proportion?
“She thought you were drinking. Do you blame her?”
I raised a finger into the air. “But there was no actual drinking. None at all. And she still went ballistic.”
Mr. Zanotti had thrown a ginormous holiday party for his friends and clients the December we started high school. Ash had brought four champagne flutes filled with ginger ale into her bedroom, where she and I had been hiding out. She downed her two drinks in minutes, while I nursed one as we turned Ash’s music up loud and sang even louder. Halfway through my amazing rendition of “I Will Survive,” while using my half-filled glass as a microphone, Belén walked in. She startled me so much, I jumped and spilled the contents of my glass down my front. All Belén saw were three empty glasses, the “champagne” staining my new dress, and the fourth glass sitting bubbling on Ash’s dresser. She grabbed my elbow, marched me right out the front door, and gave me a lecture about making responsible choices.
“Your mom was really mad. Even though I told her up and down that there was no booze anywhere near me, and told her I knew better, she said even pretending was dangerous. She took my phone away for a month. Told me I was going to activate the alcoholic gene or something.” Belén rarely ignored an opportunity to remind me of my mother’s indiscretions. I was glad I could laugh about it months and months later. I’d been offended at the time, though.
Tilly looked down at her hands in her lap. “She was so upset. I overheard her crying about it to your dad after we got home. She was really afraid for you, I think.”
My heart stopped, and my mouth went completely dry. Belén had cried about me? It certainly fit with all the facts I’d been gathering about her this summer, about her desire for me to be safe and responsible, but hearing Tilly acknowledge that her mother felt genuine affection for me was hard to process. I had obviously been the one who hadn’t been paying attention.
Tilly saved me from needing to form a coherent response and continued. “I was glad she was mad at you, because I was mad too.”
“Why?”
“Because you and Ash didn’t invite me to join you.” Oh. Definitely hadn’t been paying attention. At all. “You always seem to have so much fun, and I don’t really have time for friends. I would have gladly taken any consequence my mom laid out to be part of that.”
“I’m so sorry, Tilly. I never realized.” She shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but I knew it was. “Aren’t you tight with the other bunheads?”
“No. It’s all competition with them. You rarely get a compliment that’s not backhanded. They’re so wrapped up in themselves that there isn’t time to make friends.”
“I’ve heard that said about some artists before, actually.” The conversation with the random hot guy the night of Tilly’s showcase fluttered in my mind. That seemed like so very long ago. Tilly’s isolation sounded not too far off from what Belén had dealt with growing up as well. I wondered if she knew about her mom’s experiences.
“Yes, we’re all messes. You included.” She peeked out from the pillows and grinned at me.