I laugh. “Today’s the first time since we met in kindergarten that you ask me to mall crawl and you’re surprised I want to talk about why?”
“Did I say I was surprised?” she says. “Fine, I saw you in the mall yesterday buying shoes.”
“Oh, you… Why didn’t you say something? Ah… the Dynamic Trio.”
She clears her throat—she hates that name. “I was alone. You were talking to a cute guy. I didn’t want to break the spell.”
“He was cute?” I say.
“Do you care?”
“Ha! See, you do know me. Wait, you were shopping alone?”
“There’s a time for everything. But I bet you think all shopping should be solo because you don’t want anyone’s help. Am I right?”
No way I’ll ever admit that. “You’re telling me you trust Lila and Kennedy’s opinions about clothes more than your own?”
“It’s not just about being helped. It’s nice. It’s fun.”
“Nice? Fun?”
“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You do have to go. Sarah and Molly, too. You can’t walk around claiming to know everything if you’ve never even gone out shopping with friends. We’re going this Saturday—it’s decided.”
Nobody, but nobody tells me what to do. Nobody.
“All right, then,” I say.
EIGHT
When I hear Aunt Celia’s car I say goodbye to Molly and walk to the curb. I open the door and plop my bag on the floor and hop in.
“It’s me,” Sheila says. “My mom couldn’t come. My dad has work people coming over, so she’s making a big dinner. Not for us, though—we’re eating pizza in the living room.”
It bugs me the way she always says my mom and my dad. I mean, whenever I talk to anyone about my parents, R.I.P., it’s always my mom or my dad because it’s not their mom or dad; but Sheila and I are cousins and even though her mom and dad aren’t mine, I know them and we live together now and it just sounds weird. I don’t know, it just bugs me.
“I’m surprised,” I say. “Driving me without your mom here means you’re breaking the law, but your mom’s still an accessory if she knows about it. I always thought of her as someone who doesn’t break the law for convenience.”
“Your convenience. I told her you could walk home. It’s too bad she said no—you could take your buddy Molly with you. She could lose a few pounds.”
“What?”
She puts the car in gear and hits the accelerator. “Anyway, it’s not against the law if it’s to or from school and I have a signed note. Which I have. Wanna see it?”
“I can’t… heyyyy, wait just a minute here,” I say. “Are you kidding? You must be, since you know I’m blind and all, so I can’t see notes or how fat or skinny anyone is. Or are you just being mean?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh, really? You know what that word means?”
Silence.
“School’s only two miles away,” she says. “You really can just walk if you don’t want anyone helping you.”
“What I want is to be treated like everyone else. Until you start walking home from school every day, I’m perfectly happy getting picked up, too.”
Silence.
“Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.”
Our moms and dads would be so proud.
The radio turns on. News radio. Commercials. Sheila changes the station till she finds music. It’s nothing I recognize but that’s no surprise; I don’t listen to music much.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
“What?”
“The singer, who is it?”
“Ha, ha. We don’t have to talk, you know. That’s why the radio’s on.”
“Okay, you don’t know either. You could have just said so.”
“What are you talking about? It’s Kesha. ‘We R Who We R.’ Everyone knows that.”
I flop my hands a little—my equivalent of rolling my eyes—but I doubt Sheila understands. “She’s the one who used to have the typo in her name, right? A dollar sign instead of an s?”
“God, Parker, you’re just… so…”
My stomach tightens and I know why. It’s this place I go that’s somewhere between wanting to wind someone up because of their stupid assumptions and actually feeling bad about missing out on something. There’s plenty I miss because I’m blind but a lot of things I don’t. I saw rainbows when I was little—I know what they look like—I don’t need to see them over and over. But there’s plenty of new stuff I just can’t keep up with.
“I’m just saying not everyone knows this song.”
“You’ve never heard of Kesha.” She says it flatly, like it’s so inconceivable she has no idea which emotion to apply.
“You mean Keh Dollar Sign Ha… Yes, I’ve heard of her.”
I don’t have anything else to do—and it’s playing loud now—so I listen. We pull into the driveway and stop but Sheila leaves the engine running till the song ends.
“Recognize it now?”
“Nope. Never heard it before.”
“Wow, you’re serious. How is that even possible?”
“What, you think everyone on the planet’s heard that song?”