When I open the front door, I see Emery holding up two containers of Ben & Jerry’s. She’s wearing a minidress covered in cartoon cats and a smile that no one could possibly say no to.
“Half Baked or Chubby Hubby?” she asks, bouncing on her toes.
“Half Baked,” I reply, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door shut behind me. There’s no point inviting her in—Mom’s home.
I take the ice cream from her and we sit on the step, our legs stretched out onto the walkway. Emery’s are so much longer than mine.
She pulls two spoons from her bag and passes one to me. We eat in silence, watching the street and letting the sunshine warm us.
“I really thought I’d get in,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says.
I scrape my spoon against the ice cream, and cookie and fudge goo dribbles down the side because it’s softening quickly in the summer air. I swipe my finger against the container before it drips onto my leg.
“Sorry. I didn’t bring napkins,” Emery says.
“Like I’d waste perfectly good Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked?” I shake my head and press my finger to my mouth.
She laughs and takes another bite. “I kind of wish you were coming to Indiana.”
“I can’t follow you around the country,” I point out. “Although to be honest, now I kind of wish I was too. God, I’m going to end up in community college. I’m going to end up here.”
I feel like my organs are all made of stone and they’re crushing me from the inside.
She shifts her body slightly so she’s facing me, her eyes almost stern. “I know it’s not your dream, but community college isn’t the end of the world. I mean, maybe you could still take some art classes and apply to Prism next year. You’re the best artist I know. I doubt it had anything to do with how good you were—they probably just had too many applicants.”
“Maybe.” I tuck my legs in so my heels are against the step. “The hardest part wasn’t the rejection. It was having to see everyone’s faces when I told them I didn’t get in. I wanted Prism so bad, but I also wanted the proof that I could do it. Does that make sense?”
I keep picturing Mom’s face. It was like she knew I wasn’t going to get in. She knew and I didn’t, and she might as well have stabbed me in the heart because that’s how it felt to see how she knew.
Emery looks back toward the driveway. “You care too much about what other people think. I mean, so what if you fail? So what if it takes a few tries? You’re following your dreams. It shouldn’t matter to anyone else how long it takes you or what your journey is like—it should just matter to you.”
“You sound like a doctor already,” I say.
“I’m stealing some of the bullet points from my scholarship essay, but I feel like they work here.”
I feel myself start to relax. Emery usually has that effect on me.
The door opens from behind us, and when I look over my shoulder I see Mom in white jeans and a striped tank top.
“Why are you girls sitting out here? Don’t you want to come inside? I made a pitcher of iced tea.” She steps back, holding the door open wide.
Emery and I glance at each other suspiciously. Mom never lets us invite our friends inside. Our house might as well be wrapped in yellow crime scene tape—that’s how much of a big deal she’s made over the years about keeping people away.
“Come on, before the flies come in,” Mom says in her singsong voice.
Emery hurries after me and I lead her into the kitchen. The TV is off, and there’s a large glass pitcher on the counter with three cups in front of it.
I set the ice cream down cautiously and sit down at the breakfast bar. Emery copies my movements, eyeing me like she thinks she’s on a hidden-camera show.
Mom starts pouring tea into the cups, her blond hair pulled back into a high knot. “So, Emery, I heard you’re leaving for college early. You always were so into your academics.”
Emery nods, her fingers twisted together in her lap. “I’m in a hurry to start my life, I guess. The sooner I get my bachelor’s, the sooner I can get into med school.”
Mom smiles brightly. “You sound so much like Kiko. Always in such a hurry to fly away.” She looks at me with all the blueness of her eyes, like she’s not talking to Emery, she’s talking to me. “It’s not so bad to have to stay near home though. When I was younger, our parents couldn’t wait to kick us out of the house. I wanted my kids to know that they could stay as long as they needed, so they could take their time and decide what they wanted to do with their lives.”
I’m not sure what she’s doing. I’m not sure what part of this is real. Maybe it’s her way of apologizing about our fight, or sympathizing about me not getting into art school. I don’t understand, because she never makes it easy.
I can’t help it—I don’t believe her. If she wanted to tell me this, why couldn’t she have said it to me in private? Why did she have to invite Emery inside—which she never does—just to tell her how good of a mom she is?
“Kiko already knows what she wants to do though, don’t you, Kiko?” Emery nudges me with her knee. She looks up at my mom. “She’s so talented. Prism doesn’t know what a huge mistake they’ve made.”
Mom sips at her iced tea. “Everything happens for a reason, they say.”
I pull my eyes away from her because talking about Prism—especially to Mom—is still too raw.
Emery straightens her back. “That’s true—like running into Jamie again after all these years. It’s fate.” She squints her eyes at me and pulls a goofy smile.
I feel my cheeks start to warm and distract myself with an obscenely long gulp of tea.
Mom sets her glass down carefully. “Jamie Merrick?”
I nod.
“When was this?”
“At that graduation party,” I say.
Mom looks around the kitchen like she’s distracted. “Well, I’m sure that must have been nice for you.”
When Mom’s back is turned to us, I shake my head at Emery to keep her from saying anything else. I don’t want Mom to know anything else about Jamie. She likes to sniff out joy and squash it like a house spider.
I don’t want my memories of Jamie getting squashed.
When Mom turns back to us, her eyes fall to Emery’s forearm. “Are those tattoos?”
Emery doesn’t pull her arm away like I would have—she pushes it closer to my mom. “Yeah. Want to see?”
“And your parents were okay with that?” Mom’s mouth doesn’t close, even when she stops speaking.
Emery shrugs. “They’re kind of laid-back about body art. I mean, I’m salutatorian, so I guess they figured I can’t be a complete mess if I’m getting straight A’s.”
Mom’s giant soccer-ball eyes land on me next. “Do you have any tattoos? You better not.”
“No.” I snort. “I hate needles.”
“You don’t have any tattoos, Mrs. Himura?” Emery asks.
“She does,” I hiss to Emery.