“Morning, Reg.”
“Come on sleepy head, I’ll do your hair. Your big speech!” She claps her hands.
Okay, here goes nothing. “Reg, I’m not giving a speech. Actually, I—umm—I’m not going.”
She gawks at me like I’m speaking pig Latin. “What the fuck?”
I don’t expect her to understand, or anyone else for that matter. But there’s no way I’m wasting four hours of my numbered days to hear about what a great beginning this is. ICE’s formal countdown starts today, even if mine started a week ago. I’d much rather spend the next four hours getting ready for my painting, practicing the name Aiden, shaving my legs and doing other wonderful things. Not to mention that walking at graduation without my parents there makes my stomach twist worse than any hangover. I give Reagan an edited version of this. It takes a good fifteen minutes to convince her. Finally, she relents.
“Fine. I guess I get it. Frankly, I’d be upset too. So, do you want me accept on your behalf?”
“I don’t think they’ll let you. It’s not the Oscars, Reg.”
She gives me a puppy-eyes look and skips to her room to get ready while I eat some cereal in the kitchen.
The moment I’m alone, my nerves start making an unwelcome but assertive appearance. I’m about to face Aiden Hale with nothing but knickers and an undone shirt. Bloody hell, what if he picks a thong? What if the room is cold and I get all…nippy? Javier will be there too. He will see all that as well. Why on earth did I agree to this with so little information? Oh, right, because my brain was mush at the time and because I never thought it would actually happen. Now that it’s only five hours away, my hands start shaking and I have to set my cereal bowl down on the table. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Hydrogen, 1.008. Helium, 4.003. Lithium, 6.94…
Reagan walks into the kitchen, delaying the breakdown that is sure to come. She looks stunning in a simple moss-green dress. Before she can see the madness inside, I distract her.
“Reg, you look great. Here, let me take some pics.” It works immediately. She giggles and poses, blowing kisses at my camera as I snap away.
“Speaking of looking great, what are you wearing today?” she asks, striking a serious-psychology-student pose.
I know exactly what I’m wearing. Or not wearing. “Whatever I can find in your closet.” I shrug with a smile.
“My push-up bras are in the second drawer.” She giggles.
This was not the thought I needed in my head.
“Here, happy graduation!” I say, handing her a small box, wrapped in red, white and blue. My hand shakes a little.
“Isa! You’re not supposed to buy me—”
“I didn’t. It’s something I’ve had for a while.”
She must hear the thickness in my voice because she squints at me. But Reagan cannot resist a present for more than three seconds. Three, two, one.
She tears the patriotic paper and lifts the lid. Then she gasps and jumps back two steps.
“Oh my God!” she whispers and looks up at me, green eyes wide. “Is this your mom’s emerald brooch?”
I smile. “Yes. And my grandma Cecilia’s. It has always belonged to the women in my family. And now it belongs to you.”
Reagan’s eyes fill up with tears. “Isa, I can’t—”
I take her hand in both of mine. “Yes, you can. I want you to. Besides, it matches your eyes—”
A red-haired fireball almost knocks me to the kitchen floor. She doesn’t speak. Nor do I. We just hold each other, refusing to say what we are both thinking. Goodbye.
“Go on, then,” I say. “Or President Campbell will get all shirty.”
She sniffles and smiles. “That means mad, right?”
“Right.”
She pins Clare’s brooch on her dress and pats it. “Okay, I’m staying at Hotel Lucia with Mom and Dad tonight. Come over if Hale is being a wanker. Or better yet, shag him silly.”
“Reagan!”
“Cheerio!” she calls over her shoulder and slams the door behind her.
In the ringing silence, my nerves hit full force. I distract myself by tackling the dilemma of what to wear. Yes, it’s ridiculous because it will come off the moment I go to his house, but still, in my escapist fantasy this is almost a date. A very one-sided date. I try at least twenty outfits before I decide on a navy sheath dress and red flats. Patriotic. For good luck. Then, I march into the restroom to shower. I shave my legs, saying a silent thanks to my ancestors for the genetic quirk that has caused me to have so very little pubic hair. A Brazilian wax would be just as effective but more expensive. If Hale has opted for some lacy, see-through affair, pubic hair would definitely kill me if the nerves don’t do the job before he gets here.