I hug my knees to my chest. “Daddy said the same thing,” I mutter.
Mom nods. “If you love someone,” she says, “it’s always worth it…to try. You only get a few truly priceless people in your lifetime. You should fight like hell to hold on to them.”
I’m a little surprised by her earnestness, by the passion rooted deep inside her voice.
“What about you and Daddy?” I ask quickly, because I feel like we’re connecting. I’ve tried having this conversation with her before and she’s shut me out, but I still want to know. “Do you feel like you fought hard enough for him?”
Instantly, her eyes go flat, and I watch as all the doors inside her that fell open as we talked slam resolutely shut. She’s not Mommy by the time I’ve finished my question—by the time I know it’s too late to take any of it back. She’s Naomi Bell again, just like that.
“What happened between your father and me is different. But I do think making things right with Layla is possible if you’re honest with her.”
I can tell our moment has passed, and I’m more disappointed than I would have expected to be. The lump in my throat has melted away, and I regret bringing up Daddy. I hurt her feelings, but sorry seems like the wrong thing to say.
I stand up. “I still have some homework to finish,” I say.
She blinks a few times and smooths a strand of her dark hair. Her ears look naked without shiny earrings dangling from the lobes, and I realize this is the first time in a while I’ve seen her at home but not dressed for work. “Of course,” she says. She gestures at her laptop. “I have some more work to get done too.”
She calls out to me before I reach the door. “But, Cleo,” she says. I turn to look back at her, thinking that I need to be more careful with how I ask people about the broken pieces inside them.
“I’m still here…if you need to talk,” she says.
* * *
—
In my dim bedroom, I’m more confused than ever. I don’t know if trying to erase Layla is right, or even possible. I don’t know if I want to be her friend again.
I peer through the low light to my row of snow globes. Gigi gave me a new one every year for my birthday until she died. I hadn’t turned twelve yet the summer she passed away, but when we were cleaning out her apartment, we found the twelfth one already wrapped and ready. I lift that one from the shelf now—it’s full of a miniature London, with Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at its center.
The following year, on my thirteenth birthday, I was nearly inconsolable until Layla showed up with a small wrapped box. When I opened it, I found a gorgeous snow globe encapsulating a new city I could dream of visiting one day. Layla promised we would fly there together as soon as our parents would let us. I pick up that one next. It’s full of glitter instead of white pearls of fake snow.
A tiny Eiffel Tower stands atop a metal miniature of the rest of the city of Paris. I love this snow globe because it has so much weight to it. I wish I could shrink and live inside the scene. I shake it, and as I watch the glitter float and shine, I imagine what it would be like to be honest with Layla. To tell her I’m sorry and to hear her say that she is too.
What if we were fated to fall apart only to come back together again?
I want to believe that we can both be forgiven, but I don’t know if, like inhabiting the tiny Paris I hold in my hand, that’s just another dream that will never come true.
then: October
WE SO SUCK AT PARTIES
“We’re gonna g-g-go, right?”
Layla convinced me to go to Chinatown with her so we could look for cheap costumey things to wear to Sloane’s Halloween party, but I was still secretly considering skipping it. For one, it was Sloane. And two, Layla and I already had a Halloween tradition. But it was starting to feel like all the things we used to do together weren’t as important to her as they once were.
“Where to first?” I asked. “And yes, Layla, God. We’re going. But only because you promised to do our normal sleepover after.”
Layla clapped her hands and looped her arm through mine. “Yay! Ok-k-kay, so. There are g-g-great options nearly everywhere.” She waved her hand like she was personally responsible for conjuring up Chinatown, fully formed. Red Chinese characters were on the fronts of all the buildings, and street vendors peddled everything from folding fans and silk scarves to jewelry, handbags, and hats.
“I still have that mask I got when I went to see Sleep No More with my dad,” I said, picturing its long beak and giant eye holes as we turned onto Canal Street. Autumn hadn’t hit the city completely yet, and it was nearly seventy degrees. I knew old Chinese ladies were probably practicing tai chi in the nearby parks, and the thought of their slow movements and wide hats made me smile.
“No way,” she said immediately. “We’re going for c-c-c-cute, not creepy. It’s the first chorus p-p-party I’ve b-been invited to. We need to look good. We need to c-class it up.”
We navigated the crowded sidewalk side by side, pushing our way past tourists and experienced New Yorkers haggling over purses and buying fruit. Layla was wearing a pair of pale blue skinny jeans under a knee-length yellow dress with long sleeves, and she looked like a flower in the sea of darker fall colors everyone else was wearing. That included me, because I was in my typical black T-shirt and ripped jeans. I knew whatever costume she ended up with would be full of light, just like she was.
“I think we can fffffind something good for you over there,” she said, pointing across the street.
We slipped into one of those pop-up costume stores that seem to appear and disappear all within the month of October every fall. “Luckily for you, I’m g-g-getting a vision,” she said. She made a frame out of her thumbs and pointer fingers like she was zooming in on me with a camera. “Maybe something Shakespearean?”
In the end, I found myself standing in my room wearing white satin gloves with a few drops of fake blood on them to represent the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, a watch necklace for how often she checks the hour, and a lacy black dress I’d never normally have the guts to wear that we found at a consignment shop. Layla helped me pin my braids into a bun, and my mask was thin and lacy too. Layla said all I needed was a little red lipstick to complete the look. I almost never feel that I look exactly as I want to, but with Layla’s help, I was perfect.
Deep down, though, I still didn’t want to go to the party, no matter how pretty I felt in my costume. And when Layla started humming her chorus audition song to herself it felt like a sign—a bad one. Though I used to love Layla’s singing, now it just reminded me that there was this whole new section of her life that I wasn’t a part of: she was a Chorus Girl and I never would be.