Page 38 of The Glass Girl

I think of my mom in our house, alone. Probably finishing a show script before going to Agnes’s house. Watching television, maybe. I wonder if she’s thinking of us over here, together without her. I mean, whatdoesshe do when we aren’t there?

“You don’t have to,” Vanessa says cheerily. “Me, I always slept in when I was your age. I won’t be offended if you go back to bed.”

My dad catches my eye. He ducks his head a little. This means he wants me to help. To spend time with him and Vanessa. Benice.

“I guess I could chop something,” I say finally. “I’m pretty good at chopping.”

“Great!” my dad says, clapping his hands together. He gathers some broccoli, carrots, and onions and puts them on the breakfast bar, then hands me a knife and the cutting board.

I start chopping everything into tiny pieces and scooping the bits into bowls.

Dad’s staring at me.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just realized. You’re not wearing any makeup. I hardly ever see you without all the…goop.” He makes this wavy gesture across his face.

A flush creeps over my cheeks. “So?” My voice is kind of sharp.

“It’s nice,” my dad says.

“Are you saying my makeup is ugly?” I ask.

“No,” my dad says slowly. “My daughter is beautiful with or without makeup. It’s just, maybe you don’t need somuch.It’s a little dramatic.”

“It’smyface,” I say. “I can do what I want with it.”

From behind him, Vanessa says, “Dan, how about getting the roast in? Kind of busy with these potatoes at the moment.”

The air feels tense. My dad hesitates, then turns around and starts prepping the meat. I put down my knife. “I’m going to take a shower.”

—

I make sure to put on extra eyeliner after my shower, just because. And to take a few gulps of the cough medicine under the counter.

This is going to be a long day.

—

I’m getting dressed in our bedroom, pleasantly numbed by the NyQuil, when Ricci wakes up. She looks at me blearily and sitsup. “Are we late?” she asks sleepily. There’s some dried drool on her cheek.

“No,” I say. “Food won’t be ready for a bit. You want some cereal?”

She gets out of her bunk.

“No,” she says. “I mean for Agnes.” She starts putting things in her backpack, stuff she likes to take on car rides, like her tablet and earbuds and markers and drawing book.

“Ricci,” I say, the realization dawning on me that no one told her we aren’t going to Agnes’s this year, “we’re…we’re staying here.”

She shakes her head. “We always go to Agnes’s house. The Fabulous Band is there. Mommy’s there.”

Oh, no. No.

Ricci stares at me, then dashes from the room. I follow her.

She runs right in the kitchen, plants her hands on her hips. “Daddy, it’s time to go to Agnes’s house. I want to go to Agnes’s house.”

My dad’s put a flowered apron on over his pajamas. He’s holding a bowl of mashed potatoes in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks at Ricci, then me, panic slowly creasing his face. Vanessa turns from the stove.

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