Page 32 of Make The Cut

I don’t know what to tell her, though, so I just gesture toward my outfit. “How do I look?”

Her gaze skims my chest. “Lookin’ good.”

“Well, as long as I haveyourapproval…” I pull the hoodie off, the hem rising and tugging up the t-shirt I have on underneath. I try not to think about the couple in the dressing room, but it’s hard when sounds of heavy breathing emanate from beneath the curtain.

“Did you try on every item? Or just the hoodie?”

“I tried on everything, but the only thing I like is this hoodie.” I pass the soft cotton garment to her. “Can we just go?”

“Okay…” Her eyebrows rise like she thinks she’s offended me somehow.

We walk out to go pay for the items.

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“Is it your dad?” she asks me.

I remember why now I don’t tell people about this. About my father. Because all I’ll get in return is people’s pity and pointless sympathy and someone telling me that it’s not a big deal anyway—But then Poppy’s hand latches onto my wrist, and she pulls me toward her, with a surprising amount of strength for someone so much smaller.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I’d just appreciate it if you didn’t shut me out.”

Friends.

I’m beginning to think that Poppy Black might be the only true friend I’ve made since moving to L.A. and the only woman I’ve ever been able to be friends with.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I swallow before going to the counter to pay, trying not to think about how exactly I found out about my father’s infidelity.

“Hi, can I help you?” My mom answered the door after the bell rang. Not once, but seven times. I thought it was a prank played by one of the neighbourhood kids, but when I peered out of my bedroom window, standing ontippy-toesto see outside, it was a woman.

I crept down the staircase and peered through the gaps between the banisters, on the landing of the stairs, where I liked to play hide and seek. The woman had dark red hair and she looked lost. Or scared. Or maybe both. I couldn’t tell.

“I’m here to seeDaisuke,” she said.

“What about?” Mom’s voice was still friendly, but she sounded kind of annoyed like she did when we went out to eat and the waiter brought her the wrong meal.

“It’s a—“ The woman shook her head. “I work with him.”

“Oh, well, he’s at work right now,” my mom said. Now she sounded even tenser. I felt like there was something that she wasn’t saying, something behind their simple conversation. “I’m his wife, Rhoda. You can come in and wait for him if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you. I’m Lauren.” The woman walked inside and into the living room, but she didn’t sit down. As I looked through the gaps in the railing, I saw that she looked younger than my mom. Not that my mom was old, but this woman looked around the same age as my babysitter, who was seventeen.

Was that too young to work with my dad? I didn’t know.

“Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, maybe?” my mom’s voice had softened and she walked into the kitchen, disappearing from my sight.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” The other woman—Lauren—didn’t look like me or my mom or my dad. Her skin was paler, and her eyes weren’t brown, but they were a weird colour, kind of light green, like the uniforms of my toy soldiers. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Thanks.” My mom came back out with our finest cups and teapots. I knew they were the best because she always warned me not to play too close to the china cabinet where we kept them. “You know, I find it highly unusual that you would come toDaisuke’shouse if you work with him. You could simply phone him or send him a fax if you had something important to tell him.”

The woman took a deep breath like she was about to jump off a diving board. But instead of jumping, her eyes filled with tears and she started to cry. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Why was she sorry? Was she the one who stole my pet rabbit,Biscoff, when he hopped away into the yard last month?

“Lauren,” my mom said. “Why are you sorry?”

My mom sounded cold. Angry. The way she did when I letBiscoffsleep in my bed and he pooped on the blanket, or when I used her lipstick as crayons in my art class.

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