Page 2 of Collision
When I arrive in the kitchen, I find her already ready for the day: a perfectly arranged blond chignon, elegant white palazzo pants, a Tiffany blue button-down, and impeccable makeup, with mascara emphasizing her blue eyes and a light layer of red lipstick on her thin lips. Her innate class always manages to undermine my already scarce self-esteem.
Before I can even say “good morning,” she comes at me with a barrage of unsolicited information.
“I left some bills and the checkbook on the entry table; it would be great if you could take care of them today.” A little frenetic, she darts over to the coffee maker and pours two cups without interrupting my to-do list. “You have to pick up the dry cleaning, grab something for dinner, and, oh, before I forget,” she says, handing me a mug—I listen to her go on, trusting in the coffee’s increasing effect—“Mrs. Williams went out of town and asked me to take care of her chihuahua. I told her you would be happy to.”
All these orders first thing in the morning put me even more on edge than I already am.
“Need me to do anything else? Maybe mow the lawn? Go see if any of the neighbors need help? Organize a get-together for the homeowners’ association?” I look at her sideways, set my phone on the counter, and sit down at the table.
“You know Mrs. Williams doesn’t have anyone else she can count on. I couldn’t say no to her—how would that look?” She brought her mug to her lips, and after taking a sip, went on: “And I thought you’d be happy to take care of that little mutt. You love animals.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have the time or desire to do it right now.”
“Neither do I,” she retorted, oblivious. “When I took this legal secretary job, I didn’t know it was going to suck the life out of me. But someone’s got to bring home the bacon.”
I look at her, suddenly mortified. I’m well aware that since Dad left three years ago, Mom has had to cover all our expenses. I admire her for it, but she forgets that I have a life too and I can’t live it as a division of hers.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I get up and take a box of granola cereal from the pantry and pour some into a bowl. “Taking care of Mrs. Williams’s dog won’t be a problem. I can take him on a walk before I leave for campus and when I get back. I’ll take care of everything, don’t worry,” I reassure her conciliatorily.
“That’s what I like to hear.” She pats me on the shoulder, her fingernails perfectly manicured, pale pink. “And please, at least for the first day, try to look a little bit put together.”
She drains her mug and waves goodbye unceremoniously with a promise to be back for dinner. I stay in the kitchen to have a little breakfast. I pour some milk over the granola and go sit at the table. After a moment, the phone lights up on the counter: a new message notification. Dropping my spoon into my bowl, I leap up like an idiot to see who it is, tripping on the kitchen mat with granola stuck to my lip.
I’m so pathetic I deserve to fall face down on the floor. Maybe a good knock on the head is just what I need.
When I realize that the sender is Tiffany, my best friend and my boyfriend’s twin sister, I sink into disappointment once again.
I was really hoping to see Travis’s name on the screen, but evidently the end of the world is a likelier event.
Hey nerd. Your life’s purpose resumes today.
Yeah, I was so excited I didn’t get a wink of sleep, I reply wryly.
I’m sure. Listen, I wanted to ask you, practice starts tonight, do you want to come with me?
My eyebrows furrow as I read and reread the message, not understanding. Since when does Tiffany care about sports? Her only interests are the latest trends in fashion and makeup, her weekly salon appointment, and her beloved true crime podcasts. She would never want to waste her time watching some dumb practice basketball game.
Then I realize it’s not Tiffany asking me, but Travis, in a despicable attempt to extort information via his sister. What a coward! First, he falls off the face of the earth for two days, abandoning me to total self-pity without even claiming some far-fetched excuse that in all likelihood I would have bought or pretended to. Then he uses my best friend to get to me.
Annoyed, I reply:Tell your brother if he wants to ask me something, he’ll have to make the effort to do it in person.
Her reply came immediately:He made me, I didn’t want to. You know I’m on your side. I’m coming to get you; we can head to campus together. Be outside at 8. Love you.
I knew it was him. Infuriating! I throw the phone on the table. He made me lose my appetite. I rinse out my mug and bowl and go up to my room. I open my closet, and for a second, I entertain the idea of listening to my mother and wearing something cuter than my usual jeans and monochrome hoodie. I try on a white peasant top with lace trim. It’s nice, but looking at myself in the mirror, I notice it reveals too much of my abundant chest. If I wear this, everyone’s eyes will be on me, which is precisely what I try to avoid.
I hang the top back up in my closet, concluding that my usual anonymous look isn’t so bad after all. I pull on dark blue jeans, slim fitting and high-waisted, and a white sweatshirt that hangs past my bottom—that’s more like it. After drying my hair and putting it up in a high ponytail to tame the frizz, I grab my bag and slide inSense and Sensibility, one of my favorite books; reading it between classes will help distract me.
Before leaving the house, however, I glance at myself in the mirror and instantly regret it. The image I see reflected is not pleasant: I’m pale, two violet bags weigh down my bloodshot gray eyes, and my raven black hair is begging for mercy. I let it down and smooth it a little, but the situation doesn’t improve. I throw in the towel and, armed with my umbrella, go out before I lose my mind.
Two
At eight on the dot, Tiffany pulls up in her fire-engine-red Mustang. I tell her to wait for a minute while I drop off Charlie, the neighbor’s dog.
When I get in the car, the scent of fresh flowers crashes over me like a wave—my best friend’s signature scent. With her wavy copper bob and hazel eyes framed by a thick coat of mascara, she stares at me warily in all her ethereal beauty.
“So…” she says, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “How are you? Are you over your cold?” she asks, testing the waters hesitantly. I know she’s worried I’m mad at her for going along with Travis’s little ruse. But she shouldn’t. It’s not her fault. He’s her brother. In her place, I would’ve done the same thing.
“I could be better,” I admit, clicking my seat belt into place. “I’m not totally over the flu, and I have a terrible headache.”
