Page 102 of Wild Hit
Except this time it’s happening on cameras, and will soon be on everyone’s screens.
CHAPTER 37
AUDREY
“Are you ready?” I ask once I’ve turned off my car, turning to Marty.
She’s on the passenger seat, looking out at her school with a serious mien. Like instead of participating in a school event, she’s psyching herself up to fulfill her obligation of jury duty.
The fact that there’s no response from her is also an answer. I prod, “Nervous?”
“Yes,” she admits, frowning even more, her eyebrows like thunder and her mouth shaped like downturned u. “I told you they don’t like me. What if they make fun of my clothes in front of their very real moms?”
My shoulders droop a little. It’s only been one week into the new school year, and Marty has met the rest of her classmates who weren’t at summer school. Of course, the mean kids started treating her as if she was lazy or not smart—which are normally the reasons why kids land in summer school. On top of that, there’s apparently one specific girl who declared to the class that Marty wearing so much black was weird.
Kiddo has had a really crappy time. It’s almost criminal that the mother and daughter tea party is so soon. I’d have lovedfor Marty to have more time to find her rightful place in the classroom—as the brightest bulb wrapped in black than anyone’s ever seen.
However, she twists toward me with worried and watery eyes. “Pink was a bad idea. This whole thing was a bad idea. Can we go home? Get some ice cream? Not dance around this time?”
I can’t help it, even when she’s being a melodramatic ten-year-old, she makes me smile. Reaching over, I brush a wavy curl off her forehead. “Martina Jane Machado Smith.” I use her full name but with a gentle tone. “I wish I had been like you when I was your age.”
Her jaw drops.
“I wasn’t a brave kid. I was too used to being ignored to even try standing up for myself. My brother was the only person who had my back, but he wasn’t always around because he was older. I only learned how to sharpen my claws when he was gone, and I was nearly at college. But you’re stronger than I was. You have a dad who would break the moon if you wanted a piece of it. And I may not be your real mom, but I’m here to put on the best performance of my life as if I was.”
Marty’s chin starts to tremble.
“Oh, sweetie. I didn’t mean to?—”
Then she tackles me. I land against the door with her bony arms squeezing the life out of me. “Thank you, thank you,” she repeats in my ear over and over.
Chuckling, I hug her back. “You’re absolutely welcome. It’s an honor to be your fake mom today.”
She pulls away, offering me a quite shy smile for the context. But I never figure out the reason behind it because she immediately says, “Let’s do this.” And then she jumps out of the car with renewed energy.
I scramble to match it. After clumsily gathering my things, I step out of the car and find her right outside, waiting withthe stance of a warrior. Chin high, watchful eyes, back straight. I copy her because I’m not about to ruin her highly anticipated day by acting like I don’t belong, even though I sure as shit have no idea how to act like a mother. My own was never the best role model.
Marty nods at me. I return the gesture. We reach for the pockets of our gorgeous, thrifted dresses, and pull out our matching sunglasses. I don’t normally need them, but we’re going for full drama here.
I offer my hand to her and repeat, “Let’s do it.”
We walk calmly across the parking lot, Marty in her powder pink kitten heels, me in killer stilettos that are going to drastically reduce the life expectancy of my ankles. That time we went thrifting together with her dad, we found matching dresses to show off. They’re apron shaped with ruffly sleeves, tight bodices, and the flowiest skirts that have ever flown. The tone is just a step up from a pastel pink, something lively and delicate that no one who knows us would ever associate with Marty and I.
But we’re here to put on a show, and there were no better outfits for it than this.
Some heads turn to us as we join the stream of people walking into the school. The teacher who checks us in gives me a funny look, like she’s never seen a large chested woman in a tight dress before. Or as if I had a responsibility to hide them so that no one has to notice them.
Joke’s on her, I like to dress this way because I have no hips to speak of. I feel more feminine this way, and in turn more confident. One day Marty will also find her own way of feeling like a million bucks, and if I could, I’d make it so she never develops any insecurities in the first place.
I grab onto her smaller hand with both of mine, just trying to imbue every last bit of warmth in my chest into her.
Gah, I love this kid. It’s gonna suck so bad when we have to part ways.
The gym has been converted into a DIY country club with balloons tied into the shapes of flowers as table centerpieces. They’re covered in the cheap, paper tablecloths but in a cute lavender color that Rose would really approve of. There’s a big speaker playing some violin music, and actual tea is being poured into actual cups.
Most of the plastic chairs are already taken by moms and their daughters, but even then it’s easy to tell what the power dynamic is. There’s a table in the middle with three very chirpy pairs, and every so often, girls and women from other tables turn to watch them and whisper.
“Are those the mean girls?” I ask Marty, casually pointing at the table.
