Page 8 of Slots & Sticks
I don’t care if it takes more than three months. I’ll wait. For her, I’d wait forever.
Chapter Two
Dot
It’s my birthday, and my mom is touring on the road.Again.
Twenty-five is probably too old to care about birthdays, anyway. It’s supposed to be my peak year, though. That, or the year I meet an untimely end, Amy Winehouse-style, but I’m pretty sure that was the 27 Club. Intrusive thoughts like this are nothing new—I’m an anxious person, and imagining the worst possible outcome to any situation is second nature.
A pit opens behind my ribs. Every birthday since I can remember, Mom’s been somewhere else—always promising next time. I tell myself it doesn’t sting anymore, but it still leaves a bruise. This year, I told myself I wouldn’t make a wish. Wishes are for kids who don’t know that the people they love can vanish between one song and the next.
I lie back on my bed, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes. “Hey, Mira?”
“Yes, Dot?” My AI companion lights up on the side table. I can see the blue glow through my eyelids.
“Where did the idea of the 27 Club start?”
There’s a slight pause before Mira says, “The term ‘27 Club’ was popularized following the death of Kurt Cobain. Other so-called members include Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Mia Zapata, Jim Morrison, and—”
“Thanks, that’s enough.” I already feel guilty for comparing myself to all these people,realpeople, whoreallydied, just because I’m upset that my parents don’t care enough to… what, cancel a tour date just since it falls on my birthday? What would I rather be doing? Mom and I are always butting heads, so if shewere here, we’d probably be arguing, and I’d be wondering why she doesn’t seem to love me that much.
Or, more likely, I’d be complaining about something, and she’d be perfect as always. That’s how it usually goes.
Time to knock it off with the pity party. I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and reach for my phone. I’ll buy myself a stack of stories that don’t know how to disappoint me. Or, better yet, I could drive to The Last Chapter and see if Molly has any new titles in. She stocks a mixture of new and used books, so there’s always the chance I’ll stumble across a hidden gem while I’m browsing.
The thought of getting some new books cheers me up considerably, even though I already own a ton of books I haven’t read yet. Dad calls me his little book dragon, though I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t just hoard books. Idoread them. It’s just nice to have options.
I double-check the hours and gather up my things. I’m on my way to the door when my phone rings. Mom’s photo pops up on the screen.
I brace for impact and accept the call. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Happy birthday, Dot!” Two voices twine together over the speaker. I’m guessing Mom and Dad are on speakerphone in the van.
“Please don’t sing,” I beg, but I’m already smiling.
“But I warmed up just for you!” Mom laughs. It’s so easy to picture her, with her hair down and the wind whipping through it. She’s been finding more grays recently, but she refuses to dye it on the grounds that it makes her look distinguished.
The thing about my mom’s singing is that, even when she’s singingtome, music is abouther. Growing up with a celebrity parent means being constantly compared to her. In our case, the comparison is not a flattering one.
Still, I don’t want to be awful, so I adopt a posh, royal tone and say, “Very well. You may proceed.”
Even as I joke, there’s a twist under my ribs—the quiet wish that she’d just say something normal. Something that wasn’t for a crowd.
The pair of them break into song. Mom sings the main words, while Dad riffs and harmonizes. Badly. Their two ancient dogs, Mitzi and Moppet, start yapping along. It’s a mess, but it’s also hilarious. I wish I was recording this. The internet would have a field day with this one.
The internet doesn’t get to share in this moment, though. It’s just for me.
“We love you, baby!” Mom trills at the end. “And we have a surprise for you! We’ll be coming home early to celebrate with you. We should get in tomorrow.”
My smile fades. “That’s not necessary. I’m all grown up now.”
She doesn’t hear the wobble in my voice, but I do. It’s the sound of a kid still hoping her mom might show up just once without the spotlight.
“Nonsense,” Dad says. “You’re never too old to celebrate your birthday.”
This was probably his idea. Or, more likely, a show got canceled and they’d be headed home anyway. I stifle a sigh. “Don’t rush on my account.”
Mom tuts at me. “Fine. You don’t want to celebrate your birthday, we’ll celebrate the day I wrecked my vagina.”
