Page 19 of Every Thought Taken

“Hey,” I say, giving her a brief, restrained smile.

“Hey,” she says, a breath above a whisper. “Sorry we didn’t meet you after school.” Her eyes shoot to Ales and roll. “Someone couldn’t wait until tomorrow to buy clothes.”

Ales sets her drink down and purses her lips. “What if we went tomorrow and they had nothing I liked? Then we’d have to drive out of town and spend the day at the mall. At least now we have the weekend to do whatever we want.” She does some weird tilt twitch with her neck then points a finger at Helena. “You should thank me.”

Instead of gifting Ales with gratitude, Helena laughs with a shake of her head. “Not happening.”

Dad hands out paper plates and napkins, putting a stack between the pizza boxes on the table. He opens the first box and Ales grabs two slices of pepperoni. Mom takes one before Dad swaps the box for the one underneath. Mom, Helena, and Mags grab cheese slices. Then Dad and I dive into the last box—half supreme, half veggie.

Conversation quiets—my favorite part of dinner—as we eat. But it doesn’t last long.

“Mom, you should see the outfits I got today,” Ales says between bites. “I wasn’t sure about a few, but Lena convinced me to try them on.” She smiles at Helena. “One day, she’ll design my clothes.”

“Pssh. You’re ridiculous,” Helena says.

“Glad you found something you like, sweetheart.” Mom looks at Ales like she can do no wrong. Then her attention shifts to Helena. “And don’t discount your talents, Lena. If fashion is something you’re interested in, I’m happy to show you the basics.”

Mom’s sweet disposition with Ales, Mags, and Helena makes fury and euphoria surge through my veins.

With them, she smiles. Displays excitement and interest. Gaiety. With them, she is a different mom. Notmymom. And I love that they aren’t the brunt of her irritation.

In the same breath, I want what they have. A mother joyous over their presence. A mother delighted over their individuality. A mother with open arms, ready to embrace me when I’ve had a bad day.

I love how she loves them. I also hate how she loves them.

I envy the one thing it appears I will never receive from her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Everett. But it was more Lessa’s idea than mine.”

Mom wipes her hands with a napkin then lays one on Helena’s forearm. The simple touch is a match to the detonation cord connected to my dynamite-packed heart.

“Well, my needle and thimble are available if you change your mind.”

My fingers ball into knuckle-bleaching fists beneath the table. I grind my molars as I stare down at the half-eaten slice of pizza on my plate. Focus my attention anywhere but on the saccharine sound of my mother’s voice, the tone she uses with everyone except me.

As if shefeelsmy pain, Helena lays a hand on one of mine beneath the table. Her thumb rubs my clenched fingers in slow strokes. And with each pass, I loosen my grip. Straighten my fingers. Relax my jaw. Breathe easier.

I peek at her from the corner of my eye and soften at the small smile on her lips. A smile for me, not my mother.

She threads our fingers and hugs my hand with hers, not an ounce of space between our palms. My heart pounds in my chest for a new reason. A loud whooshing in my ears.

“I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Everett. I’ll keep it in mind.”

The rest of dinner goes by in a haze. Helena keeps our hands latched, carrying on as if nothing has changed. As if nothing is different.

But it is different.Weare different.

Coffee table shoved aside, I sprawl out on the empty blanket in front of the television. Swiping up the remote, I surf through Netflix in search of something to watch. Earlier this year, Dad decided to cancel cable to save money. Now, it is either Netflix, Hulu, or DVDs. Nine times out of ten, I watch reruns or DVDs now.

Nothing stands out, so I crawl across the floor and sift through the DVD shelf. I land onHarry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stoneand remember the final movie comes out on DVD next month.

“Harry Pottermarathon it is,” I mutter as I take out the first disc and pop it in the player.

I return to my spot on the blanket and press play on the movie. When the room goes dark, I shift my gaze to the sliding glass doors. Everyone is outside—talking and laughing and smiling, without me.

No shock.

After dinner, Mags’s and Helena’s parents came over. In a matter of minutes, Dad, Mr. Bishop, and Mr. Williams grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge in the garage and went out back. They pulled out chairs at the table, sat down, and haven’t moved since. I suspect their conversation is about work or fishing or sports. It always is.

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