Mara goes first. She taps her fingernails on the outside of her iced tea glass and smiles like the pro that she is. “Finance.”
“Just like her father. She’s also social chair of her sorority and she just joined up with the school’s competitive debate team,” our mom adds proudly.
Pamela turns to me. “And you, Aimee? What’s your major?”
“Undecided,” I say with as much fake cheer as I can muster. “But I’m leaning toward Library Sciences.”
Pamela’s smile wobbles. “And what is that, dear?”
“Oh, you know…” I take a bite of my salad and make everyone wait while I chew and swallow. “I would be working in a library.”
Her brow furrows. “Like a librarian?”
I point my fork in Pamela’s direction. “Exactly.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Mom looks uncomfortable. She clears her throat and says, “Aimee is just in her freshman year so she’s still got plenty of time to explore her options.”
Thanks for the vote of support. I dig at my salad and chew vigorously, too annoyed to pay attention to the rest of the conversation. I despise coming to the club because it always ends up with me wading through a swamp of awkwardness.
I look up and catch Mara’s eyes on me. She smiles sympathetically before going back to her sandwich. After Pamela walks away, my sister steers talk in the direction of our mom’s favorite topic: her social calendar.
Mom clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Let’s see,” she says. “This Wednesday is the annual mixer we put on to benefit that animal shelter east of Regent’s Harbor. It’s a no-kill shelter and I’ll tell you, that costs money. Vet bills, food expense… the building maintenance. It’s a nightmare.” She pauses, signals to the waiter that she needs a refill. “Oh, and then Saturday night we’re going to The Roberson’s for a gala. I think that one has something to do with some kind of cancer, or maybe it’s Alzheimer’s.” She waves her hand and smiles. “Whatever it is, I’m sure that it’s dreadful.”
Elise Spencer is nothing if not charitable.
“Mara,” she goes on, eyes narrowing at my sister. “I actually thought that you might want to drive down next month because we’re having a little event at the house for your father’s firm. It would be the perfect opportunity to introduce you to that Langley boy that I was telling you about. I’m sure that he’ll be there with his parents.”
“I don’t know, Mom. What about Aimee? Maybe she wants—” Mara makes a sound and abruptly drops her gaze to the table.
“What is it?” I ask.
Mom’s face stiffens. Then she shakes her head and fidgets with her silverware. “Not to change the subject, but Mara, didn’t you have a big test last week?”
“What is with you both?” I blow out an exasperated breath and turn in my chair to scan the patio. When my eyes land on them, all of the air is forced out of my lungs.
“Aimee…” Mom’s face is deeply flushed. “I swear that I haven’t see the Kearns here in ages. Nancy told me that they’d given up their membership. I—oh my…” She touches her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut. “I never would have asked you to come today if I thought there was a possibility that they’d be here.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to embarrass you,” I hiss.
My mother flinches like I’ve just slapped her. She coughs, clears her throat. “That’s not what I… Aimee, how could you think that?” She tentatively reaches forward and pushes my hair off my shoulder. “Just remember to take deep breaths. Dr. Galindo said that would help with a panic attack.”
“I’m not having a panic attack.” Am I? I glance back to where Jillian’s parents are talking with another couple. Her dad is wearing khaki pants and a crisp white button down and he’s leaning one hip up against the metal bannister. Mrs. Kearns is beside him in a floral dress with a small collar. Her hair is shorter, greyer than I remember and I realize that she doesn’t look happy or sad. She just looks tired.
“Do you want to go?” Mara asks me gently.
I pick up my glass just so that I have a second to think. “I—I’m fine. Let’s…” As if she can sense me, Mrs. Kearns shifts her head to the right slightly and, just like that, we’re looking at each other. I want to go to her and hug her or fall on my knees, but she just goes on staring at me and, my head spinning wildly, I stare back.
This is a woman who made me pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse on Sunday mornings and helped me get gum out of my hair in the fourth grade. Armed with a needle and thread, she fixed the strap of my first cotillion dress when it broke right before the dance. This is also a woman who barred me from her daughter’s funeral and told me that she never wanted to see my face again and wished that it had been me stuck in that car.