Her mother handed her a Cheerios box. “Did you lock the door?”
For a second, Julie blinked at her. She had almost pictured him there, maybe in a bathrobe and slippers or in a suit and tie, ready for work, whatever that would be. He’d have an office job, be home in time for dinner, and he’d complain about the commute, like other dads . . . She could almost see his face, smiling at her . . .
“Did you hear me?” Mom asked. “Did you lock the door?”
Julie sighed as the daydream vanished. “Mom, please.”
“Julie, it’s important.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “I’m not a baby.”
Her mom cooed. “My wittle baby-waby.” She sounded so exactly like a cartoon mouse that Julie laughed in spite of herself. Her mom made a fish face. “Oobe snooby uppy wuppy.”
Julie made a fish face back at her. “Uppy snuppy wuppy puppy.”
Her mom smiled, and Julie grinned back. And for an instant, everything was okay. Julie started on her cereal as her mom fixed her age makeup in the reflection in the microwave door. She wore just enough to look the appropriate age for a mother of a twelve-year-old. Julie watched as her mom wet the tip of a brown eyeliner and darkened a wrinkle on her forehead. Skillfully, she blended in the new shadow. With makeup, she almost looked ordinary, Julie thought. Of course, all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide her mother’s most recognizable feature: she had amazing hair, the color of wheat and the texture of silk, which she kept bobbed short, up above her ears.
Julie wondered what her father would have thought of Mom’s short hair. Suddenly, her cereal was hard to swallow. Why was she thinking about him so much this morning? She should be worrying about how to blend in at school despite her bright yellow flip-flops. Of course, if no one guessed who her mother was from the hair, then no one would guess their family secret from Julie’s feet. It wasn’t like her footwear was the biggest tip-off around.
Finishing the age makeup, her mother lifted the cloth over the kitchen mirror. “Well?” she asked.
“Eh, you look terrible,” the mirror said. “How many times have I told you that pink is not your color, and what are those? Slacks? You’re wearing slacks?” Her mom dropped the cloth back down.
Compared to a talking mirror, what was a pair of sandals? Today was going to be fine. Or at least it would be if she wasn’t late. Glancing at the clock, Julie said, “Gotta go.” Grabbing her jacket and backpack, she headed for the door.
“Wait a minute, young lady.”
Julie stopped, hand on the door. “What?” she said. Her mother pecked her on the forehead. “Have an uneventful day,” Mom said.
With a backward wave, Julie sprinted out the door. Down the driveway, she saw the yellow of the school bus through the red and gold maple leaves. She was going to miss it! Backpack bouncing on her shoulders, she ran for it. Her shoes slapped her feet. The school bus turned from West Street onto Crawford Street. The brakes squeaked as it stopped.
Up ahead, she saw Gillian—book bag in one hand, trumpet case in the other—hopping from foot to foot. “You’re almost late,” she said as Julie skidded to a stop in front of the bus door. She didn’t have to say it: friends don’t let friends sit alone on the school bus.
“Happened again,” Julie managed to pant.
They slid into a seat as the bus lurched forward. “What was it this time?” Gillian asked as she balanced her trumpet case on her lap.
Julie peeked around the bus seat to make sure no one was listening. “Boot,” she whispered. “Supposed to let you go three miles with one step.”
Gillian whistled. “Wow,” she said. “You could ace gym with that.”
Julie shushed her. “I told you—”
“I know. Super-secret. Sorry,” Gillian said. She too looked to see if anyone was listening, and then she settled back down in her seat. “But don’t you think it’s cool?”
“Not exactly the word I was thinking of,” Julie said, looking down at her exposed toes, and Gillian giggled. Julie grinned back. At least there was one person in this school who knew Julie’s weirdness wasn’t her fault. Gillian was even loyal enough to think it was cool, once she’d gotten used to the idea. She’d known about it for two years now—ever since she’d walked in on Julie’s brother talking to a mirror (and the mirror talking back). That mirror never did shut up. Neither did Julie’s brother.
For the rest of the bus ride, they talked about other things: the Halloween dance, Gillian’s band tryouts, Julie’s history quiz. Gillian left her at the school entrance. “Luck on the Wallace quiz.”