I turn back to Abby. The unexpected explosion of color and noise and beauty in her world has left her awed.
chapter twenty-nine
It’s the Sunday night before school resumes, and my parents are on a date. I’m hanging out with Norah. We’re watching a marathon of home decorating shows, rolling our eyes for different reasons. Norah thinks the redesigned houses look bourgeois and, therefore, boring. I think they look boring, too, but only because each designer seems to be working from the same tired manual of modern decorating.
“It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again,” she says during a commercial break.
I’m wearing a blue wig, a ruffled Swiss Heidi dress, and the arms from a glittery golden thrift-store sweater. I’ve cut them off, and I’m using them as glittery golden leg warmers. I snort. “Yeah, I know how much you like the way I dress.”
She keeps her eyes on the television, but that familiar Norah edge returns to her voice. “It’s not how I would dress, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you for who you are.”
I keep my eyes on the television, too, but my chest tightens.
“So,” I say a few minutes later as the show recaps what we’ve already seen. “What’s happening with the apartment? Has Ronnie set a move-in date yet?”
“Yep. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“Oh. That’s really . . . soon.”
She snorts. Her snort sounds like mine. “Soon can’t come soon enough. Nathan’s been suffocating me from the moment I arrived.”
And there’s the ungrateful Norah I know. Suddenly her impending departure is welcome. But I only shake my head, and we watch the rest of the episode in discontented silence. Another commercial break begins.
“Do you know the secret to fortune-telling?” she asks, out of the blue.
I sink into the couch cushions. Here we go.
Norah turns to look at me. “The secret is that I don’t read leaves. And palm readers don’t read palms, and tarot readers don’t read cards. We read people. A good fortune-teller reads the person sitting across from them. I study the signs in their leaves, and I use them to give an interpretation of what I know that person wants to hear.” She leans in closer. “People prefer paying when they hear what they want to hear.”
I cringe, sure that I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.
“Say a woman comes in,” she continues. “No wedding ring, tight shirt, cleavage up to her chin. Asks about her future. This is a woman who wants me to say that she’s about to meet someone. And, usually, if the shirt is tight enough and with confidence gained from a good fortune, guess what? She’ll probably meet someone. Now, it may not be the right someone, but it still means her fortune came true.”
My frown deepens. I stare at the television screen, but the flashing commercials are making it hard to focus. “So . . . when you looked at me, you saw someone who wanted arguments and confusion and partings? And you wanted it to come true?”
“No.” Norah scoots even closer. “You were different. I don’t have many chances to talk to you when you might actually listen to what I have to say. Reading your leaves was an opportunity. I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I told you what you needed to hear.”
I’m confused and hurt. “I needed to hear bad things?”
She places a hand on mine. It’s bony, but somehow it’s also warm. I turn to her, and her gaze is sympathetic. “Your relationship with Max was waning,” she says, using her fortune-teller voice. “And I saw that you had a much more special one waiting right behind it.”
“The cherry. You did know how I felt about Cricket back then.”
She removes her hand. “Christ, the mailman knew how you felt about him. And he’s a good kid, Lola. It was stupid of you to get caught with him in bed—you know your parents are strict as hell about that shit—but I know he’s good. They’ll come around to it, too. And I know you’re good.”
I’m quiet. She thinks I’m a good person.
“Do you know my biggest regret?” she asks. “That you turned into this bright, beautiful, fascinating person . . . and I can’t take credit for any of it.”
There’s a lump in my throat.
Norah crosses her arms and looks away. “Your fathers piss me off, but they’re great parents. I’m lucky they’re yours.”
“They care about you, too, you know. I care about you.”
She’s silent and stiff. I take a chance and, for the first time since I was a little girl, burrow into her side. Her hard shoulders melt against me.