Mei smiled.
“Mei,” Stan said quietly, “I had no idea you were this talented.” He hugged her so spontaneously that Mei didn't have a chance to shrink from his embrace. And she didn't particularly want to.
“Thanks,” she said.
Then Tricia started clapping…a slow, hard clap. Elizabeth joined her, then Hope, then Leighton, then… everyone was clapping. Clapping for Mei. Clapping for her night sky, ablaze with potential. Mei winked at the Right-Unders. She was glad they were here to share the moment.
… … …
“I brought you your birthday present early.”
Hope held her front door open and Mei walked in, handing her the wrapped package. “It's nothing much.”
“You didn't have to get me a present,” Hope said, leading Mei into her bedroom.
Mei plopped onto the bed. “Well, in that case,” she teased, reaching back for the present, but Hope laughed and held it out of reach.
Hope ripped into the paper. Jacie would have disapproved; she always slid a manicured fingernail delicately beneath the tape so she could leave the paper undamaged and recyclable. Hmmph. Hope flung the ripped paper on the floor and opened the rectangular box.
“Oh, Mei …” It was a miniature painting of Mei's mural… the stars, the asteroids, the planets.
“Besides my mom, you're the only one who's always encouraged my art,” Mei said. “This is my way of saying thanks.”
Hope sat on the bed beside Mei and gave her a hug. “It's weird,” she said, carefully placing the painting on her bedside table. “I'm really having fun with the Right-Under Club, but… I'm kind of jealous sharing you with the other girls.”
Mei nodded. “For so long, it's been just the two of us.”
“Can you believe we're actually hanging out with Leighton Lockwood?” Hope whispered, sparking a round of sputtered laughter.
“Wait till school starts,” Mei said. “She'll go right back to dissing us.”
“But by then, we'll know all her secrets.”
They laughed more, but nervously. As snobby as Leighton was, their conversation was starting to feel vaguely like a betrayal. Mei decided to change the subject.
“Where's Elizabeth?”
“Out with Jacie, shopping for my birthday presents, I think,” Hope said.
“I thought the spa day was your present.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “Jacie goes overboard with everything. She'll probably have fifty presents for me to open.”
“And that's a bad thing?”
“It's a Jacie thing.”
“How long is Elizabeth staying?” Mei asked.
Hope shrugged. “I think everybody's playing it by ear. She needs a break from being in the middle of her parents’ tugof-war.”
“Poor Elizabeth,” Mei said.
“Yeah … I know she's just a little kid, but she loves being a member of the Right-Under Club. Thanks for putting up with her.”
“I like her,” Mei said. “And I like Tricia. And…I don't know… I'm even starting to tolerate Leighton.”
They laughed some more, but Hope knew what she meant. The girls were starting to feel like more than fellow club members. They were starting to feel like friends.
10
Hope sat straight up in her bed and glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was seven-forty-five.
The mail was never here that early, but there was always a chance….
She hopped out of bed, pulled her red ringlets into an unruly ponytail, put on some shorts and a T-shirt, brushed her teeth, then sprang for the front door.
“There's the birthday girl!”
Uh-oh.
“Hi, Jacie,” Hope said, pausing by the door as Jacie walked over and kissed her cheek.
“Happy birthday, sweetie! It's about time you got up. Our spa day starts in exactly”—she checked her watch—“one hour and fifteen minutes.”
Hope twirled her finger in the air. Whoopee.
“Don't put on any makeup or fix your hair,” Jacie said. “Remember, we're leaving that to the professionals today.”
Hope resisted the urge to feign sticking her finger down her throat.
“Where are you going now?” Jacie asked.
“To check the mail,” Hope said, trying to sound casual.
“At this time of day? You know the mail isn't here yet.”
Hope blushed. “It's no biggie,” she sniffed. “I just thought I'd check.”
Jacie paused for a moment, then nodded. “You never know. The mailman might be early today. Can't hurt to check.”
Hope flung the door open and trotted down the driveway to the mailbox at the edge of the yard. Her heart fluttered with excitement as she opened the mailbox door.
Nothing.
What was she thinking? Of course it was empty. It would probably be empty even after the mailman came.
She walked back in the door, where her dad greeted her.
“The birthday girl!” he said cheerily.
“Very original,” Hope muttered, but she smiled at him. “Ready for your spa day?” he asked.
“Of course she is,” Jacie responded. “Every girl loves to be pampered. Hope, go ahead and eat some breakfast so we can get started. Time to get beautiful!”
Grrrrr…
“What time is Uncle Rob supposed to be here?” Hope asked her dad.
“Later this morning,” he responded. “We're going to take Elizabeth to lunch, then maybe catch a movie.”
Hope's heart sank. She wanted to catch a movie, too. The way she and her dad used to do. Just the two of them. Before Jacie.
“Don't see anything good,” she whined.
“Oh, right,” her dad responded. “We're going to see a bad movie. I should have made that clear.” He tousled her hair and headed up the stairs to take a shower.
“I can't believe you're thirteen. A teenager!” Jacie gushed, leading Hope into the kitchen. “I was thirteen when I went to my first dance. I still remember the dress. Yellow taffeta.”
Gag. “I don't think I'll be going to any dances,” Hope said as Jacie broke eggs into a bowl and started scrambling them.
“Sure you will, honey,” Jacie responded. “That's part of being a teenager.”
“Jacie, I don't think my life as a teenager will have much in common with your life as a teenager.”
“Why do you say that?” Jacie asked, pouring the eggs into a skillet and heating them over the stove.
“Because you're pretty. You were the kind of girl who got asked out to dances. I'm not.”
Hope wasn't feeling sorry for herself…she was simply stating a fact.
Jacie tightened her bathrobe sash and walked over to the table, pulling up a seat next to Hope's. “Hope, you so underestimate yourself,” she said, staring at her intently. “You always have.”
Always? What did Jacie know about always? Hope had already been nine when she'd gotten dragged into Jacie's Junior League life.
“You are beautiful,” Jacie said. “That's why I'm so excited about this spa day. You'll learn from experts how to bring your beauty out.”
That made absolutely no sense. “If they have to make me beautiful, that means I'm not beautiful now,” Hope pointed out reasonably.
“You are,” Jacie insisted. “But you don't know it yet. When you know it, so will everybody else.”
Hope felt like screaming in frustration. Why did Jacie always talk in circles?
Jacie walked back to the stove. “Sometimes all it takes,” she said, pulling the pan from the stove, “is just that extra bit of effort.”
Now, that advice Hope could relate to. She needed that extra bit of effort to refrain from scrambling some eggs over Jacie's head.
… … …
“How ya doin'?”
What kind of question was that?
“I'm lying here with sticky goop on my face and cucumber slices on my eyes,” Hope responded. “Doesn't get much better than that.”
Jacie lau
ghed in her irritating high-pitched trill. “Isn't she a riot?” she said to the spa ladies.
The only good news about having cucumbers on her eyes, in Hope's estimation, was that it signaled the halfway mark of her spa day. She had already endured a pedicure and manicure. The only things left after the facial were a massage, a haircut and a makeup session.
The first half of the day might have been tolerable if Jacie hadn't asked her every five minutes, “How ya doin'?”
You tell me, she felt like responding. How am I doing? Am I passing your little test?
But she was trying to go easy on the sarcasm. Her dad had pulled her aside before they left and begged her to be nice to Jacie. Jacie, he told Hope, wanted this day to be special.
Not much chance of that, unless the spa ladies could somehow transform her into a thin, leggy blonde like Jacie. Deep down, she wondered if her stepmother was setting her up to fail, so she could demonstrate to the world that despite her best efforts, Hope was officially hopeless.
The thought didn't make for a very relaxing massage, which was the next step. It seemed that the more the masseur dug his hands into Hope's shoulders, the tenser she became.
“Loosen up!” he told her periodically, at which point Jacie would lift her head from her own massage table and cast a disappointed look at Hope. As the day progressed, Hope became more of a disappointment.
At least they were almost done. After the massages, Hope and Jacie sat next to each other in swivel chairs in front of mirrors. Time for the most excruciating part: the makeover.
It began with a hairdresser combing through Hope's unruly curls and frowning. “You've got a lot of hair,” she said, an observation Hope heard every time she got her hair cut. Never once had she mistaken it for a compliment.
“Isn't it beautiful?” Jacie cooed from her seat, where a hairdresser was happily snipping away at her fine, straight locks. “If only my hair had that body.”
That was another one Hope heard a lot: her hair had “body.” People with sleek hair always feigned dismay at their lack of “body.” Hope wanted to hurl.
The hairdresser cut a couple of inches from Hope's hair, at which point it looked… exactly as bushy as it had before. “The only hope is to shave it,” Hope told her.
“Positive!” Jacie scolded. “We're being positive today!”
Grrrrr…
The makeup artist didn't frown quite as much as the hairdresser, but Hope sensed her disapproval.
“You've got to clean your face very thoroughly every night before you go to bed,” she said sternly, making it clear that Hope had not. Still, Hope admired her handiwork. As the blush, eye shadow, mascara and lipstick were smoothed, brushed and spread onto her face one by one, Hope couldn't help noticing her features. Yes, her cheekbones really were prominent, and yes, her bright blue eyes did sparkle. And everyone commented on her peaches-and-cream complexion. If only she wasn't sopale…
“All done,” the makeup artist said.
“See how pretty?” Jacie cooed. “Now, if only Hope would just keep it up.”
The makeup artist smiled, but Hope seethed.
“Can we take you home so you can pretty her up every morning?” Jacie asked the makeup artist with a laugh.
Okay, that was the last straw. Hope's eyes burned with hot tears, and she rushed out to the car as Jacie paid the bill.
By the time Jacie joined her in the car, tears were streaming down Hope's cheeks.
“What?” Jacie asked in exasperation.
“Pretty me up'?” Hope spat. “God! I can't believe even you would say something that obnoxious.”
Jacie swiveled in the driver's seat to face Hope directly. “Even me? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you always find a way to make me feel like a loser!” Hope said, the words tumbling from her mouth in a garbled cry.
“So let me get this straight,” Jacie said evenly. “I devote the whole day to making you feel special on your birthday, yet somehow I'm making you feel like a loser?”
“You know I'm hopeless!” Hope sobbed. “This is just your way of rubbing it in.”
“You will stop at nothing to turn me into the bad guy!” Jacie said.
“You're the one who will stop at nothing to turn me into something I'm not,” Hope said.
Jacie flung her hands in the air. “I don't want you to be something you're not! I just want you to be the best you that you can be.”
“You sound like a shampoo commercial!”
Jacie exhaled angrily. “I don't get you,” she muttered.
“No, you don't,” Hope agreed. “You don't get that I'm not like you. You don't get that all the makeovers in the world won't turn me into a five-foot-nine blonde. I look like my mother and I always will!”
Hope cried into her hands, and Jacie was silent for a moment.
“I don't think I'm the one who isn't okay with that,” Jacie finally said softly.
She waited a couple of minutes, then turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking lot. The hum of the engine was the only sound as they rode home. Hope wept quietly, rubbing tears from her eyes. With mascara streaming onto her cheeks, her makeover had lasted all of five minutes. She really was a loser.
“Stop at the mailbox,” Hope barked as Jacie neared their home.
“Please?” Jacie prodded, but Hope was too angry for niceties, and Jacie sensed it. She pulled the car up beside the mailbox, and Hope opened it from the passenger window. She pulled out the contents and riffled through them impatiently. Bill, bill, bill, bill…
She dissolved into sobs all over again. “She didn't even send me a card!”
Jacie touched Hope's hair. “Oh, honey…”
“Not even a card on my birthday! I hate my mother!”
“I know, baby, I know.”
Jacie pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine and sat there while Hope cried. Hope knew her stepmother couldn't do anything but be there. But she would be there. She always was.
… … …
“Hey, beautiful.”
Hope's dad was speaking in barely a whisper as he creaked her bedroom door open and walked over to her bed. “Tough day?”
By the time he, Rob and Elizabeth had returned from the movie, Hope had been crying on her bed for an hour. Not only was any remnant of makeup long gone, but her eyes were red and puffy.
Hope nodded as her dad sat beside her and touched her cheek. “Want to tell me about it?”
A fresh well of tears sprang to her blue eyes. Her bottom lip quivered and she buried her face in the bedspread.
“Sweetie,” her dad cooed. “Oh, sweetie.”
Hope jerked herself into a sitting position. “She didn't even call!” she spat furiously. “Not a card, not a call…nothing! That's what I am to her. Nothing.”
Sobs tumbled from her throat.
“Maybe she'll call later,” her dad offered, but his voice had trailed off before he even finished the sentence. They both knew better.
In the first couple of years after Hope's parents’ divorce, her mom, Bridget, had made halfhearted attempts to keep playing the mom role. But she was so angry at her ex-husband, Jack, particularly after the excruciating custody battle, and she was openly resentful during the snatches of time she was allotted with her daughter. It was as if she not only had lost a battle, but also had to play the humiliating role of being at the victor's beck and call. Yes, you can see Hope this weekend, but only if you have her home in time for choir practice. No, you can't pick her up from school; you're not on the approved list. Quit feeding her peanuts; she's allergic.
Bridget would spend their whole time together railing against the injustice of it all. Hope was her daughter, by God! Who was Jack to tell her what to feed her child, or whether she could pick her up from school? And she would appeal that ridiculous custody ruling. Jack knew the judge; the whole case was rigged.
That was when Hope's migraines had started. Hope wished her mother would find a
nother boyfriend, like the one she had roomed with when she moved out of the house. But that relationship had lasted just a few months and only gave her more ammunition for hateful rants about men, about her lousy situation, about life in general. Hope grew to dread visits with her mother, but what she dreaded more was never seeing her again. That threat always loomed large.
“So he doesn't want you seeing me this weekend?” she'd spew to Hope. “Fine! I have a good mind to move to L.A.!”
And that was what she eventually did. At least, Hope thought she was in L.A. Bridget had moved there initially, but her long-sought acting career never panned out. As the calls and gifts grew more sparse, Hope lost track. Their last phone call had been when Bridget had heard through the grapevine that Jack was remarrying. Bridget screamed her fury into Hope's ear and pelted her with questions: What did Jacie look like? How long had they been dating? Who did Jack think he was, bringing this woman into her daughter's life without discussing the matter with Hope's own mother?
Hope's head started pounding midway through the conversation, which was also the approximate time that she began resenting Jacie. Her mom was right: Jacie was an interloper, an outsider. Without her in the picture, Hope's mom just might come back home. Stranger things had happened … hadn't they?
But her dad married Jacie anyhow, and her mom cut off contact. Even on Hope's birthday. Even on her birthday.
Her dad held her as she sobbed into his shirt.
“Why does Mom hate me?” she asked.
“She doesn't hate you,” he responded, hugging her tighter. But he didn't even try to sound convincing. He never knew what to say. How do you explain why a mom drops off the face of the earth? There were no answers, no explanations. Hope had learned to quit talking about her… until now, when her emotions overflowed. All her dad could do was hold her.
At least she had her dad.
… … …
“You okay?”
Hope had long since dried her tears, but her head was hurting, so she stayed in her room the rest of the evening watching TV. Elizabeth tapped gingerly on her door around bedtime.
“I'm okay,” Hope told her cousin, managing a smile. She propped herself up on an elbow. “How about you? Did you have fun with your dad?”
The Right-Under Club Page 6
