Tell Me Something Real Read Online Free Page A

sincere hand. Bloody-eyedLucy. Flame-licked Joan. Marie only wears pastels because she believes God prefers pale colors. Adrienne likes to tell her that God is a smoking pile of horseshit and maybe she should wear the color red once in a while. Marie sticks to baby blue, sherbet orange, and carnation pink.
    The kindergarten moms call her name. One strokes her hair. Our tragedy has blazed through the gossip mill.
    She beams as soon as she sees us, excited as when she scores a goal at a soccer game. “Come on, come on, come on!” she says. “I’ve been waiting all day!”
    Adrienne doesn’t rely on her south-of-the-border driving technique to get us to Luigi’s. They sit us at a small table in the back, not our usual family-size one in the front. I stare at the empty chair.
    â€œWe should get something for Mom,” Marie says.
    Adrienne shakes her head. “She won’t eat it.”
    Marie frowns. “But she always comes with us.”
    I tug Marie’s braid and focus on the menu, even though we always order the same thing. Personal pan pizzas, pepperoni for us and veggie deluxe for Mom and Dad. “We’re already bringing one home for Dad,” I say. “Might as well get Mom a cheese just in case.”
    Adrienne cocks an eyebrow. “Couldn’t hurt.”
    The waitress offers the parlor’s annual graduation day fanfare: lemonade decorated with those little paper cocktail umbrellas, and pepperoni smiley-face pizzas. Marie savors her ice-cream sundae, eating so slow that the ice creammelts before she finishes. She raises the metal bowl to her mouth and slurps the last few drops. Mom, with her South Carolina manners, never would have let her get away with that, but I laugh at Marie’s messy face as I wipe her clean.
    Dad beat us home and we find them both sitting at the kitchen table. Mom cradles a cup of steaming tea. Maybe it’s the warmth, but she has more color in her cheeks than usual. She smiles when Marie presents her with the pizza.
    Dad sets a speed-eating record, polishing off his meal in under ten bites. My stomach clenches as I watch Mom sample a slice, marveling as she eats the whole piece except the crust. She catches me staring.
    â€œIt’s a good day, Vanessa. How does it feel to be an upperclassman?”
    â€œYou mean, how does it feel to be a senior?” Adrienne asks. “Amazing.”
    Dad relaxes into his chair. Yesterday, his boss flew to Vermont for his son’s college graduation. Gone for an entire week, which means we have Dad home for breakfasts and dinners, and he can take Mom to the clinic. I can play the piano as much as I want.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want to come?” he asks me. We celebrate matriculation almost as enthusiastically as graduation, and Marie’s gift is a visit to Mission San Luis Rey, a historic museum glorifying the conquering and converting of local tribes, completely disregarding genocide. I hate the idea of going. While I know Marie will love the gildedceilings, she is more interested in the gift shop. She collects saint prayer cards with the fervor of a baseball fan.
    I shake my head and ignore Adrienne’s glare. She knows I’d rather eat glass than go to the beach and watch her make out with Zach. I’ve never been to one of their infamous bonfire parties, and I have no intention of starting now.
    â€œLooks like it’s just you and me,” Mom says, smiling.
    She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and even though I spend my days looking at both of them, I still find it startling how much Adrienne is a carbon copy of Mom. Over the past month, Mom looks like she’s aged about ten years. They warned us about that at the clinic, how the more aggressive treatment will erode her like the walls of San Clemente Canyon.
    She swears she will keep fighting. She’ll continue with the Laetrile until her body can’t endure the treatment any longer.