Love is a Four-Letter Word Read Free Page B

hear a grown woman giggle, especially your own mother.
    “What’s so funny?” I ask.
    Mom beams at me. “There she is! Future superstar and multi-award-winning actress! Well, how did it go?” She pulls me close to her and tugs on the end of one of my braids. “Nice touch,” she adds.
    “Thanks.”
    Next she starts unbraiding my hair and running her fingers through it. I let her do this, even though I’m getting too old for it, because she lost all her hair a few months back. Just over a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with cancer. She’s had three treatments and the doctors say things are going “according to plan” — which is good news — but no one is saying the magic word
remission
just yet. But the minute they do, Denise says, “We’re throwing your mama the biggest remission party there ever was!”
    Denise is big on parties, as long as they aren’t in celebration of her birthday. For as long as I can remember, Denise’s birthday party consists of a cake that says, “twenty-nine again!” and a bottle of wine that she shares with my mother in front of the TV. Pretty lame if you ask me.
    She never says anything about it, but I know Mom misses having her own hair. My mom is a former beauty queen and a very successful hair stylist. Hair is everything. Some people would say that life is everything and of course they’re right, but they probably never had their hair fall out.
    At first, Denise taped pictures of Halle Berry and all sorts of actresses with really short hairstyles to the mirror in the bathroom. Now that her hair is starting to grow in, Mom looks just as good as any of them. She says she loves the no-fuss look, but last week I found her old straightening iron and hot rollers in the garbage. I think it made her sad to see them every morning in the bathroom, knowing she won’t be able to use them for a long time.
    “Come on, kiddo, don’t keep us waiting. We’re not getting any younger,” Denise says.
    “It was fine,” I say carefully.
    “Fine?” Denise repeats.
    I shrug. “Yeah, fine.”
    Mom kisses my neck. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says.
    I twist away from her. “Sorry for what?” I demand. “I said it was fine!”
    “Okay, okay!” she says. “Take it easy! You just sounded a little down. But if you say it went fine, then great. I’m glad.”
    “Your first audition, you deserve a treat!” Denise says. “Have a delicious caramel-flavoured rice cake!” She offers me the package as she and my mom burst into laughter. I guess I missed the joke, because there is nothing funny or delicious about rice cakes.
    “I’m going to bed,” I announce.
    “So early?” Denise says. “Come on, we’ll have a girls’ night in.”
    “Every night is a girls’ night in,” I mutter.
    “Well! We don’t want that kind of attitude bringing us down, do we Annie?” Denise says.
    Mom throws a protein bar at Denise. “Shush, you!” she scolds. To me, she offers her cheek. I kiss it before turning to leave. She grabs my arm and looks right at me, the way mothers do when they are trying to figure out what you’re hiding. “You’re sure it was fine?”
    “I said it was fine.”

    It most certainly was
not
fine. It was the exact opposite of fine. Not that I would ever tell my mom that. I don’t like to give her things to worry about. A bad audition doesn’t really compare to getting cancer and losing all your hair.
    In my room, I whip my bag into the corner, tear off my shoes, and throw myself on the bed, fully dressed. I punch my pillows a bit but even that doesn’t make me feel better. I feel stupid and pathetic and definitely not fine.
The Wizard of Oz
is sitting on my nightstand, taunting me. I shove the book under the bed, behind a pile of empty shoeboxes that I had told my mother I threw out ages ago. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time for me to move on, grow up, or at the very least, read other things.
    The doorbell rings. It’s Benji, I know it. I feel bad about