Trinkets Read Free Page A

the dance floor—or a bobcat drags its prey into the forest after the chase is over.

MARCH 2
    Okay, question of the day: What’s the big deal about Spring Fling? People waste hundreds of dollars on one night for a cheesy photo with a backdrop full of stars. I’ll admit the prospect of dancing around to pop songs with Noah Simos isn’t the worst thing I can imagine, but it’s never actually going to happen, so there’s no use wasting time thinking about it.
    Aunt B keeps telling me stories about her high school dances, which are fully boring. She keeps insisting that if I don’t go to Spring Fling I’ll regret it. She’s big on “living life to the fullest” and having “no regrets.” I always feel that’s what people who peaked in high school say. Not that it’s her fault—she didn’t plan on having to give up her life because my parents died in a random car accident and shehad to become guardian, but still. Of course I have regrets, like not paying more attention to my folks when they were right in front of me, but I try not to spend too much time dwelling on it, because I was only seven when it happened. I have a few special memories I keep to myself and a few things I wish I’d done differently, like not whining about wanting a skateboard for my birthday. If I hadn’t asked for it, they probably would still be alive. But the more you think about stuff like that, the worse you feel, and the more you talk about special memories, the less special they become. Marc and I actually agree on this topic, and last year for Christmas, he gave Aunt B a T-shirt that says “No Regrets” as a kind of joke. She didn’t laugh. He said he regretted giving it to her, but she didn’t laugh at that either.

Small Talk
    When I get home,
    I give my dad the permission slip
    for the Shakespeare field trip.
    It’s not like I love Shakespeare,
    but if you go,
    you’re a shoo-in for the Ashland overnight trip,
    which is supposed to be the most fun
    you can have in school
    and still get credit for it.
    He asks me how school is
    and how my friends are.
    I tell him
fine
and he nods and says,
    I’m available to problem-solve if you’re having any difficulties, Elodie
,
    and he gives me one of his District Manager Looks,
    which makes me think I should
    be paying him a salary for talking to me.
    Maybe he should bill me after dinner.
    As she’s clearing the plates
    my stepmom Jenna reminds me they’re going to the Stegemans’ later.
    She’s stoked at the prospect of small-talking herself into a stupor.
    That’s one of her special skills:
    saying a whole lot of nothing
    all the time.
    I guess my dad married her because
    silent types like people
    who aren’t silent.
    What are you and Rachelle up to tonight?
Jenna asks.
    I shrug and say,
Nothing, probably just watching movies,
    because that’s the way it is with parents;
    you tell them what they want to hear
    and everything else
    you leave out.

ICE
    After the Mr. Bobcat calls the police, my mother shows up, pale-faced and with her usually perfectly coiffed ash-blond hair mussed up on the sides. Clearly, she was in the middle of an afternoon-cocktail–fueled power nap.
    But I have to hand it to her—she barely flinches when she sees me sitting in the dank little chair in the back of the Customer Service Center.
    On the drive home, my mom calls Jeffrey, an attorney and “old family friend,” on speakerphone. They went to college together at UW, and once when I asked her if they ever dated, she just shrugged it off. Two Christmases ago at our house, I walked in on them having drinks in the kitchen. He was telling her a story that had her doubled over laughing, which is weird because she’s not really a biglaugher. When she saw me, she straightened up and tried to collect herself, but he just stood there staring at her, like he wished he could live in that kitchen with her forever and not have to go home with his plus-sized wife and their super-annoying five-year-old twin