jeans she reached for from her closet and pulled them on.
“I wish I had your figure,” Martina said, sighing.
“Sweetie, you are a beautiful girl,” Lydia told her. “Especially after your makeover.”
She pushed into some white leather Burberry sandals, plundered from an overlooked corner of a Beverly Hills consignment store at a price she'd haggled down from the cheap to the ridiculous.
“No I'm not. I'm still fat.”
“Where I come from they'd call you bony,” Lydia pointed out. “Don't get hung up on this whole Hollywood skinny thing. It isn't real.”
“You can't be cool if you aren't skinny,” Martina insisted.
Lydia padded to the bathroom to splash some cold water onher face, slam two extra-strength Tylenol, and brush her teeth. Martina watched her every move.
“How come you always look so perfect?” Martina asked.
Her cousin had a serious case of hero worship. If Lydia's head didn't feel as if someone was drilling into it without benefit of anesthesia, she might be flattered.
She coaxed the little girl back to the main house and headed into the kitchen, where, thankfully, a fresh pot of French roast coffee was just waiting. After she'd drained half a cup, feeling slightly more human, she let Martina drag her up to her room.
When she pushed the door open, she was assaulted by a mountain of clothing. On the floor.
“Martina? What in the heck are you doing? You need a machete just to get through this stuff.”
Martina had emptied the contents of every closet, armoire, and dresser in her room onto the floor, if the floor even existed somewhere beneath the pile.
The girl anxiously twisted the material of her baggy Adidas sweatshirt. “I don't look good in any of these things. But you look really good even though you just woke up. I couldn't do that if I had all day.”
Lydia knew where this was going. Martina had had body issues for quite a while now. Not that anything was wrong with her body, especially with all the exercise she'd been getting lately. It was just that the girl was naturally large boned. And she had a fully developed figure. She was never going to be a cute little wisp, and she was never going to look like the little girl she really was.
“I want to go shopping,” Martina said. “I want new clothes.
Cute
clothes.”
Lydia was wary. “You know they have to be age appropriate.”
“That's okay!” Martina agreed quickly.
“Tell you what. Get yourself dressed, do your Russian, do your abs, and then meet me in the kitchen. I'll be waiting. If the moms say it's okay, maybe I'll take you shopping.”
Martina threw her arms around Lydia, much like the way the Amas said thank you, Lydia realized. Which was kind of ironic when you thought about it.
She went down to the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and got some sliced papaya and mango from the fridge. For once, there was no list on the kitchen table giving a moment-by-moment, blow-by-blow preview of how she should occupy the kids' time for the day. Of course, Anya knew that Billy was coming to take Jimmy to the Dodgers game. And Martina was old enough to know what she had to do without being told. For the next forty-five minutes, Lydia luxuriated in the freedom of the morning
Los Angeles Times
, last week's
People
, and Kat's (not Anya's)
Vogue
. She was deep into an article about the coming winter's fashions when the doorbell rang.
Billy. She realized her headache was gone.
She hustled to the door, but found she'd been beaten by someone even more excited to see Billy than she was. Jimmy. Either he was quaking with excitement or that boy really had to pee.
Lydia guessed it might be both. Excitement did that to a person, and Jimmy had been anticipating today's Dodgers game with every passing minute since he'd learned he was going. When she reached the door, Billy—dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Dodgers cap—was deep in conversation with Jimmy about today's starting pitchers, the expected
“I wish I had your figure,” Martina said, sighing.
“Sweetie, you are a beautiful girl,” Lydia told her. “Especially after your makeover.”
She pushed into some white leather Burberry sandals, plundered from an overlooked corner of a Beverly Hills consignment store at a price she'd haggled down from the cheap to the ridiculous.
“No I'm not. I'm still fat.”
“Where I come from they'd call you bony,” Lydia pointed out. “Don't get hung up on this whole Hollywood skinny thing. It isn't real.”
“You can't be cool if you aren't skinny,” Martina insisted.
Lydia padded to the bathroom to splash some cold water onher face, slam two extra-strength Tylenol, and brush her teeth. Martina watched her every move.
“How come you always look so perfect?” Martina asked.
Her cousin had a serious case of hero worship. If Lydia's head didn't feel as if someone was drilling into it without benefit of anesthesia, she might be flattered.
She coaxed the little girl back to the main house and headed into the kitchen, where, thankfully, a fresh pot of French roast coffee was just waiting. After she'd drained half a cup, feeling slightly more human, she let Martina drag her up to her room.
When she pushed the door open, she was assaulted by a mountain of clothing. On the floor.
“Martina? What in the heck are you doing? You need a machete just to get through this stuff.”
Martina had emptied the contents of every closet, armoire, and dresser in her room onto the floor, if the floor even existed somewhere beneath the pile.
The girl anxiously twisted the material of her baggy Adidas sweatshirt. “I don't look good in any of these things. But you look really good even though you just woke up. I couldn't do that if I had all day.”
Lydia knew where this was going. Martina had had body issues for quite a while now. Not that anything was wrong with her body, especially with all the exercise she'd been getting lately. It was just that the girl was naturally large boned. And she had a fully developed figure. She was never going to be a cute little wisp, and she was never going to look like the little girl she really was.
“I want to go shopping,” Martina said. “I want new clothes.
Cute
clothes.”
Lydia was wary. “You know they have to be age appropriate.”
“That's okay!” Martina agreed quickly.
“Tell you what. Get yourself dressed, do your Russian, do your abs, and then meet me in the kitchen. I'll be waiting. If the moms say it's okay, maybe I'll take you shopping.”
Martina threw her arms around Lydia, much like the way the Amas said thank you, Lydia realized. Which was kind of ironic when you thought about it.
She went down to the kitchen, poured herself a second cup of coffee, and got some sliced papaya and mango from the fridge. For once, there was no list on the kitchen table giving a moment-by-moment, blow-by-blow preview of how she should occupy the kids' time for the day. Of course, Anya knew that Billy was coming to take Jimmy to the Dodgers game. And Martina was old enough to know what she had to do without being told. For the next forty-five minutes, Lydia luxuriated in the freedom of the morning
Los Angeles Times
, last week's
People
, and Kat's (not Anya's)
Vogue
. She was deep into an article about the coming winter's fashions when the doorbell rang.
Billy. She realized her headache was gone.
She hustled to the door, but found she'd been beaten by someone even more excited to see Billy than she was. Jimmy. Either he was quaking with excitement or that boy really had to pee.
Lydia guessed it might be both. Excitement did that to a person, and Jimmy had been anticipating today's Dodgers game with every passing minute since he'd learned he was going. When she reached the door, Billy—dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Dodgers cap—was deep in conversation with Jimmy about today's starting pitchers, the expected
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