peek at that list, though. I’m sure his taste in comics lies close to my own. How could Nelly ever appreciate the fine passion of comic-book collecting?
“Oh, and hey,” Martin says.
“What?”
“I really liked your photo-essay in the
Lion
today.”
“Thanks,” I say, and smile. It feels more like a grimace. Smiles don’t set well on my face.
I pull my cloak together and walk home.
There are a bunch of projects I need to finish. I pull out the sewing machine and unbag the fabric I got from Dad’s workshop and begin working on winterizing my Egg cloak.
I don’t need a pattern. I eyeball the fabric and rip and tear and edge and age the cloak with ease.
“I can’t work when you’re hovering.” I don’t look up, but I know that my mom is standing right behind me.
“Sorry,” Mom says, and undoes herself from standing still. The energy in the room all of a sudden moves more freely. Mom comes up right next to me. She has too much perfume on. She must have a date.
My fingers fly on the machine; my foot pumps.
“You really are very crafty,” Mom says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You could be a fashion designer. That might be a good career for you. Paris Fashion Week. Milan. Rome. I could sit in the front row. ‘Victoria Jurgen, Ursula Denton’s daughter, showed her new line this week.’”
Even my mom’s fantasies about me star her.
“Mom,” I say.
“What?”
“Let me make something perfectly clear so that there is no possibility for a misunderstanding.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not ever, never, ever, not at all ever, going to become a FASHION DESIGNER!”
“But you have a gift,” Mom says.
I hold up my finished cloak and put it on. It fits perfectly.
Mom follows me into the hallway.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Out.”
“No, Victoria. It’s a school night.”
I stick my fingers in my ears to show her that I’m not listening. I walk out the door and into the dark, dark night.
“Hello?” I yell into the apartment.
“Well, at least I don’t have to spend any more time worrying this evening. Thank you very much,” Mom says.
She’s in the living room with her feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of red wine.
I cough. I grasp my throat. I throw my book bag on the living-room floor. I fall to the ground and twitch.
Mom applauds.
“Bravo, Victoria,” she says. “I don’t know why I’m the actress in the family when clearly you have all the talent.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, and Mom does me the favor of stubbing out her cigarette.
“Okay. Now that I’m done being angry with you, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mom says.
“Really?” I say. “I kind of doubt it.”
“No, you’ll like this one.”
“I’m all ears.”
Mom takes a deep breath. I realize that she’s excited. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Mom really excited about something.
“Lark Austin is wooing me to be in her new film.”
My jaw hits the floor.
“The Greek Mythology trilogy?” I say.
“Yes,” Mom says. “She wants me to play Hera.”
I nearly shit my pants, have a heart attack, bulge my eyes out of their sockets, and explode. Well, not really. But I might as well.
“
You? You
play Hera?”
In the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, we have been trying to put a dream cast together for the Greek Mythology trilogy, and it has never, once, ever, included my mother in the role of Hera.
“Yes! We’re still negotiating, but it looks real good,” she says.
I can’t believe it. My mom might actually be in something that I think is cool.
“Anyway. I’ve been invited to the premiere of her new movie at the Egyptian Theatre, and there’s a reception, and I thought I would make you my date.”
Mom’s face is like the sun, big and hot and bright and happy.
“Saba Greer will be there, and I know how much you like her,” she says.
This can’t be happening. My mom can’t actually start becoming cool.
“I’m already going,” I
“Oh, and hey,” Martin says.
“What?”
“I really liked your photo-essay in the
Lion
today.”
“Thanks,” I say, and smile. It feels more like a grimace. Smiles don’t set well on my face.
I pull my cloak together and walk home.
There are a bunch of projects I need to finish. I pull out the sewing machine and unbag the fabric I got from Dad’s workshop and begin working on winterizing my Egg cloak.
I don’t need a pattern. I eyeball the fabric and rip and tear and edge and age the cloak with ease.
“I can’t work when you’re hovering.” I don’t look up, but I know that my mom is standing right behind me.
“Sorry,” Mom says, and undoes herself from standing still. The energy in the room all of a sudden moves more freely. Mom comes up right next to me. She has too much perfume on. She must have a date.
My fingers fly on the machine; my foot pumps.
“You really are very crafty,” Mom says.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You could be a fashion designer. That might be a good career for you. Paris Fashion Week. Milan. Rome. I could sit in the front row. ‘Victoria Jurgen, Ursula Denton’s daughter, showed her new line this week.’”
Even my mom’s fantasies about me star her.
“Mom,” I say.
“What?”
“Let me make something perfectly clear so that there is no possibility for a misunderstanding.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not ever, never, ever, not at all ever, going to become a FASHION DESIGNER!”
“But you have a gift,” Mom says.
I hold up my finished cloak and put it on. It fits perfectly.
Mom follows me into the hallway.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Out.”
“No, Victoria. It’s a school night.”
I stick my fingers in my ears to show her that I’m not listening. I walk out the door and into the dark, dark night.
“Hello?” I yell into the apartment.
“Well, at least I don’t have to spend any more time worrying this evening. Thank you very much,” Mom says.
She’s in the living room with her feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of red wine.
I cough. I grasp my throat. I throw my book bag on the living-room floor. I fall to the ground and twitch.
Mom applauds.
“Bravo, Victoria,” she says. “I don’t know why I’m the actress in the family when clearly you have all the talent.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, and Mom does me the favor of stubbing out her cigarette.
“Okay. Now that I’m done being angry with you, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Mom says.
“Really?” I say. “I kind of doubt it.”
“No, you’ll like this one.”
“I’m all ears.”
Mom takes a deep breath. I realize that she’s excited. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Mom really excited about something.
“Lark Austin is wooing me to be in her new film.”
My jaw hits the floor.
“The Greek Mythology trilogy?” I say.
“Yes,” Mom says. “She wants me to play Hera.”
I nearly shit my pants, have a heart attack, bulge my eyes out of their sockets, and explode. Well, not really. But I might as well.
“
You? You
play Hera?”
In the Science Fiction and Fantasy Club, we have been trying to put a dream cast together for the Greek Mythology trilogy, and it has never, once, ever, included my mother in the role of Hera.
“Yes! We’re still negotiating, but it looks real good,” she says.
I can’t believe it. My mom might actually be in something that I think is cool.
“Anyway. I’ve been invited to the premiere of her new movie at the Egyptian Theatre, and there’s a reception, and I thought I would make you my date.”
Mom’s face is like the sun, big and hot and bright and happy.
“Saba Greer will be there, and I know how much you like her,” she says.
This can’t be happening. My mom can’t actually start becoming cool.
“I’m already going,” I
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