Crystal Caves by Kristine Grayson Page A

means she expects me to make the leaps, and I’m not going to.
    “I’m not responsible for what Megan does.” That sentence sounded better in my head than when I say it out loud. Out loud it sounds whiny and defensive.
    “Really?” Mother asks, her voice dripping with disdain. “Because Megan called to discuss you .”
    I shrug.
    Mother’s eyes narrow. “She says you walked out on her.”
    I let out a breath. I’m not going to sound defensive again. I’m not. So I don’t say anything.
    “She says you claim you’re not coming back.”
    I shrug again.
    “You are not one of my sons,” Mother snaps. “You don’t get to feign indifference. Girls don’t feign indifference.”
    “Who made that rule?” I ask before I can stop myself.
    She whirls, and I get a blast of Clive Christian No. 1. That perfume is some kind of stealth weapon, guaranteed to make me sneeze all over the expensive red-and-gold furniture.
    “You need to apologize to me,” Mother says.
    “For what?” Since I already started digging the hole, I might as well continue.
    “For making Megan call me,” Mother says. “That woman is awful.”
    “I know,” I say, channeling Brit’s sympathetic calm. “That’s why I walked out.”
    Mother stops and looks at me sideways. Whatever she expected me to say, it hadn’t been that.
    “You’re here on Megan’s sufferance,” Mother says. “She determines whether you stay or leave.”
    “That’s not what I remember.” I’m not going to tell her that we girls decided we’d live with our mothers and lose our magic, particularly since I’d just screamed at Megan because I hadn’t really been part of that decision.
    “Oh?” Mother says. “Because I wasn’t consulted until I was told you were going to move in. And then I was told that it all depended on Megan.”
    “Is that why you stopped going to the sessions with her?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
    Mother throws a truly foul look at me. “I have a shrink. I don’t need another one.”
    “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “If you don’t go see Megan, then you can get rid of me, right?”
    Mother raises herself to her full height, which—in those heels—is several inches taller than me.
    “You ascribe to me Machiavellian motives,” she says.
    I have no idea what “Machiavellian” is, only that it doesn’t sound good.
    “I’m just looking at the logic,” I say. “If you believe that Megan’s in charge of all of this—and she isn’t, but I guess you didn’t go to all the family meetings, which is so normal for you—then if you stop going to those sessions, you get rid of me, right?”
    Mother raises her chin. “I am not trying to get rid of you.”
    Now she’s the one sounding defensive, and by the look of surprise in her eyes, she just realized it.
    “I simply have to manage my time.” Her right hand plays with the gold bangles on her left wrist. “Owen and I are very important people, and we don’t have time for things like—”
    “A daughter from a one-night stand?” I ask. “What do you call me? An Unintended Consequence?”
    Her lips thin. “I’m sorry you overheard that.”
    But she doesn’t deny it.
    “You and I do not know each other well,” she says, “and you’ve never—”
    “Whose fault is it that we don’t know each other?” I ask. Jeez—to use Gordon’s favorite word—but really, I mean, I’m beginning to sound like someone Not Me. Not Tiff or Brit either. Someone new.
    “I don’t think we can ascribe fault,” Mother says in a very prim voice.
    “Really?” I ask. “Because I do. You’re the one who stopped going to family gatherings, you’re the one who apparently didn’t go the mandatory meetings before bringing me here, and you’re the one who has stopped going to see Megan. So tell me again, why we can’t ascribe fault?”
    Mother crosses her arms. “You are a truly unpleasant child.”
    “I’m not a child,” I say.
    “Oh, yes, you are.