The Light of Paris by Eleanor Brown

breath, inhaling the comforting smell of him. My anger and panic had burned away during the trip and now I was left with a slow, sad burn in my stomach that made the smell of my parents’ house seem comforting.
    However, the person standing at the door was not my mother, but a woman about my age, her hair blown out into an appropriate bob, her makeup perfect, wearing a conservative navy suit with a white shell and pearls, straight out of the Magnolia Ladies Association Central Casting.
    â€œWell, well, well. Madeleine Bowers. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
    I squinted at her suspiciously. “It’s Madeleine Spencer, now, actually. Do I . . . ah . . . know you?”
    She looked at me with a surprised expression and laughed. “You don’t recognize me? I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not! Honey, it’s Sharon Baker. From Country Day?”
    â€œOh. Wow.” This woman standing here with her French-manicured nails and her spotless outfit was Sharon Baker? In high school, Sharon had been the closest thing Magnolia Country Day had to a bad girl. Most of us had been together since nursery school, but Sharon had blown in at the beginning of ninth grade (the rumor, which she did nothing to dispel, was that she had been kicked out of three other private schools before she had come to ours). She smoked, and dated boys from public school, and her uniform skirt was always too short, and she had wild, loose, curly hair she never seemed to brush.
    I’d always been both a little in awe and a little afraid of her, mostly because she didn’t seem to care what anyone else thought. I’d sat next to her during class elections the first year, and when we were supposed to hand our ballots in, I turned to take hers and pass it down, but her hands were empty. “That shit is on the floor where it belongs,” she had said. It had never even occurred to me that was an option. I had voted for Ashley Hathaway, the same way I had voted for her every year since the fifth grade.
    â€œHardly recognize me, huh? I went all respectable.” Turning toward the mirror by the door, she shook her hair into place, needlessly tugging her jacket straight. “I know. I hardly recognize me too.” She sighed, as though she were a disappointment to herself. “Don’t worry,” she said,turning her cheer back on. “I’m still rotten deep down at the core. How the hell are you?”
    â€œI’m good,” I said, a little timorously. I was still reeling from the great reinvention of Sharon Baker, and a little bit wondering why she was there. My mother and I had never been the best of friends, but I thought getting a new daughter seemed a bit extreme, and Sharon would have been a . . . surprising choice, even cleaned up as she was.
    â€œAnd what brings you back to this shit hole?” she asked cheerfully. She was still looking in the mirror, now reapplying her lipstick, a pearlescent pink that shimmered when she popped her lips at the end. It was strange—she looked so perfect and pure, but she still had a mouth like a sailor.
    â€œI’m just in town for a visit.” I had been standing in the doorway, but I finally stepped in. “Not to be rude, but what are you doing here?”
    Sharon stopped primping and turned to me, squinting slightly. “Your mother hasn’t told you?”
    â€œHasn’t told me what? Did she adopt you? Have I been disowned?”
    Sharon laughed, a pleasantly rough-edged stone of a sound. Covering her lipstick, she stuck it back in her purse. “You’d better talk to Simone.”
    â€œI’m here, I’m here,” my mother said, rushing downstairs. “I’m so sorry; I was terribly delayed. Have you been waiting long?” she asked Sharon solicitously, and then, noticing me, started and put her hand on her chest. “Well, goodness, Madeleine, are