to tell Mom.
Add it all to the growing list of things causing me panic. Prom, sandwiched between my US History and chem exams. Two subjects I’ve been slacking on. Two subjects I usually study with Aubrey for. The administration does this on purpose: puts prom in the middle of finals to discourage overnight plans, or too much partying.
To discourage underclassman like me from attending.
They didn’t used to, but then some dumb tenth grader got so drunk a few years ago he had to go to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. I’m sure his date was thrilled.
I haven’t told Max yet how I need to be home right after. I figure he knows, and I’ll feel like a baby having to tell him. But there’s no way I can stay out all night. Even if I didn’t have tests. My average has taken a dive in both those classes. I need A’s or I’m going to suffer a big slide.
I turn on my computer and search “prom dresses that make you look cool,” but even before I get the word “cool” typed in, “skinny” and “thinner” come up, cool not even being a pre-searched option. I sigh, and search by color, instead, but everything seems too frilly and ridiculous, or too slutty, which would make Aubrey and everyone else happy.
I shut the computer, and walk to the habitat. The Jezebel whose wing I fixed lies motionless in the corner.
No matter how hard you try, there’s no saving anything in the end.
My chest squeezes at the thought. And at the one that follows: The rest are going to be dead soon, too.
I pluck her out, and rest her in my palm, touching her where the splint I made so many weeks ago is embedded in her wing, then wrap her gently in a tissue and head out back to bury her in the garden.
* * *
When I come inside, Nana and Mom have arrived home, their hands full of shopping bags. Macy’s. West Elm. L’Occitane. I wish I had known they were going to the mall.
“Jean Louise!” Nana drops her bags on the table, and throws her arms around me. “Your mother and I have gone on a bit of a spree. We got some pretty things for you, too, of course. Now, if I could only figure out which bags.”
She walks back to the table, rummages through some of the bigger bags, producing a small paper bag from a store I like called Trinkets.
“Probably too much bling for you, I’m guessing. That’s what they call it, right? Bling?”
I nod, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, for stealing, for plotting to leave with my boyfriend, for everything. It would break Nana’s heart. She may not ever know about the money, but she’ll be crushed if she finds out I’ve lied, that I’ve gotten on a motorcycle and headed off to California.
Then again, isn’t she always going on about Kerouac? He was more than twice her age when she kissed him. But that was only a kiss. She didn’t flee cross-country on his motorcycle.
“You only live once, right?” she’s saying. “You’ll see why I couldn’t resist.”
Mom is quiet, busying herself at the sink with a glass of water, and the arrangement of various pills. She counts, tapping her finger, loses count, and starts over again.
“Lottie!” Nana calls to her. “Where’s the other one? The bag from Bloomie’s?”
Mom doesn’t answer. She’s propped against the sink, staring down into it at something. Did a pill go down? It can’t be the dishes. She hasn’t made a home-cooked dinner in weeks.
“Plus, it’s almost summer, and you do have that sweet darling boyfriend…” Nana chatters on, oblivious, not seeming to notice my mother, or how she hasn’t given her an answer. I don’t understand her. Does she think it is normal for Mom to disappear like this in a matter of minutes? Just because she’s also capable of going shopping? Not to mention, she’s called Max darling, which makes me want to laugh. Only clueless Nana would call Max Gordon darling.
“Jean Louise,” she says, “come here and see!”
I open the Bloomingdale’s bag absentmindedly, pulling a soft, wrapped object out and placing it on the table. I unroll it from the paper and a black bikini with purple and orange butterflies spills out.
“They’re exotics, just like ours!” Nana says. “Butterflies for our butterfly. We want you to feel pretty while you’re lounging out around here this summer. Right, Lottie?”
My mother still doesn’t answer.
The dead Jezebel wrapped in tissue.
The