her way to the snack bar before I hit her with the question of the day. “I hear you know how to drive the Zamboni?”
She shrugged, the move a perfect carbon copy of her father’s. “Any moron could run it,” she mumbled.
I shuddered. “Gee, I wonder where you picked up that pearl?”
Ashley tucked her hair behind her ears and dropped her gaze to the concrete floor. When she offered no typically indignant teenage rebuttal, my Aunt Bernie radar chimed deep inside my brain.
“Something happen at school?”
She shook her head, still looking down.
I closed the gap between us and hooked my fingers beneath her chin. She looked up at me, her young eyes far more serious than they should be.
“Spill it.”
“I got invited to a party this Friday night.”
I frowned, doing my best not to give away the confusion I felt. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Ashley rolled her eyes. “A boy-girl party.”
I made a face. “Isn’t that even better?”
“Dad won’t let me go.”
“Why?” I gave a quick lift and drop of my shoulders. “It’s not like you’re having sex.”
Ashley’s eyes popped wide, a la Bambi in the headlights. Fear gripped my insides.
“Are you?” I asked.
Her features twisted as if she’d sucked on a lemon--a really big lemon. “Gross.”
I relaxed a smidge and dropped my hand from her chin. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I need Mom to soften him up. Convince him I’m old enough to go.”
“So ask her to help.”
“She doesn’t have time for me anymore.” Ashley drew in a ragged breath and shifted her focus once more to the floor. My heart ached just looking at her defeated posture.
“Now you’re talking crazy.” I gave a little laugh to try to lighten the mood. “Your mom lives for you.”
“Have you talked to her lately?” Ashley shot me a incredulous glare. “She lives for the baby and purses. Period.”
I bit my tongue. The child had a point.
I held my breath and tried to think this one through as fast as I could. If I called Diane to give her a heads up on the situation, I’d be forever branded as a spy in Ashley’s book. If I helped Ashley without saying a thing to my dearest friend, I might be forever branded as a traitor.
But chances were pretty good Diane would understand, and just in case she didn’t, I could always stop by the mall and pick up a faux-croc tote on my way home.
“I could talk to your dad.”
Ashley’s head snapped up.
“And drive you to the party,” I continued.
“Really?”
I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “And maybe we could go by my house first and you could borrow something from my closet. That would be cool.”
Ashley’s nose crinkled.
“I’m not that out of touch, Ash.”
“Aunt Bernie.” Her nose crinkle turned into a full-out scrunch.
“Okay, but I am killer when it comes to spiral curls.”
I caught her staring at my natural frizz, and I self-consciously smoothed a hand over the mess I reluctantly called my hair. “On other people. Killer curls on other people.”
Her facial scrunch morphed into the warmest smile I’d seen on her face since Santa brought her Tickle Me Elmo for her fourth Christmas.
She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, Aunt Bernie.”
I did my best to project nonchalant coolness as she sashayed away, when I really wanted to jump up and down. For the first time in days I’d actually said something right. At least, I think I’d said something right.
As I stood there watching Ashley effortlessly operate the Zamboni, I realized she might be a whole lot younger than I was, but we weren’t all that different.
I might be caught in the transition between married and single and between having a dad and surviving a dad, but Ashley was caught in a transition of her own. The transition between childhood and womanhood.
And while I might not know a thing about how to drive a Zamboni, flip a decent burger or survive my life transition, I might be able to help Ashley through hers.
The thought of lending Ashley the benefit of my experience gave me the same glimmer of purpose I’d felt when she hugged me at the bead shop.
I, Bernadette Murphy, had finally found someone to whom I could make a difference.
I looked at Ashley and waved.
After all, how difficult could it be?
o0o
Later that night, I sat up in bed, staring at the walls. Sleep eluded me.
Poindexter, however, yipped and growled in his sleep as he sprawled across his dog bed, no doubt giving some obedience school trainer