The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,10
expect the inside of a trailer to look. There’s a white sheepskin rug in the main area that’s surrounded by a close-to-the-ground futon sofa, oversized bean bag chairs, and chianti bottles turned into candle holders. Sammy claims the lower you sit the higher the ceilings are. Which isn’t true, but she always looks on the bright side. It’s one of the things I love about her most.
Sammy comes out of her bedroom wearing yoga pants and a hoodie. She’s carrying her cat Howard, a giant red tabby with a bad attitude and a fur coat covered in random bald spots that make him look like he’s got mange. “Come on in and take a load off,” she says. “I just put a frozen pizza in the oven. You don’t want a salad with that, do you?” she asks in such a way that she might as well have suggested I was hankering to munch on a bowl of lizard toenails.
Even if I did want a salad, I know Sammy well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to provide one. “I’m good,” I tell her. “I brought cheese.”
“I think we should skip Bridesmaids tonight and do one of your mama’s favorites instead. You up for the new Gilmore Girls on Netflix? Donna always wanted them to bring that series back. I’m mad it took them so long she didn’t get to find out what happened to everyone.”
“I’m sure she’s watching in heaven,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. Once we crack open a cider, I tell Sammy about my new gig helping Davis’s grandmother. “I start on Sunday.” I know it’s against privacy rules to use names, but Sammy won’t say anything and I need to share this information with someone.
Her eyebrow arches in interest. “THE Davis Frothingham? Girl, you’ve been wanting that boy to notice you since you crossed the state line from Illinois. What are you going to wear?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not a guest, but I don’t want to wear my uniform from the home. Any thoughts?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I suggest you dress like you would if you’d been invited. ‘Cause you have. You know, put on something pretty. I can do your hair up nice and paint your nails.”
“No nails,” I tell her. “Between washing my hands a hundred times a day at the home, and working at Shuckie’s, I couldn’t maintain them.”
“But they’d look nice for Sunday, so we’re doin’ it.” Sammy gets up to retrieve the pizza from the oven. When she gets back, she says, “Your mama always wanted to be like Lorelai Gilmore. You know, running a fancy inn with gorgeous men throwing themselves at her.”
“She could have done anything she wanted if she would have been willing to do the work it entailed.”
Sammy glares in my direction. “Bitter, much?”
“I’m not bitter at all. I’m just saying that Mom expected her life to spontaneously change on its own without having to invest any elbow grease. That’s not how it works.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I know you have to hustle if you want to get ahead,” I reply heatedly.
“I’m not picking a fight with you, Ash. I’m just sayin’ that you’re as off balance as Donna was. She may have partied too much and didn’t work hard enough at changing things, but all you do is work. I expected better of you.”
“I’m sorry to be such a letdown,” I snap like a petulant teenager.
“Scoot over, you big baby.” My friend crowds onto the futon next to me before leaning back and putting her feet on my lap. “You didn’t let anyone down. But life isn’t an all or nothing affair. Sure, you gotta work, but then you gotta let your hair down once in a while and let loose. If you don’t, you’re gonna turn into a lonely, dried-up old prune.”
“I’m only thirty. I’m miles away from dried-up prune territory.”
She shoots me a look that begs to differ. Then she gets up and walks into the other room. When she comes back she’s carrying a tackle box full of makeup and hair products.
“You are not doing a makeover on me,” I tell her in no uncertain terms.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m going to sleep in a couple of hours, and I don’t need to look all fancy to sit here and watch TV with you.”
“Our plans just changed.”
“No, they didn’t,” I say. “We’re going to watch Gilmore Girls, and then I’m going to bed.”
“No, ma’am.