Heart Like Mine A Novel - By Amy Hatvany Page 0,27
her. She was nice enough and didn’t make out with our dad in front of us or anything, which the guy who dated Bree’s mom had done the first time he came over. “So gross,” Bree said. “He used his tongue and everything.” I shuddered at the thought, figuring as long as Grace wasn’t doing that, I could put up with her hanging out with us.
“What about her clothes?” Mama said persistently. “Are they all business suits and heels?”
Finally looking at her, I shook my head. “It’s on the weekend, Mama. She wears jeans and sweaters.” I paused. “Why does it matter?”
Mama stood up, fluffed her hair, and gave me a dazzling smile. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what’s important.”
After she left my room, I considered the fact that it was Mama who seemed to think that Grace’s making more money than us was important. Definitely more than I did. It wasn’t like Grace was Whitney’s kind of rich—she didn’t have a driver or a housekeeper or a tennis court. She just didn’t have as many bills as we did because it was just her. Her car was really the only expensive thing it looked like she had. But it wasn’t brand-new or anything. Plus, Dad was always talking about how hard Grace worked and how capable and smart she was; I wondered if he said any of that to Mama, so she felt bad about just being a waitress.
“Why didn’t you go to college?” I asked her not long after Daddy left us, and an odd look popped up on her face. She took a minute before responding, and when she finally did, there was a false brightness in her voice, almost the same way I’d heard her talk to Max when she was trying to pretend he wasn’t annoying her.
“School was just never my cup of tea,” she said. “I only ever wanted to be a cheerleader. All the silly, meaningless things that just don’t matter in the end.” Her blue eyes narrowed a bit when she looked at me. “That’s why I want you at the academy. You’re a smart girl. I don’t want you to end up like I did.”
I tilted my head and scrunched my eyebrows together. “Like how?”
“Focused on the wrong things in life.” She paused and sharpened her gaze. “What’s important is in here.” She reached over and tapped my forehead lightly with the tip of her index finger. “And in here,” she said, placing her palm flat over my heart.
I swallowed and nodded, knowing she wanted me to agree. And I did, to a point, but I also knew that being pretty got other girls things that being plain like Bree or average like me didn’t get us. I also thought it was weird that Mama was always telling me how pretty I was, but then practically in the next breath, she insisted being smart was more important. I thought it would be kind of great to be both. I liked school well enough—my favorite subjects were history and English—but I had no idea what I might be when I grew up. Not a waitress, though. I knew that much from watching Mama come home so tired she could barely stand, irritated that the table with the highest bill had only left her a 5 percent tip.
“But you were a cheerleader?” I asked Mama, thinking it would be pretty cool if she had been.
“Yes,” she said with a frown, not meeting my gaze. “And it didn’t get me anything but trouble.”
She wouldn’t tell me more when I asked her to explain what kind of trouble she meant, but I assumed it had to do with boys. When I was twelve years old, boys in my class were already snapping my training bra in the hallway or trying to brush up against my chest “accidentally” with their hand. Boys were gross and, as far as I could tell at that point, were nothing but trouble.
Now, in my room at my dad’s house, I could hear the muffled noise of the television from the den. I pulled my cell phone from my backpack and sent my mom another quick text message, asking where she was. I’d sent her one in the car on the way here, too, but she hadn’t responded yet, which worried me. She usually answered within a couple of minutes, even when she was working, in case we needed her. When she didn’t respond to