“They’re still together. My dad works a lot—travels for work and stuff. He’s a structural and civil engineer, designs bridges and shit. Really stressful since he’s part of the family business.”
Dang, his dad is really smart, too. “Like gluing popsicle sticks together and creating a building?”
Roman laughs again, and I straighten under the praise, having amused him.
“What about your mom? What does she do?” Why am I asking him this? It’s so rude. What does it matter what his parents do for a living?
You’re being nosey, Lilly—stop it.
“She stays home—I have a younger brother in third grade, Alex. He’s a monster.”
“So your mom takes care of Aunt Myrtle and Alex the Monster.”
“Right. They’re a dynamic duo of chaos.” He looks over at me. “What about you? I feel like all I’ve done is talk about myself.”
Only because I’ve asked him a million questions.
I pull a bottle of water out of my bag, suddenly remembering I have it with me, twisting off the top and taking a chug.
“Well. My dad works a lot too, and my mom is a paralegal but also considers herself my manager. Unofficially.”
“Manager of what?”
“Nothing. The dancing career I’m never going to have and do not want.”
“Oh.”
I glance at him in the dim light. “Have you ever seen an episode of Stage Moms?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, it’s this show about mothers who are obsessed with their children being famous or at least push them to be at the top of their game—in my case it’s dancing and cheering. I could be throwing up and my mother would still make me go to practice sick. And she would sit there watching the entire time, yelling instructions at me the same way my coaches would.” I take in a deep breath. “I couldn’t wait to graduate and get away.”
“How far from home are you?”
“Four hours—far enough that she can’t come to every home game and harass me, tell me all the things I do wrong afterward.”
“Isn’t that what coaches are for?”
My laugh is wry. “Ha. You would think. I honestly have no idea what my mom expects me to do with dancing—I don’t want to be on Broadway or in a show, and I’m not good enough to cheer for a professional sports team. I don’t have the motivation to do that.”
“Why does she want you to be a dancer so bad?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was she a dancer?”
“No. My mom was pre-law and wanted to be a lawyer but couldn’t get into any of the law schools she chose, so she quit and became a paralegal—which, by the way, required lots of schooling too.”
“Maybe she feels like a quitter and she doesn’t want you to be a quitter.”
“Well you can’t be a quitter if it’s not something you even want.” I pull at the bracelet surrounding my wrist. “I didn’t ask to be put into gymnastics and dance class and ballet. And I didn’t ask to be put in pageants when I was two years old.”
“Whoa—back up. You were in pageants?”
“Do you have to say it like that?”
“Sorry. But I’ve never met anyone from Toddlers and Tiaras.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” But I do pull out my phone and start scrolling through my photo gallery. “Hold on, I think I have a picture in here somewhere of me winning the Little Miss Coco Cabana pageant.”
I scroll and scroll and scroll down through the weeks and months and years to find pictures of myself I uprooted and then uploaded as a lark. Headshots of myself as a very little girl usually bring me some kind of amusement. Sometimes they even serve as a reminder that my mom has been pushing me to do things I don’t want for my entire life.
I find a photo of myself, blonde hair poofed up in the front and twisted into a professional knot in the back. For these particular headshots, my mother actually put a hairpiece on me so my hair appeared fuller. I mean, come on—what three-year-old has this kind of style? It looks absolutely ridiculous.
I’m spray-tanned, wearing makeup and teeny-tiny little dentures called a flipper.
Apparently my own teeth weren’t good enough for my mother.
I take my phone and hold it toward Roman so he can see. In the light from the phone’s glare, I get a good view of his surprised face. His raised eyebrows and mouth in the shape of an O.
“Dang.”
I take my finger and swipe to the next photograph. I’m dressed in western wear, hands on my hips, in the center of a stage. My pale blonde hair is braided and sticking out from beneath a hot pink cowboy hat. Matching fringe vest and skirt. Matching hot pink boots covered in sparkly rhinestones that I remember my mother painstakingly gluing on individually.
She spent hours on that costume. Was so upset when I didn’t place in the western wear category.