Faking It with the Frenemy

I let her in and shut the door. She places the cat on the foyer and looks around.

I kick off my shoes and pad into the kitchen. “I got Chinese food. Have you ever had that before?”

“Yeah.”

“You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?”

“Just Max Iverson.”

I try not to laugh. “Who’s he?”

“This boy who sits next to me in class. He uses this soap that makes me sneeze.”

“Well, he won’t be eating with us, so you’ll probably be okay.” I spread the cartons and plastic containers out on the table. “Kung Pao chicken, egg drop soup and some shrimp fried rice. Take whatever you like.” I hand her utensils and a plate and a bowl. “I only have water,” I say, giving her a glass, then serve myself a liberal dose of Merlot.

“Can I have some of that?” she asks.

“When you’re twenty-one,” I say. My mom was pretty liberal with alcohol at home and didn’t care if I had it when I was underage—I’m certain she thought it’d make me grow up to be more worldly and more trophy-wifey—but I’m not giving it to somebody’s kid.

She shrugs. “Thank you,” she says, surprisingly polite, then portions a bit of everything onto her plate. “Is it okay if I give some to Princess?”

“Who?”

She points at the cat, which has approached and is hissing at her.

Weird. Shouldn’t she be purring at the idea of food? “Oh. Her name is Princess? I thought it should be Queen because of the crown mark.”

“Mom thought Princess was a cuter name. Besides, Mom’s the queen, not some cat.” Vi is speaking in that “I’m a cool teen” voice, but she’s only ten. She can’t quite disguise the unhappiness and wistfulness in her tone.

“Makes sense. So where’s your mom? Working?”

“No, she’s getting married. So she’s really busy.”

“Oh.” That’s…awkward. It reminds me entirely too much of how my own mother used to get married all the time. Well, not all the time. Just five freakin’ times, each successive husband becoming older and richer. Thankfully I only had to witness the fifth one, but she told me all about the others in great, excruciating detail, with twenty photo albums. She even took pictures of her individual toes on the day of those weddings. “That’s…” I search for a suitable word, but can’t think of any. “That’s…um…good for her, I guess…?” I say, hoping her mom isn’t marrying for money, but for true love or at least some kind of course correction.

Vi scowls. “I guess.”

I squirm. This is really uncomfortable. “Are you going to be in the wedding? Maybe a flower girl or train bearer or something?” My mother wanted me to be a flower girl for her fifth wedding. She thought it was adorable and showed her true love for the groom. When I told her I didn’t want to, she made me do it anyway.

Vi looks down at her plate. “No. She doesn’t really want me there.”

But I hear more. She doesn’t really want me.

Oh, you poor thing. Even my mother lets me know she loves me, although her way of showing it is pretty messed up. Like telling me to marry the richest guy available.

“She doesn’t even want Princess, because her fiancé doesn’t like cats. She says he’s allergic, but I think that’s a lie. He’s a creepy perv.”

“I’m sure Princess is better off with you,” I say softly, not wanting to get into all the other drama. That’s her parents’ issue to deal with, not mine.

“Yeah, maybe.” Vi forces a smile. “The girls at school are nice and so much more mature than the ones at my old school.” Then she sighs, the sound small but audible.

There’s no way ten-year-olds are mature, but obviously she’s decided to be like them and fit in. Then my gaze goes to her hair. If she’s trying to fit in with the “mature” girls in her school, she should never go to school with hair like that. “So. What’s the new style in your school?” I have no idea what’s cool in school these days, and I don’t want to be like my mom, who just assumed that what was awesome to her would be awesome to teenagers.

“Something like this.” She points at her own hair. “I teased it this morning, although it doesn’t hold the shape very well. I think I need a new spray. The girl in the tutorial looked really great.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. What she needs is better technique. Her hair looks like a raptor’s nest. Besides, do little girls even tease their hair? Is that a thing, or is she just doing it because she saw it on some social media site?

I’m curious, but hold my tongue. It’s none of my business. So instead, I say, “That should help, but you can also try something else. I used to tease mine too, and learned a few tricks. Want me to show you?”