Chapter 8: Faker

My mother did not faint, which I would have enjoyed.

She stood on the stage in her black dress, gripping the microphone.

Her face was the color of the paper tablecloths.

"I will make this right," she said. "Every cent. By Friday."

Nobody clapped.

A line formed at the door, and it was not made of people leaving.

It was made of people who wanted a word with the priest.

The groom's mother took her son by the sleeve and walked him out past the bake sale without a glance at Daphne.

Daphne ran after them in her heels.

On my way out, my mother caught my arm in the hallway.

Her breath smelled of coffee and rage.

"You think you've won," she whispered. "You're not dying, Veda. You're killing me."

I looked down at her fingers on my red sleeve.

"Take your hand off me, Mom."

She did, which surprised us both.

On Monday I rode a motorcycle for the first time.

It was a small black Honda in the lot behind Joan's uncle's shop.

I wobbled across the asphalt at eight miles an hour while Joan ran alongside shouting instructions.

"Look where you want to go!"

"I want to go home!"

"No you don't! Look at the fence! Squeeze the clutch, Veda, the other hand!"

I stalled it twice and put it down once, gently, on the grass.

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