Dead Little Mean Girl

She ignored me after that, texting to her heart’s content, but I didn’t care. The conversation made me think about things I didn’t like to think about, like my own parents’ divorce and the resulting living situation. Grocery shopping became a thing of torture that would never end. When we got home, I helped Mom with the bags while Quinn escaped to her room to avoid manual labor.

“I need your help with the Christmas tree this week,” Mom announced. “Karen’s leaving for a conference on Tuesday. I wouldn’t put one up at all with you girls being older, but your grandmother will have a fit if there’s nothing festive in the house. You know how she g—Are you all right?” Mom punctuated the question with a slam, the ham in her hands crashing into the empty sink.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Y-yeah. Yeah. I was just thinking about Dad.”

“Oh?”

I shrugged. “I probably won’t get to see him on Christmas with his flight contract. It’s bumming me out.”

“Oh, honey.” Mom crossed the kitchen to hug me tight, her chin perched on my shoulder. “The holidays are hard. Why don’t you go give him a buzz?”

“I will.”

“That’s my girl.” Mom’s hand clapped against my butt in an affectionate, football-player-esque slap. I swatted her away and climbed the stairs, reaching into my pocket for my phone as I crossed into my room. I had no idea where in the world Dad was or which important person he might be carting around. If he was midflight, he wouldn’t answer, but I wanted to connect if I could.