The Wishing Game(15)
“She’s not wrong about needing a village. Why not call her?”
“What?” Lucy boggled at her.
Theresa waved her hand. “I hated my sister growing up too. We could’ve made wigs out of the hair we pulled out of each other’s heads. We’d kill for each other now. I wouldn’t let her borrow my favorite jacket, but I’d shiv anyone who roughed her up. I’d call her if it was me in your shoes. Baby girl, the worse she can do is hang up on you.”
“No.” Lucy said it emphatically. Then for good measure said it again. “No.”
“Fine, fine.” Theresa raised her arms and surrendered. “But at least don’t tell Christopher today. Take a little time. Think it over. Okay?”
Lucy blinked back tears. “Nothing’s going to change in a week.”
Theresa stood up straight and pointed her finger at Lucy’s chest. “No? Let me tell you, my cousin JoJo—he is the biggest man-whore on the planet, so help me God if I’m lying—was two days from losing his house to the bank when his girlfriend set his bed on fire for cheating on her with her sister. Whole place burned to the ground in an hour,” she said with relish. “Huge insurance settlement. Now he’s living in Miami in a condo with two girls half his age.”
Lucy met her eyes. “Very inspiring and uplifting story. Thank you. You should give TED Talks.”
“One week. Even one day, okay? Just not today. Don’t ever break a heart on a Friday. Ruins the whole weekend.”
“I got him some toy sharks to soften the blow.”
“Save the sharks. And don’t tell him yet.”
Laughing for the first time all day, Lucy said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Theresa left for a planning committee meeting. Alone in the empty room, Lucy got out her phone and pulled up Google. Just out of curiosity, she typed in “Angela Victoria Hart,” then “Angela Hart,” and “Angie Hart Portland Maine.”
Didn’t take Lucy long to find her. Angie Hart of Portland, Maine, age thirty-one, was a top-tier agent at Weatherby’s International Realty. Lucy clicked on her photo and saw her sister all grown up. Pretty, not beautiful. But she had perfect white teeth and flawless makeup, and she wore a gray skirt suit and jacket that probably cost more than Lucy’s rent. According to the company’s website, Angie had just sold a two-million-dollar property. Just to twist the knife, Lucy googled standard commission for real estate agents—3 percent. Three percent of two million was sixty thousand dollars.
Right under Angie’s smiling face was all her contact information. Phone number and email.
Sixty thousand dollars? For one single sale?
Lucy’s finger hovered over the phone number. Wouldn’t kill her to try a text message?
Her heart raced at the thought of it. She began to sweat. What would she even say? Thanks for telling me Mom and Dad never wanted me? Thanks for reminding me I was unloved and unlovable? Thanks for making me a stranger in my own home? Oh, by the way, can I borrow some money?
No, she would say nothing, because there was nothing to say.
Lucy tossed her phone back in her bag. The battery was nearly dead anyway.
* * *
—
By the time Christopher made it to the classroom, Lucy was calm enough to pretend everything was okay.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Lucy said brightly as he came to her for a hug. He leaned into her wearily, but she could tell this was playground tired, not worn-down-by-sadness tired.
“Rough day?” she asked. He looked a little better than yesterday. No more raccoon eyes.
“So…much…math,” he said with a groan. He threw his backpack on a table and sank down into a chair with an exaggerated flop of his skinny arms.
“Do you have a lot of math homework?” she asked as she did her daily dive into his shoes to find his socks. She was going to have to start duct-taping his socks around his ankles.
“Nah, got that done.” He pulled his fingers through his hair until his sweaty locks stuck out like Einstein’s. “But my brain is fried.”
“I did see the smoke coming out of your ears. Wait until you start multiplication tables.” Lucy sat in the tiny chair across from him. “What other homework do you have?”
“Reading. Ms. Malik wants me to read a story in a book and answer ten questions about it. Complete sentences,” he said, then added, “Ugh.”
“A story and ten questions? That sounds like a lot,” Lucy said. That was more like fourth-grade-level homework than second. “The whole class had to do this? Or just the Eagles?”
Christopher was in the Eagles reading group. The Eagles were the best readers in the class, the students reading above grade level. Below the Eagles were the Hawks, and below the Hawks were the Owls. Even with such innocuous animal names, the kids picked up immediately that being an Eagle made you special and being an Owl made you an object of pity and scorn. She’d never been more relieved in her life than when she found out Christopher qualified for the Eagles group. Kids picked on him enough already for being in foster care.
“Um…just me,” he said as he stuck his fingers in his hair and shook it for no reason.
“Just you? Did you get in trouble or something?”
He put his fingers on his lower eyelids and pulled them down so he looked like a zombie. He was clearly very excited about something. Lucy extracted his hands from his face before his eyes dropped out of his sockets.