Interim(5)

“I really hate high school for you, Regan. Always have.”

“Was it hard for you?”

Mrs. Walters brightened. An invitation!

“Well, it was no Breakfast Club. I can tell you that,” she replied. “I dealt with the same cliques and social tiers as you do.”

“But you were popular,” Regan pointed out.

“Like you.”

“But it was effortless for you.”

“Perhaps.”

“You liked it,” Regan went on.

“That’s true.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“Then why’d you let me do it?” Regan cried.

“Do what?”

“Be popular!”

“Because it’s not my place to decide who you’ll be. You’ve gotta figure that out on your own.”

“God, you’re one of those parents,” Regan muttered.

“And proud of it,” Mrs. Walters replied.

Regan hopped into her walk-in closet and closed the door.

“Just stay right there, okay?” she called.

“Not going anywhere.”

Mrs. Walters waited patiently for her daughter to emerge. She suspected the fishnets would make an appearance, and Regan didn’t disappoint.

“Don’t say anything. Just take it in first, okay?” Regan asked, palms pressed against the door jamb.

Mrs. Walters nodded and narrowed her eyes. She scanned Regan from top to bottom, trying hard to suppress a sudden urge to cry. It seemed silly, but she saw a glimpse of her “loud” daughter—the one from long ago who was expressive, bright, and fun. Confident.

“I like the purple hair extension,” she said finally.

“Thanks.”

“In fifth grade, that outfit was radical,” Mrs. Walters went on.

“I know, right? Not so radical now,” Regan replied.

“Well, maybe not in other circles. But I suspect if you show up today in that, you’ll turn some heads. Have your friends asking what happened to you overnight,” Mrs. Walters said.

Regan nodded. “They’re, like, Ivy League.”

“That’s not Ivy League,” Mrs. Walters said, running her forefinger from the top of Regan’s head to her feet.

Regan chuckled and shook her head.

“And is that why you stopped dressing however you wanted?” Regan’s mom asked.

“You don’t get to make many choices for yourself when you’re running with the popular crowd.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Walters said. “Makes you wonder if it’s worth it.”

Regan was quiet.

“What’s that thing in your ear?” Mrs. Walters asked.

Regan turned to give her mom a better look.

“Isn’t it awesome? It’s an ear crawler.” She strolled over to her mom, kneeled in front of her, and pulled her ear forward. “See? Goes in like a regular earring and attaches at the top.”

Mrs. Walters fingered the spikey rhinestones that climbed the outer edge of her daughter’s ear.

“Interesting. And you just wear it in the one ear?”

“Yep.”

“Very punk.”

“Yep.”

“You think I could rock that?”

“Nope.”

Mrs. Walters laughed. “Stand back. Let me see something.”

Regan obeyed, moving her hands to her waist wrapped in a thin silver belt. Yeah, she belted her Jem T, and it did nothing but accentuate her already ample chest. It remained a mystery to Mrs. Walters how her twiggy daughter developed size DD breasts.

“Honey,” Mrs. Walters said tentatively. “Jem’s looking . . . oh, I don’t know. A little bloated, maybe?”

Regan looked down. “Huh?”

“Like maybe thirty pounds overweight.”

“What? Because of my boobs?”

Mrs. Walters nodded.

Regan immediately went on the defensive. “Mom! What do you want me to do about them? It’s not my fault!”

“Baby, I know it’s not your fault. I’m just saying that maybe you don’t need a belt. The belt just emphasizes them.”

“Are you for real right now?” Regan asked. “I totally have to have a belt!”

“But the boys, Regan . . .”