Playing Nice by Rebekah Crane Read Free Book Online Page A

walks farther down the aisle, running her hand over the different yarns, not saying a word. I follow behind her, my mind racing with what to say.
    "The theme has a double meaning. Two people are better than one, and the second amendment allows people to bear arms." I look at her, hoping for eye contact.
    It doesn't happen. My mom rubs a fuzzy aqua spool against her cheek.
    "Um-hmm," Another closed mouth response, her eyes on the yarn. "This feels great on the skin. Maybe I'll buy it for Mrs. Schneider. She's a great knitter. You know those wool socks I wear all winter? She made those."
    This is worse than I ever could have imagined. Mom's talking to me about Mrs. Schneider, a mean old lady from church who smells like mothballs and foot cream. I start to fidget, wringing my hands, as my stomach flip-flops over and over.
    "I figured we could decorate the gym in fake trees and leaves with Cupid hiding in the branches." My heart pounds as my mom places the blue yarn in our basket. I clutch my sketch, a physical representation of all the hours I've spent thinking about this dance, of the seventeen pieces of white paper I covered in different theme ideas until they turned black with words.
    "I think I'll ask her to make you a sweater. Blue is a great color on you. Would you like that?" My mom still won't look away from the yarn. Yarn that I'm sure is pokey and uncomfortable when made into a sweater that will make me sweat in the dead of winter. A sweater that will constantly remind me of this moment, and how awful my mother's icy answers felt.
    "That would be nice," I say. I take a deep breath, one that pushes all the oxygen I can suck out of the air into the deepest part of my lungs. And then I ask the question I know I have to. "What do you think of my idea?"
    My voice curls up on the ends with extra sugar, as I hope against hope that my mom will hear my plea.
    She pushes the cart down the aisle, moving away.
    "I think it's fine, dear."
    Fine .
    The world's worst word. It doesn't mean what the dictionary says. Fine should be a synonym for good, but it's good's ugly, pimple-faced younger brother who smells like B.O. and could never get a girlfriend. Fine is terrible. I close my eyes and stuff my drawing back in my purse, weeks and weeks of work crushed with one word. Fine .
    We walk in silence for a minute, rounding the corner into the colored cardboard aisle. The green and brown paper practically screams at me, broadcasting what could have been. All the fake leaves and trees that would have been designed for the dance are going to stay in Hobby Lobby for someone else to buy.
    I swallow my disappointment, a rock slowly choking its way down my throat, and ask the question I know my mom wants to hear. "What would you do?"
    She stops the cart and finally looks at me. Her eyes are twinkling. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head. She's gone into senior class president mode. She had the same sparkle when she remodeled our kitchen, like she could barely contain her joy as she bashed down the walls of my grandma's house.
    "Do you really want to know?" she asks, voice in full-blown Disney character mode.
    I nod, even though I want to cry. I remind myself that her idea is going to be good. My mom would never want me to fail, so it's probably best I do whatever she says.
    "If I were in charge, I'd use the theme, 'Shot Through the Heart'." Mom's eyes get big as she expands on the idea. "I would hang red heart bull's-eyes all over the gym and have little Cupids holding shotguns."
    "What about the fake trees?" I ask, hoping one of my ideas will survive.
    "Marty, no one thinks a forest is romantic." My mom starts loading the cart with red and pink cardboard. "You want to be remembered, right?"
    I nod again, moving my head without thinking. Smile and don't move. Smile and don't move .
    "I do," I say.
    "'Shot Through the Heart,'" Mom repeats. "It's going to be great."

    ***

    We get in line to pay, our cart full of all the things