“You are,” I assured him.
Mom’s mouth fell open and then she rolled her eyes. “She’s just kidding.”
“I’m really not.”
“Back to the questions,” Andrew said, bending over the sheet of paper once more. “What does Sophie like to do on a rainy day?”
My mom squinted her eyes in thought.
I liked to drive. That’s what I liked to do. I liked to listen to the sound of the rain pounding on the metal roof of the car. Sometimes I would park at the lake or the canal or the historic house downtown and watch the way the drops pelted the water or poured off the eaves.
“She hates the rain. Thunder scares her.”
I looked at my mom in surprise. Thunder didn’t scare me. Not anymore. But then I realized my mom wasn’t just a couple of years behind in her knowledge of me. She was five years behind. She was still living in the summer my dad left. She’d stopped paying attention after that. It shouldn’t have surprised me. It didn’t. But I hadn’t had proof until now.
Andrew was staring at me and I relaxed my face to neutral.
“Are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?”
“Scared of thunder?”
“Are you trying to cheat? Hank’s Barbecue is on the line.” I wrote down the answer for my mom on the paper: Drink coffee and watch black-and-white movies.
When I looked up, Andrew’s gaze was moving between me and my mother. “You two look nothing alike,” he said.
Of course he was right. My mom was pale and blond with blue eyes. I had olive skin, brown hair, and dark brown eyes.
“Sophie takes after her father,” Mom said. “He was Italian.”
“Is, Mom,” I said.
“Is what?”
“Dad is Italian.”
“Was, is.” She waved her hand through the air like those two words conveyed the exact same meaning.
“Your dad is from Italy?” Andrew asked me.
“His parents. He grew up here,” my mom answered for me.
Perhaps it was the ominous tone in my mother’s voice that kept Andrew from asking for more information, but he looked back at the paper and said, “Okay, Ms. Evans, another question. Name one of Sophie’s bad habits.”
I wondered what she’d say for this. Five years ago my bad habits consisted of leaving dirty clothes on the floor or art supplies scattered all over the table. I put my pen to the paper and almost wrote: My mom only thinks about herself. But I stopped and chose instead: Habitually late.
“Maybe you should answer this one,” Mom said to Andrew.
I crossed my arms and looked at Andrew in a silent challenge that said: You better not. But I already knew Andrew’s bad habit was not listening, so of course he answered.
“Bad habit?” He bit the inside of his cheek and squinted his eyes. “Too judgmental. Or stubborn,” he said. “Or closed off.”
“You were supposed to pick one,” I said.
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“You never can.” I plucked the paper from his hand. “I think we’re done. We can’t win anyway, since I helped make this game.” I hadn’t at all, but I was so over this.
“That’s too bad,” Mom said. “We totally would’ve won.” She picked up the paper I’d been writing on and looked over my answers. “Yes, we would’ve won. My daughter knows me well.” She handed the paper to Andrew as if he was interested in the minutiae of her life. “You didn’t fill out my most embarrassing moment, Soph.”
“I didn’t know that one.” I often wondered if my mom ever got embarrassed. I knew she was humiliated when my dad left her to open a surf shop in Southern California, his lifelong dream that apparently didn’t include her (or his kids). They’d gotten married too young, both of them said often. They had barely known who they were. But humiliation wasn’t the same as embarrassment. Either way, I didn’t think that needed to be written on a bright yellow paper for a chance to win barbecue.
Sophie!” a cheerful voice called out.
I turned in my seat to see Janet Eller approaching our table. She had a petite frame and big messy curls. She’d lived down the street from us since forever.
“Janet!” I said, cheering up. “Hi. How are you? Getting ready for the big day next month?”
“Janet’s getting married next month,” Mom said to Andrew.
“Congratulations,” Andrew said.
“Thank you,” Janet said, running a hand through her curls. “And no, I’m not ready. I feel like a chicken with her head cut off. I’m running around with no direction.”
“It will all come together,” I said.
“I was hoping you would do my bouquet.”
“Isn’t Caroline doing the flowers?”
“Yes, but I want you specifically for my bouquet.”
“Me? Why would you want me?” I didn’t design flowers. Well, I did in the shop, but only because I had to.
“I’ve seen some of the arrangements you’ve done for the store,” Janet explained, her eyes wide. “They’re so good. You think you could draw up some samples for me to pick from?”
I shifted in my chair. “Oh. I really think you should stick with an experienced florist for an event as big as your wedding.”
“Sophie,” Mom said. “The girl is asking for you. Have some confidence, child.”
Janet put her hand on my arm. “Listen to your mother.”
My mother had just proven in writing that she knew nothing about me. I wasn’t sure she was the right person to listen to. Plus, I didn’t have a lot of extra time; I had my own designs to work on, and putting energy into designing a bouquet could zap my creativity. But Janet’s face looked so hopeful that I found myself saying, “Do you have any idea what you’d like?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking you. I want you to design it the way you think would look best.”
“What does your dress look like?”
“It’s traditional. Fitted bodice and full skirt.”
“White?”
“Of course. Do you want my mother to murder me before I can even walk down the aisle?”
I smiled. “Okay, I’ll draw you some samples.”
She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down.
“I meant … later,” I clarified.
“Can you just quickly do some rough sketches now?” She opened her purse and produced a notebook and a pencil for me.
“Now?”
“Please. I feel this heavy weight hanging over me, and I just want this off my plate.”
“Okay, I guess I can try …” I took the notebook and flipped through page after page of wedding notes until I found a blank one. I stared at the white paper. This wasn’t how inspiration worked for me, with three people staring at me expectantly. “You said it was a traditional dress?” I asked.
She nodded.
I sketched an outline of a dress. “Kind of like this?”
“Yes,” Janet said. “That’s the right shape.”
What flower shape would look good with this dress shape? My eyes took in the lines, and I thought about the symmetry. “I think you should go with a globe-style bouquet. I would do blush roses, tightly placed. Then maybe some ribbon wrapped around the holder and some pearl accents tucked into the flowers.” I drew as I talked, then stopped to look at the design. I flipped the page as another shape came to me. “Or you could have a more elongated shape by leaving on the stems and gathering the roses into a bunch. The stems could be wrapped with a string of pearls or a sheer ribbon.” When I was done, I showed her the sketches. “I need a little more time to fully develop the ideas but it’s a start.”