“You know why those girls want to be friends with you again?” Willow asked, as she moved into the room and stood next to Olive’s two suitcases.
“Why?” Olive asked.
Why am I asking why? Who needs it?
“Because of me,” Willow said.
“You?”
“Those girls want to be friends with someone who has a model for a sister,” Willow said, disseminating the information as if she’d just done Olive the biggest favor of her life. “They want to be close to someone who’s famous. They don’t care about you.”
Olive heard Julie Andrews singing, ‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,’ as the sweat trickled down her back. It was hot in her bedroom, almost as hot as it was the August before on her birthday when her dad didn’t call.
She threw herself onto the suitcase, a desperate body wallop in hopes of getting out of there, and heard the lock click.
She straightened, slapped the note for Cordie on the white desk top, and grabbed the suitcases.
“See you Monday,” Olive said, and lumbered out the door, the bulging suitcases banging hard against the doorjamb as she went.