Page 4 of Not So Goode

“Mom, we’ll figure it out. I’ll call you when I can, okay? But don’t hold your breath.”

“If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“I know.” I could hear Lexie’s voice in the hallway. “I better go. If Lexie hears me talking to you, she’ll go apeshit.”

“Yeah, she’s weird about people talking about her.”

“She’s weird about everything,” I said. “Also, I did talk to Poppy. She’s not leaving Columbia yet. She’s not ready to quit, mainly because she doesn’t know what shedoeswant so she’s not quitting until she’s figured out a plan.”

“Well, that’s logical enough.”

“Well, on the surface of it, yes. But really, she’s just scared of what she actually does want, which is to be a full-time professional artist.”

“I know that, and you know that, but she has to decide that for herself.”

I sighed. “Yes, Mother. Which is why I’m not road tripping with her, but with Lexie. Because Lexie needs me right now, not Poppy.”

“Don’t act like you’re not relieved though. Poppy drives you crazy.”

The doorknob turned. “Gotta-go-bye,” I muttered, ended the call, and slid the phone back into my back pocket moments before Lexie walked in.

She rolled her eyes at me. “How’s Mom doing?”

I laughed. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk about her.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, she wanted to talk about me.”

I nodded. “Well, yeah. And I told her what I know…which is nothing.”

She shut the door, locked it, and dropped her towel on the floor. “Which is why I haven’t told you anything yet—I knew she’d call, and I knew you’d tell her. And I’m not ready to talk to Mom about this yet. I’m not sure I’m even ready to talk to you about it, even though you’re here because I begged you to come.”

“Why don’t you want Mom to know?” I asked. “And why call me, not her?”

“Because Mom would lecture me, and I can’t handle a lecture.” She glared at me as she started dressing. “And if you lecture me, I’ll never talk to you again.”

“I already promised I wouldn’t judge you, hon, and I won’t. I won’t lecture. I really am here to help, okay?”

The mask she was maintaining cracked, just a little. Turning away from me, she stuffed her legs into a pair of baggy, blousy, breezy linen pants—something Aladdin would wear, it looked like to me—white, low-waisted, and tight at the ankles. She wore a thin maroon shirt with it, which left her midriff bare from below her navel to just under her breasts.

No underwear, no bra.

She did put on socks, and then knee-high tan leather boots. She faced a small mirror she had hung on her wall next to her dresser, put some product on her palm, and styled her hair into an artfully messy look, longer black strands draping across her forehead and into her eyes, other strands brushed back, some to the side.

I frowned at her. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

She blinked at me, baffled. “What? Why?”

I gestured at her. “You can go from looking like a dirty hobo to…that, in fifteen minutes. Also, no bra, no panties? With white pants?”

She shrugged. “I don’t give a shit. It’s comfortable. I bend over, or the sun shines on me just right, sure, someone may get a little glimpse at the goods. I bend the wrong way and you may see some of my titties. So what? I genuinely just don’t care. Someone wants to shame me for it, let them. I’ll rip ‘em a new asshole and go about my day happy as a fuckin’ clam. Don’t get at me about what I wear or don’t wear.” A glance at me. “Why is it annoying?”

“Because you actually pull it off.”

She snickered. “You couldn’t go without your plain whitebrassiereand granny panties for five fucking minutes, could you?”

I glared at her. “My bra is not white, and I amnotwearing granny panties. And what’s wrong with them, anyway? Sometimes they’re just practical.” I flicked my fingers at her chest. “Besides, you’re gonna end up with saggy boobs when you’re older.”

“So? They sag, they sag. Not my problem.”