Page 35 of The Do-Over

“He called me this morning, and it turns out Grace Michaels, the weekend anchor, has a stomach bug and can barely get out of bed and Sandy Jones, who’s the backup weekend anchor, is in Oregon for her grandmother’s funeral.” She looked downright giddy.

“That’s sad,” I said.

Phee waved a hand. “Of course, very sad. I sent flowers.” The glimmer of excitement in her eyes didn’t dim. “He asked me to anchor the evening news this weekend. He said this could be a trial run and maybe I could do it more if this goes well.”

This was Phee’s dream. She’d majored in broadcast journalism. Being a traffic girl was a stepping stone, she’d told me once. It was anchoring, maybe making it to a national news program, doing real news, that was her goal.

My mother gasped and put a hand on Phee’s arm. “This is wonderful. What does Joel think?”

Phee’s smile slipped for half a second before returning with extra wattage. “I haven’t had a chance to tell him. I’m just so excited.”

Our food arrived. Mom and Phee chatted about work. I shrank into my seat, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while choking down dry, tasteless tortoise food. The more Phee talked, the less I’d have to. This plan had worked for me on many occasions.

Between breaths, Phee stole a carrot off my plate. When we were kids, we’d done this with our dinner plates when no one was looking. She loved green beans and chicken; I loved all things bread and peas. I’m not sure we ever ate an entire meal on our own once we figured this trick out.

“This is fantastic, Phoebe. I’m so proud of you,” my mother gushed, a cat-in-cream smile settling on her face. She pulled out a compact from her purse and flipped it open to check her teeth in the mirror and reapply her make-up.

Phee snatched up a cucumber slice and popped it in her mouth. I was tempted to push the whole plate toward her and give up the illusion that this meal was even a little satisfying.

The compact clicked shut. My mother turned, brown eyes burrowing through my forehead and into my brain. I shivered. “Persephone, can we discuss your situation now? I’m concerned.”

I twisted my fingers in my lap. My mother had a way of making me feel seven instead of twenty-seven. My eyes drifted around the room and landed on a small girl tugging at the neck of a stiff white dress with a Peter Pan collar. Her mother gave her a stern look, and the girl wilted. It was like looking in a mirror—my mother and I in almost any conversation we’d ever had since the beginning of time.

“I’m fine.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Your father isn’t fine. Leaving him like you did put him in a bind. You’ve had time to get this all out of your system.” She leaned forward. “Don’t you think you need to get over this silly disagreement and get back to work?”

I had expected nothing less. Those voicemails and text messages and emails (and probably a billboard somewhere) she’d left all week had followed the same theme: Perci is wrong. Perci needs to fix this.

But I wasn’t wrong. And besides, New Perci wouldn’t take this. New Perci would speak up for herself. I straightened. “I’m not going back there. Not when I can’t do my job.”

“Of course you can do your job, don’t be silly.”

Phee patted Mom’s hand. “Maybe we should let her talk.” She flashed me an encouraging smile. I tried to return it, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

“What’s to talk about? She needs a job, doesn’t she?” Mother sniffed, but delicately because she was a lady. “And this attitude toward Brent.”

“We are not talking about Brent,” I said, my voice firm.

My mother’s jaw snapped together. “I have raised you girls to be go-getters, to make a name for yourselves.”

I knew what was coming next.

“Just look at Phoebe. She’s set goals, and she has a rewarding career to show for it.”

If I looked good in a skintight dress, maybe I’d have a rewarding career too. I winced. That was unfair to Phee, who was so much more than how she looked. But Mom, whether she realized it, had labeled her the Pretty Daughter.

I was the Failure.

“What are your goals? What have you accomplished with your life?” my mother demanded.

My chest tightened, and my cheeks heated. I didn’t want to be the Failure anymore. New Perci wasn’t a failure. Right?

“What have you done, Mother? What have you accomplished with your life?”