Arabella Baylor személy
“Ms. Baylor . . .”Augustine pushed his glasses up his nose.
Arabella snapped a picture of Augustine.
“Stop that,”Augustine and I said at the same time.
“Augustine, don’t tell my sister what to do. Arabella, stop it.”
A page from Bridal magazine was taped to my office glass door. It showed a woman in a spectacular gown made with long white feathers. Someone—probably Arabella—had cut out my head from some selfie and pasted it over the bride’s. A big heart, drawn in a pink marker and sprinkled with glitter, decorated the bride’s dress. Inside the heart someone had written N+R = LURVE. Little pink hearts floated around my face.
Killer way to make the first impression. I wished I could fall through the floor.
Through the glass I could see another bridal photograph, this one embellished with glittering dollar signs, waiting on my desk. On the bride’s dress, big block letters written with Catalina’s painstaking precision, said Marry him. We need college money.
“I’m coming, Nevada. You can’t stop me.”
“Yes, I can. You’re a minor.”
Catalina raised her chin. “I’m a Prime.”
“So am I.”
“Yes, yes, we’re all special,” Arabella said.
Mom glared at us. “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
I opened my mouth. Catalina beat me to it. “You let her get into the helicopter.”
Mom blinked. Catalina almost never got into a fight with anyone except Arabella and me.
“I was taking care of Jessica. You let her run out of the house and climb into the helicopter, Mom. What were we supposed to do? Was I supposed to telepathically make her behave? Were Bern and Nevada supposed to magically make her stop while they were being shot at?”
Mom opened her mouth.
“No,”Catalina said. “I’m sick and tired of everyone making excuses for her. She’s special. She’s under a lot of pressure. She’s a spoiled brat who’s used to getting her way. She acts like a five-year-old and you want all of us to compensate. Well, she’s too old for us to do that. I’m not going to listen to any more of this. I’m done. Seriously, I’m fucking done.”
“She wants lilacs in her wedding bouquet.”
“Okay . . .” Nevada had said she wanted carnations, but we could stuff some pretty pink lilacs in there. I didn’t see the problem.
“Blue,” Arabella squeezed out. “She wants blue lilacs.”
No and also no. “Nevada . . .”
“I had to hide in a bush of French lilacs yesterday and they were very pretty and smelled nice. The card on the tree said, ‘Wonder Blue: prolific in bloom and lush in perfume.’”
I googled French lilac, Wonder Blue. It was blue. Like in your face blue. “Why were you hiding in a bush?”
“She was being shot at,” Arabella said with a sour face.
“So you stopped to smell the lilacs while people were shooting at you?”