Free Sunblind by Michael Griffo Page B

Today is Wig-free Wednesday, so without a special hair feature, she’s taking some extra time putting on eye shadow and lipstick and picking out just the right accessories. My vision is still blurry because I’m not fully awake, but I can see as she puts her makeup on that she never touches the scar around her eye. She doesn’t try to conceal it; it’s part of who she is. She doesn’t need the world’s admiration to know that she’s beautiful and amazing and confident. As groggy as I am, I know that’s advice I should file away and use for myself. Who knew I’d need to use it so soon?
    My cell phone vibrates angrily on the nightstand.
    â€œThat is like the fourth text you’ve gotten, missie, and it’s just after seven,” Arla announces.
    Grabbing my cell phone, I force myself out of bed. “It’s Caleb,” I say.
    â€œWho else would it be so early in the morning, but Prince Caleb?” Arla replies. “Do these work?”
    Arla spins around on her chair and flicks an earring with her finger. It’s a modified chandelier, a long silver chain that ends in a ball of hot pink mesh, the color being a few shades bolder than her lipstick and clashing perfectly with her light-blue eye shadow. I totally approve of her look; I totally disapprove of Caleb’s text.
    â€œThe prince is breaking another date with me!” I shout, now fully awake and pacing the floor.
    Squeezing her left hand into a silver cuff bracelet, Arla grimaces. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s hurting herself in the name of fashion or if she’s indicating her support in the name of friendship. Turns out to be neither. The cop’s daughter is getting ready to cross-examine.
    â€œWhat’s his excuse?” she asks.
    â€œHe has to study,” I say, as if that’s a valid excuse.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œThat stupid, idiotic advanced math class he’s taking!” I reply, holding up the cell phone so Arla can read his text, which she can’t because as I’m holding it up I’m also waving it around.
    Multitasking, Arla checks herself out in the mirror and is as pleased with her look as she is with her interpretation of the facts.
    â€œCaleb’s stupid, idiotic advanced math class is probably going to get him a scholarship to Big Red or some other college he can’t otherwise afford,” she lays out. “So if I were his girlfriend, instead of his girlfriend’s pseudo-stepsister, I’d text him back and ask him if I could help him study.”
    I hate rational thinking this early in the morning!
    â€œI can’t do that,” I reply.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause I’ve already sent him a text,” I reply, my voice a little bit less forceful.
    Without asking, Arla grabs the phone out of my hand to read my text. She responds in much the same way I envision Caleb responding now that I’ve had half a minute to calm down.
    â€œSeriously?!” she exclaims. “You typed that message and then hit Send?”
    I think for a moment, wondering if there’s any way I can reply with anything else but the truth. There isn’t.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you want this house to be full of single ladies?” she asks. “’Cuz that’s where we’re headed if you don’t rectify this situation ASAP, and I mean rectify with a capital B because you need to beg Caleb to forgive you.” Pausing for effect, Arla puts her hands on her hips. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Robineau?”
    Justifiably chastised I reply, “Yes, Miss Bergeron, you’ve made yourself very clear.”
    â€œGood!” she declares. “Now shower up and make sure you accessorize because you’re going to need all the help you can get.”
    Actually I’m about to get more help than I deserve.
    â€œI’ll write a draft of your apology while you’re in the shower,” Arla