“I heard Bodhi and Palmer got in too,” Levi says. Okay, five more. Still, I have faith. One of those has to have Shola’s name on it.

“That’s great,” she says. I look over at my best friend in awe. She’s either an amazing actress, or she’s legitimately happy for him. I’m floored by her generosity. I almost say, It will be you next, but instead I grab Shola’s hand and squeeze, and she squeezes back, and we have a tiny conversation that way.

Me saying, It will be you soon, and her saying, Fingers crossed.

“Fingers and toes,” I whisper out loud. And she nods and closes her eyes, like I’ve said a prayer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Now

My mother turns fifty with little fanfare. We don’t celebrate in Mexico as originally planned. Instead, she spends the day in a federal court in Boston, where she officially pleads not guilty. I still don’t quite understand why the case is happening in Boston and not here, but since my dad’s fear of the billable hour has finally sunk in, I decide it’s unnecessarily expensive to ask Kenny. Instead, I make a mental note to ask Isla to explain it to me later.

I watch my mom walk into the courthouse on CNN and then again on MSNBC. She wears a boring black suit, loose-fitting, purchased specifically for this event and never to be worn again, and fake chunky glasses. She left her supersized diamond engagement ring at home, and so she wears only her simple gold wedding band and no other jewelry. Her nails are painted a pale pink, her hair is blown out straight with the ends tucked under—no sexy beach waves—and again she dons the makeup-no-makeup look. The lawyers told her to dress conservative and harmless, “like a mother, not a Hollywood actress,” whatever that means.

What is a mother supposed to look like? I wonder. I remember last fall when my mom pretended to make pancakes for Marie Claire, how she rocked an apron and red heels. I remember Paloma later complaining that she wasn’t Gwyneth enough—another version of motherhood altogether, all-natural, organic, condescending. I think about my real mom in a fluorescent bikini, nagging me about our call to Dr. Wilson, reading scripts on the couch, tucking me into bed every night with an I love you.

Even when she’s facing felony charges, my mother’s forced to play a role. If Shola were here, she’d lecture about the dangers of performative femininity, how my mom is stuck playing a game she can never win. How we all are, in our own way.

I wish my mother could go to court in Wood Valley sweatpants and her hair tied back in a silk scarf, the look that most seems like home to me.