It’s been two months since I saw Mom. Two months. Before that I hadn’t gone a day without her. I tuck my hair behind my ears. I got it cut, just a little. I catch myself hoping she’ll like it. But that’s stupid. Because if she cared about me at all she would have shown up or picked up the phone at least. She doesn’t get to have an opinion about my hair.

“Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” is playing on the overhead speakers. It was already too loud, and now someone just turned it up. I squish the purple earplugs in my pocket over and over again and try to get used to the noise. I check the line. Ginger is only halfway up. My stomach rolls.

Getting here early was supposed to make me calm, but the wait is killing me. I look toward the bright red exit sign over the door, like the fixed point they tell you to find on a boat when you’re seasick. Mom loves to make an entrance, but she’s always been better at exits, hasn’t she? Leaving my grandparents. Leaving Biloxi and all the other towns over the last twelve years. She’s always leaving. I wonder how she’ll do with this. I told myself I shouldn’t care. So why can’t I stop looking at the door?

After a thousand years, or maybe ten minutes, Ginger makes her way back through the crowd with two giant gingerbread lattes and a plate of vanilla scones. The front door jingles, and I catch sight of Melissa’s dark head in the open doorway. Then I look down again. I’m not ready. I’m not.

“It’s going to be fine,” Ginger whispers. This is another thing adults say when they don’t have the answer.

“Good, you found us a spot,” Melissa says when she reaches us, tucking her motorcycle helmet under her arm and rapping her knuckles on the table. It wobbles, and a tiny wave of my latte slurps out. All the adults look around for napkins they don’t have. Then a hand reaches forward with a crumpled tissue.

“Here. This ought to do it.” It’s her hand and her nails, long and painted red. There’s a glittery snowman on her pinky nail. She always did do a good job on her nails. More careful with them than she was with me. A sliver of anger shoots up my spine, and I straighten up to look at her.

“Hi, Lou.”