Page 2 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“Aunt Miranda?” The name feels foreign on my tongue. “But I thought she had already said no.”
“It’s true. We went to Ms. Knox first, because she’s your closest living relative,” Mrs. Rodriguez says gently. “Her initial decline was quite abrupt. But perhaps she’s had more time to process it now. Losing her sister must’ve struck her hard.”
“But I haven’t seen her since I was little. She and Mom...” They had a huge fight when I was four. Mom never talked about it, just got this tight look around her eyes whenever Miranda’s name came up. Like she was remembering something unbearably painful.
“She’s expecting you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But she’s not even here. How can I live with a person who doesn’t even show up at her sister’s funeral?”
“I’m sorry, Alice. I don’t have any background information on your family history. All I know is, she’s agreed to take you in and has also arranged a transfer for you to Ashworth Academy.”
“Ashworth Academy?” My voice cracks. “I’ve heard of that place. It’s like a fancy private school.”
“Your aunt has arranged everything. She seems very... successful.”
The way she says it makes me wonder what kind of success buys your way out of talking to your sister for twelve years, then suddenly opens your door when that sister dies. What kind of success makes you rich enough to afford private school tuition for a niece you don’t even know?
I excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom, sliding down the door until I’m sitting on the cold tile floor. The bathroom is small and cramped, with yellowing wallpaper peeling at the corners and a fluorescent light that flickers every few seconds.
In the mirror across from me, I look like a ghost. Pale skin and dark circles under my eyes. My favorite black dress hangs loosely because I haven’t eaten properly since the accident. Even my dark brown hair looks lifeless, pulled back in a messy bun because I couldn’t manage anything more complicated this morning.
My phone buzzes with another condolence text, probably with another invitation to a dinner I won’t accept. Food tastes like ash in my mouth now. Everything reminds me of what Mom and Dad could have made better.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
“Alice? Honey, people are leaving,” Mrs. Patel’s voice is gentle through the wood. “Do you want to say goodbye?”
I pull myself up and splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, I practice the smile I’ve been wearing all day. Grateful. Composed. Not completely falling apart.
When I come out, Mrs. Patel wraps me in a hug that smells like cardamom and comfort. “You call us anytime, sweetness. Promise me.”
I promise, even though I know I won’t. The Patels have their own kids to worry about. Everyone keeps saying they want to help, but I see the relief in their eyes when I say I’m fine. Grief makes people uncomfortable. It’s easier to let me disappear.
Back at the house—my house, though I guess not for much longer—I sit surrounded by boxes in what used to be our living room. Before, our family photos covered the walls, including catering events where Mom and Dad beamed proudly behind elaborate dessert displays. Now, it’s a bare backdrop for the couch where we used to watch cooking shows together. The place where Mrs. Patel and I sorted things into piles: keep, donate, and throw away.
The kitchen feels hollow without Mom’s collection of cookbooks lining the counter. It already doesn’t feel like home. Along with the photo frames, we’ve packed all my parents’ things into boxes, which Mrs. Patel offered to store in her garage. I don’t even know if that’s still the plan. Apparently I’m moving to a new town. Will my aunt take all my stuff? At least, eventually?
Mrs. Rodriguez told me to pack two suitcases. But that can’t be it? Do I really reduce my whole life to only two suitcases?
Most of our furniture will go to charity, along with the random kitchen equipment that fills our cupboards. Everything that made this place home is being divided up and shipped away.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I find my camera in my desk drawer. The expensive DSLR Mom and Dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
“For capturing all your adventures,” Dad had said, grinning as I unwrapped it. “We want to see the world through your eyes, Sprout.”
My hands shake as I hold it. The last photos on here are from that Saturday morning, thirteen days ago. Mom laughed as she tried to balance three cake boxes, Dad making bunny ears behind her head.
I can’t even look at the preview screen without my chest tightening.
I shove the camera deep into my suitcase and zip it shut.
Victoria Falls. Aunt Miranda. Ashworth Academy. A whole new life with people who don’t know that my parents made the best wedding cakes in three counties. Or that Dad always sang off-key while he chopped vegetables. Or that Mom could make anyone feel better with her famous raspberry-ripple cookies.
I curl up on my bed—the bed I’ll never sleep in again after tomorrow—and try to imagine what my mysterious aunt is like. Successful, Mrs. Rodriguez said. But successful enough to cut her own sister out of her life for over a decade? What kind of person does that?
Thunder rumbles outside, and my whole body goes rigid. The weather app said clear skies, but storms can change direction. They can catch you when you’re not prepared, and when you think you’re safe.
I pull my blanket over my head and try to breathe through the panic building in my chest. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be in Victoria Falls, starting over with a stranger who happens to share my DNA.
