Page 48 of The Do-Over

True enough, it washed me out. But my mother thought it was “just enough to add a little color, but to hide all the trouble spots.”

New Perci didn’t have to listen to her mother, right? New Perci could wear whatever she wanted.

I slipped the shirt off, tossed it on the floor, and searched my closet again. In the back, I found it. A couple of years ago, I’d been appeasing my vintage clothing addiction by window-shopping on eBay. I hadn’t been able to resist a 1950s-style blouse with a high neck, three-quarter sleeves and a shape that flared at the waist. The best part? Whimsical slices of watermelon dotted the fabric. I fell in love, paid way too much money for it, and hung it in my closet.

I could hear Mom now. “Don’t you think something classic would be better suited for you?”

But I loved this shirt, and New Perci was not a people pleaser.

Daddy answered the door when I arrived. In one hand, he gripped a stack of paperwork, which he’d clearly been working on. “Cupcake!”

After the Big Scene at work, Dad and I had talked a few times. Somehow, we’d reached an amiable compromise—he wouldn’t bring it up, and neither would I. Just the way things had been done for years in the Mayfield family. “Hi, Daddy.”

He pulled me in for a hug. I caught a whiff of his aftershave and the peppermints he always had in his pocket. “What are you doing here?”

With a shake of my head, I took a step back. “Dinner tonight, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. It’s Phoebe’s birthday.”

“Nope, the other daughter.”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” I hung my purse and coat in the hallway closet, smoothed a hand down my shirt, and gave the watermelons a secret smile.

“Mom’s in the kitchen.” He lowered his voice. “She’s been extra sensitive today.”

I snorted. Extra sensitive? Maybe I should have worn a suit of armor and earplugs. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

But he was already wandering back to his office. I marched down the hallway, past the row of family photos that started at my birth and ended with our group picture taken this New Year’s, Joel Allen smiling his stupid newscaster smile with an arm around his new fiancé. A foul taste hit my mouth at the thought of seeing him this evening.

Earlier this week, I’d begged Mathias to come with me. “Please. My mom loves you. She’s always nicer when you’re there.”

He’d hesitated. “It’s not a good idea. Besides, you’ll be fine.”

“No, I won’t.”

He shook his head and mustered up a smile. “Phee and Joel will be there. I just can’t. Besides, I’ll take you out for a special birthday dinner if you’re good.”

In the kitchen, Mom bustled around, put together like she was modeling for an article titled, “Style Tips that Take You from the Kitchen to the Yacht Club.” In the corner, Scary Perry lifted his head and stared in his black, soulless way.

“Oh, good, you’re here.” Wiping her hands on the towel hanging from her apron pocket, she rounded the island and pressed a kiss to my cheek. Her mouth started an upward turn, paused, and froze. “This shirt?”

Old Perci wanted to shrink under her assessment. New Perci straightened her spine. “It’s vintage. I love it.”

“Patterns can be difficult to pull off, especially… fruit.” A tiny muscle in her jaw ticked, but she kept her half-smile locked in place. “Well, why don’t you set the table?” She marched into the dining room, and I followed, feeling a tiny bit smug and a lot confused. She hadn’t said anything remotely critical.

“Remember, fork, knife, spoon,” she said, like she hadn’t drilled it into me by the time I was six along with: no elbows on the table, napkin in your lap, and the salt and pepper are like an old married couple; they stay together until the bitter end.

“Got it.”

After fussing over the centerpiece, she turned and watched me. “Your hair… There’s something different.”

I smoothed my hair self-consciously. “I got highlights.”

Last week on a whim and without an appointment, I’d showed up at The Hightower, a fancy full-service salon Mom and I had been going to for as long as I could remember. For years, Jacque, who told everyone he was from the south of France but was actually from Jersey and who, you guessed it, was also Mom’s stylist, had been cutting my hair into a sensible chin-length bob. Each day, I straightened out the natural wave even though it added an extra thirty minutes to my morning routine. “This makes you look thinner,” he’d insisted. My mother agreed.

But last week, Jacque wasn’t available; Alisa was.