Page 3 of Chasing Stardust

She chokes out a bitter laugh. “Whatever. I’m outta here.”

For someone so eager to ditch me, she waits almost a full minute before stomping down the steps toward her electric-orange Nissan—an early graduation gift from Mom. I would’ve gotten one, too, someday . . . if life had unfolded differently.

“I’m not coming to get you if you change your mind.” Jeanie climbs behind the wheel and slams her door.

“I won’t!” I yell as she pulls away from the curb, determined to walk all the way home if I have to just to spite her.

The rumble of a broken muffler draws my attention from Jeanie’s retreating taillights. My chest tightens as a familiar banana-yellow coupe turns the corner onto Church Street and backfires twice. I instantly recognize my grandmother’s signature bottle-dyed, flame-red hair flying around her face as she speeds toward me, a cloud of smoke billowing out of her open window. A sudden burst of emotion punches me right in the feels, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from giving in to it. Seeing her again—today of all days—has my ten-year-old self longing to play dress-up with her hideous costume jewelry, her brightly colored scarves, and every shade of red lipstick ever made.

Her 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass pulls up to the curb and she climbs out, hacking up a lung as she slides her giant bug-eye sunglasses into her fiery-red curls.

“Zoey Marie, is that you?” She rolls her eyes at my halfhearted wave and barks out a throaty laugh. “Get your pretty little ass over here and give your G-Lo a hug.”

Swallowing a mouthful of resentment, I kick off my heels and hook them with my fingers, letting my bare toes sink into the cool grass as I traipse across the thick lawn. With one arm still around Mom’s urn, I wrap the other around my grandmother’s narrow waist and suck in a lungful of stale Camels, cheap perfume, and the skunky stench of fresh weed.

“Good to see you, Grandma Lola.”

“Language,” she croaks, a thousand packs of cigarettes coloring her voice. “What did I tell you about using the G-word?”

“Oops.” I grin. “Guess I forgot.”

It’s been forever since I’ve seen her, but other than a few extra lines around her eyes when she smiles, she’s barely changed. Wearing weathered jeans with frayed knees and a vintage Sex Pistols tee that’s probably older than I am, she looks more like a college student than someone’s grandmother.

“Now, let me get a good look at you.” She cups my face in her warm hands, and the tears I’ve battled all day threaten to break free. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, and I’m sick to death that I’ve missed it.”

I hold my breath as she studies every inch of me, combing her black fingernails through my dark-blond waves. My eyes flutter shut, and my imagination replaces her touch with Mom’s.

“You look so much like her . . . when she was your age. Same wispy frame, same dishwater-blond hair.”

The fragile illusion pops like a soap bubble, and I release the breath with a groan, my hand drifting to my clean hair. “Can we not compare my hair to dirty dishwater? Please?”

Grandma Lola erupts in loud laughter. “Your mother said the same thing when she was eighteen.”

“I’m almost twenty-one. Damn near old enough to drink, for god’s sake,” I snap with a little more bite than necessary.

She waves her hand through the air, making her stack of gold and silver bracelets clink like wind chimes. “When you get to be my age, everything under thirty-five runs together.”

I have a thousand questions, starting with a big fat Where the hell have you been? But she beats me to the punch.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m late.”

Understatement of the century.

I nod as a million other questions swirl around my brain, each one more painful than the next. With my unresolved feelings stacked in a reckless game of emotional Jenga, one wrong word could send it all crashing down around me.

“Oh, sweetie, I know what you’re thinking, but I couldn’t bear to see her like that.” She dabs at her dark-rimmed eyes with the hem of her black tee, flashing lacy side-boob to the world.

“She missed you.” I missed you. The thought takes me by surprise, and my next breath catches in my throat as I blink back more tears.

Grandma Lola pulls the latest iPhone from her back pocket and holds it up. “I texted. I called.”

“Not the same.” Eyes burning, I tighten my grip on Mom’s urn and focus on the tall blades of grass jutting between my toes.

“You sound a little too much like her, too.” Grandma Lola’s smile falters. “Cut me a little slack, kiddo. Funerals are for the living, not the dead, and I’d much rather remember your mother the way she was. Full of vibrancy and life.”

“I’m one of the living.” I level a scorching glare at her. “So is Jeanie. Did it ever occur to you that we might’ve needed you today?”

“I’m here now.” Throwing an arm over my shoulders, Grandma exhales a breath heavy with unspoken apologies. “Come on, let’s get some lunch. You look like you could use a sandwich . . . or two, and I’ve got a serious case of the munchies.”