Chapter 2 - The Ride Home
Jada waited until the boutique disappeared behind them before speaking.
She was driving because Amara had refused to get into Vanessa’s car.
“You want me to say something?”
Amara watched buildings slide past the passenger window.
“No.”
“You want me not to say something?”
“No.”
Jada glanced toward her.
“Okay. That option is impossible.”
Amara almost smiled.
Almost.
“What was that?”
“My mother.”
“I know who she was.”
Jada tightened both hands around the steering wheel.
“I mean, what was that?”
Amara looked down at her phone.
Seven notifications.
Then twelve.
Then nineteen.
She frowned.
“What?”
Instagram.
Her stomach dropped.
Vanessa’s photograph filled the screen.
Two red dresses.
Two smiles.
Except Amara remembered that moment.
She had not been smiling.
Vanessa had apparently selected a photograph taken earlier, when Amara had still been confused enough to force one.
The caption read:
My baby thought she was going to outshine her mama tonight. Had to remind her where she got it from. Twins forever. ❤️
Comments were multiplying.
Girl, which one is the mom?
Vanessa wins. Sorry, Amara!
Mom still got it!
Imagine showing up to prom with your mama looking better than you.
Amara locked the screen.
Jada saw her face.
“What happened?”
“My mother posted us.”
“Posted what?”
Amara handed her the phone at a red light.
Jada read silently.
Her jaw tightened.
“She posted this before we left?”
“Apparently.”
“She knew you hated it.”
Amara stared outside.
Jada looked at the comments again.
“Want me to report it?”
“It won’t matter.”
“You can make her take it down.”
Amara laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You’ve met my mother.”
Vanessa had always said photographs belonged to whoever took them.
Birthdays became content.
Christmas became content.
Amara’s first day of high school had become a thirty-picture album despite her begging Vanessa not to post the photograph where braces showed when she smiled.
Whenever Amara objected, Vanessa accused her of embarrassment.
“I’m your mother,” she would say. “Why are you acting like being seen with me is some kind of punishment?”
For years, Amara had accepted the argument.
Today something had shifted.
At home, Vanessa’s white SUV was already in the driveway.
“She beat us here,” Jada said.
Amara reached for the door handle.
“You don’t have to come in.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Jada.”
“I watched your mom challenge you to a prom-dress beauty contest. I’m not leaving you alone.”
The front door opened before they reached it.
Vanessa stood there in her original clothes.
“Seriously?”
Her voice was controlled.
That was always worse than yelling.
“You left with Jada without telling me?”
“You were busy buying my dress.”
Vanessa’s nostrils flared.
Jada quietly entered behind Amara.
“This is family business.”
Jada looked at Amara.
Amara said, “She stays.”
Vanessa stared at her daughter.
Then smiled.
A thin smile.
“Fine.”
She followed them into the living room.
Shopping bags sat on the couch.
One enormous white garment bag lay across the armchair.
The red dress.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“You embarrassed me in that store.”
Amara actually blinked.
“I embarrassed you?”
“You made a scene.”
“I canceled a dress.”
“You accused me of competing with you in front of a stranger.”
“Were you?”
Vanessa looked at Jada.
“See? This is exactly what happens when teenagers get an audience.”
Jada said nothing.
Amara pulled out her phone.
“Take the picture down.”
Vanessa’s expression changed.
“What picture?”
“You know.”
“Oh, please.”
“Take it down.”
“There is nothing wrong with that picture.”
“People are making fun of me.”
“People are complimenting us.”
“They’re comparing us.”
“I didn’t tell them to.”
“You wrote that I tried to outshine you.”
“It was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
Vanessa stepped closer.
“Amara, you are going to have a miserable life if every harmless thing hurts your feelings.”
Amara’s eyes burned.
“Why does everything have to become proof that people still think you’re pretty?”
Vanessa went completely still.
Jada looked down.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Vanessa pointed toward the hallway.
“Go to your room.”
“No.”
The word surprised everyone.
Even Amara.
Vanessa lowered her hand.
“What did you say?”
“I’m not six.”
“You’re seventeen and living under my roof.”
“And somehow that means you own every picture of me?”
Vanessa stared at her.
Then her phone chimed.
She glanced down.
For the first time all evening, genuine pleasure softened her face.
Amara saw the notification.
A local lifestyle account with more than sixty thousand followers had reposted the photograph.
This mother-daughter prom look is EVERYTHING.
Vanessa looked up slowly.
Amara understood immediately.
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The humiliation was no longer private.
And judging by her mother’s expression, Vanessa didn’t want it to be.
