“I want to play,” Cody whined.

“No,” Mirelle snapped. “You wreck my dolls.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. You chew off their feet.” Mirelle said to me, “He does, Regan. My Malibu Barbie is crippled now. She can’t even stand up.”

“She always was a little top-heavy,” I said.

“Huh?” Mirelle blinked.

“Forget it. Cody, you can play if you promise not to play Cannibal Barbie.”

He just looked at me. So did Mirelle. I thought I was funny.

“I don’t want him to play,” Mirelle said, pouting.

“He’ll scream if we don’t let him,” I told her.

She clucked her tongue and expelled a short breath. “Okay.”

Cody kicked off the pumps and scrabbled over to the Barbie village.

I followed him. “Who’s this?” I removed another figure from the front seat of Barbie’s sports car.

“The Hulk,” Mirelle and Cody said together.

The Hulk. Right.

“Okay, Barbie is going to marry G.I. Joe,” Mirelle said. “And The Hulk will be their baby.”

Barbie, G.I. Joe, and The Hulk. Whoa, I thought, that’ll stretch the gender gap.

“Regan. Re.”

Consciousness swam just under the surface, causing my dream to dissolve. It was a happy dream. Glorious, in fact. I was onstage, singing Verdi’s La Traviata at the Met.

“Re!”

I gulped a breath and lurched up in bed, my hand flying to my heart. “Geez, Liam. Don’t do that.”

“Luna,” she said.

I mumbled a curse. Falling back on my pillow and yanking my comforter up to my chin, I added in a snarl, “Why do you have to keep waking me up? I don’t care if you use the mirror —”

“What do you think of this outfit?” She crossed into the moonlight, spreading her arms out from her sides, palms up.

I exhaled wearily. “For what?”

“Everyday wear.”

I scanned the length of her. She had on tight blue jeans and a red knit top. The top was short-sleeved, which I noticed right away because Liam always wore long sleeves, even in summer. He shaved his arms. He shaved his legs. He shaved everywhere. He hated the hair.

“It’s fine,” I said. “A little tight around here.” I wiggled fingers across my front. “Do you have a smaller bra?”

“Yeah.” Luna turned and examined herself in the mirror. “But I like this one.” She posed sideways, arching her back to enhance her figure. She twisted to view the other side.

Hours. She could do this for hours — posing, preening.

Why couldn’t she put a mirror in the big room between our bedrooms? I answered my own question: Same reason Liam had shattered the mirror on his dresser. Same reason he avoided every mirror in the house. He might catch a glimpse of himself. As much as Liam despised his looks, Luna couldn’t seem to get enough of herself — of the image she longed to project.

“What about shoes?” Luna asked. “The black slip-ons or my ankle boots?”

“Go with the boots. The slip-ons look like guy shoes.”

“Oh goddess. You’re right. I wish my feet weren’t so enormous.” She raised one foot behind to view it in the mirror. “They stick out like sore thumbs.”

I yawned. “Bind them, like geishas do in Japan. Go to bed.”

She blew me off. “Does this wig look real?”

“You look like a freakin’ fashion model. Can I go to sleep now?”

“Re?”

I exhaled a long breath. “Luna, if you were walking down the street in that outfit, no one would be able to tell. You look like a regular girl.”

Her smile warmed the room. She loved hearing that, that she could pass. Most girls spend hours and hours working on themselves so they’ll be striking, eye-catching, desirable. Liam would give everything to live one day as a plain, ordinary girl.

Chapter 7

I was anxious to get to school. That had to be a bad omen. I even brushed my hair and put on a clean shirt.

At breakfast Mom chattered on incessantly about a new account she was bidding on, hoping to land. Some big society affair with horse-drawn carriages and limos. “It’ll make or break Weddings by Patrice,” she said, shoving aside her half-eaten slice of dry toast.

Liam and I continued doing homework at the table.

Mom sighed deeply. In my peripheral vision, I caught her gazing out the patio door into the gray day, then running her hand down the back of her head. She stopped to grasp her neck, tilt her head to the side, and rest her arm on her breast. Absently, she added, “This one could put me on the map. Not that any of you care.”

Dad glanced over the newspaper. “Of course we care.” He cleared his morning throat. “We care, Pat. Don’t we, kids?”

Sorry, I couldn’t even feign interest. Liam, however, seemed enthralled. Not in Mom’s career, especially, but in watching her. He was girl gawking, which is what I called it, where he sat mesmerized studying how girls talked and gestured and moved. Absorbing, memorizing, imitating. He had Aly down perfectly. The way she tossed back her head when she laughed. Bit her bottom lip when she was worried, or deep in thought. The way she crossed and uncrossed her legs, tucked them underneath her.

Played with her ponytail. He could sit in front of my mirror and do her for hours.

He could do Mom, too. Trancelike, he reached up and grabbed the back of his neck.

Mom blinked over at him and started. She stood up fast. As she headed for the kitchen to refill her coffee cup, Liam said to her, “I’m really excited for you, Mom. I hope you get it. Is that a new dress, by the way? It looks stunning on you.”

I choked on my OJ. My head twisted in either direction to catch Mom’s reaction, and Dad’s.

Mom didn’t blush, the way I expected. The way she would have if Dad had complimented her. Or Andy. Or anyone else. She said curtly, “Thank you. I’ve had it for a while. Just never found an occasion to wear it.”

Dad bobbed his head up from the paper again. He added his obligatory, “You do look nice. Where are you going?”

“We’re meeting the Rosenbergs for lunch at the Marriott.”

“Who are they?” Dad asked.

Mom stopped dead in the doorway. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said all morning?”

I could’ve answered that one.

“The Rosenberg wedding.” Mom filled her cup at the coffee-maker. “You’re going to be hearing a lot about it. And Regan,” she ripped open a packet of sugar sub, “there’ll be days when I’ll have to meet with the bride and her mother in the evening because they both work. I expect you to take over for me here.”

Liam opened his mouth to volunteer services, and got as far as, “I —” before getting hammered by a look from Dad. If Liam and I could shatter gender expectations now, please? Out of the blue Liam said, “Did you get a haircut, Dad? It looks good on you.”

Dad blushed. Dad? “No,” he said. “But I need one.” He scratched the back of his stubbly neck. “And so do you.”

Liam didn’t implode, the way he normally did when Dad told him to cut his hair. Liam so wanted to wear his hair long. Instead, he nodded. “I know. I’m going this weekend. I already have an appointment.”

He did? What was this about? In the last five minutes Liam had initiated more conversation than he had in years. Whatever it was, it was making me extremely uncomfortable. Too much Luna.

“I’m outta here.” I scraped back my chair. “Liam, you coming?”

His eyes met mine. “You look nice, too,” he said. “What’d you do, hire a stylist?” He smiled like, Seriously, you look nice.

Way too much Luna. I widened my eyes at him. Shut up. Let’s go.

He daubed his lips with a napkin and stood. As he intercepted Mom returning from the kitchen with her coffee, he bent down and kissed her cheek. She jerked away like it hurt. “Good luck with the Rosenbergs,” Liam said. “I’m sure you’ll plan a gorgeous wedding for them. I just wish I could be there.”

“You’re not invited,” Mom snapped.

Liam’s spine fused. “I know. I wasn’t asking to be.”

She set her cup on the table. Her hand was shaking. She picked up her Daytimer. “I’m just saying . . .” She flipped it open.

What was with her? What was with him? All of them. They were psycho. Freaky.

“Oh, Dad.” In the front foyer, Liam slipped an arm through the letter jacket he despised and rarely wore. “I talked to Coach Hewitt yesterday, the way you asked. He’s going to start me on a weight training program next week.”

Dad’s eyes bulged. So did mine. A grin creased Dad’s face, ear to ear. “All right!” he cheered, punching the air. “Go get ’em, son.”

Liam trailed me out to the porch. “Don’t say it,” he mumbled under his breath. “That even made me sick.”

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You’re acting weird.” Then, like a high heel to the head, it struck me. Was this transitioning?

“Don’t do it, Liam,” I told him. “Not yet.” Not ever, I was thinking.

Liam looked at me. “Acting. That’s all I ever do. I’ve been doing it so long, that’s all I can do.” Unexpectedly, his eyes welled with tears.

“Liam,” I began. “Luna —”

“I know.” He hunched in the jacket, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

We stood on the stoop for a moment, our breath visible in the morning air. “I guess I’m just testing the water,” he said. “It’s a little chilly.”

“Chilly? It’s frigid. It’s freezing. It’s a freaking glacier in there.” Why? I wondered. Why test the water? You’ll only drown.

A movement caught my eye and I twisted my head. Dad had drawn the curtains and was watching us through the picture window — girl gawking, his version. He was creeping me out. Dad and Liam both.

I bumped Liam’s arm with mine. “Let’s get out of here.”

We hustled to the driveway and climbed into the Spyder. At the end of the block, when Liam swerved in the opposite direction from school, I reached out and clamped a hand over the steering wheel. “I need to go to school today, Liam. Sorry, but I can’t play your shrink and nursemaid twenty-four-seven.”

He seared me with a look.

I blanched and dropped my arm. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It was a joke.”

“Yeah, my whole life is a joke.”

I started to say ... What? Life sucks, especially yours? He already knew that.

Change of subject. “What’s with Mom lately?” I asked, glancing out the side window.

“What do you mean?” Liam squealed a U-turn and headed back toward Horizon.

“She’s so amped up on pills. She’s obsessed with this job. Weddings by Patrice,” I mocked. “I’m so sure.”

Liam blinked at me. “What’s wrong with it?”

I blinked at him. “A wedding planner? Liam, our mother is a wedding planner.”

“So?” he said. “She makes people happy.”

“Other people.” I didn’t voice the rest: When did she stop making us happy?

Liam slowed at a yellow light and added, “She only wants to be fulfilled. As a whole person. She wants her life to count.”

“She said that?”

He shrugged. “Not in so many words. You have to read between the lines.”

I could barely read the lines as written. Her lines were blurry, even before the drugs. Liam would know about wanting to be a whole person, but what did he see in Mom that I didn’t? “Doesn’t she think being our mom counts for anything?” I asked.

Liam cast me a withering look.

“What?”

“Mom’s smart, in case you hadn’t noticed. She has a brain. She could’ve accomplished something if she’d finished college, chosen a career path instead of full-time motherhood. I think she feels her talents are wasted on perfecting the art of homemaking.”

“What’s wrong with homemaking?” I said. “It’s an important job. It’s the most important job in the world when you have kids.”

Liam gunned the engine at the green light. Pulling up short behind a school bus, he said, “You’re not a card-carrying member of the feminist party, are you? With that kind of attitude, you could set the women’s movement back a hundred years.”

I clucked my tongue. “What attitude? She’s a good mom. At least, she was. Before she went all Weddings by Patrice on us.”

Liam shook his head.

What? I was right and he knew it.

“It isn’t easy for her. Our mother is sensitive, delicate. A little high strung, maybe.”

“Strung out, you mean.”

He sighed wearily.

We caromed into the parking lot at school, out by the back forty, which meant Liam wasn’t coming in. He shifted into park and idled the car. Turning to me, he said, “Mom is reshaping her destiny. Or trying to. We should all be given that opportunity.” His eyes glazed over and he added wistfully, “I wonder what my destiny will end up being.”

“Nobody knows that,” I told him. “You can’t change your destiny.”

Liam’s brow furrowed. “You don’t believe we can engineer our own destinies?”

“Of course not. It’s destiny. Duh.” Mine was predetermined. High school graduate by thirty-five, if I was lucky. Domestic goddess — not.