The Leftovers

break up. It was my choice.”
    “And here you are.”
    “Here I am,” she agreed.
    “We’re glad to have you.”
    “I really hate the cigarettes.”
    “You’ll get used to them.”
    “I hope so.”
    Neither one of them spoke after that. Laurie rolled onto her side, savoring the softness of the sheets, trying to remember the last time she’d slept in such a comfortable bed. Meg only cried for a little while, and then she was quiet.
     

GET A ROOM
    NORA HAD BEEN LOOKING FORWARD to the dance, less for the event itself than for the chance to make a public statement, to let her little world know that she was okay, that she’d recovered from the humiliation of Matt Jamison’s article and didn’t need anyone’s pity. She’d felt defiantly upbeat all day long, trying on the sexiest clothes in her closet—they still fit, some even better than before—and practicing her moves in front of the mirror, the first time she’d danced in three years. Not bad, she thought. Not bad at all. It was like traveling back in time, meeting the person you used to be, and recognizing her as a friend.
    The dress she’d finally settled on was a slinky red-and-gray wraparound with a plunging neckline that she’d last worn to Doug’s boss’s daughter’s wedding, where it had received a slew of compliments, including one from Doug himself, the master of withholding. She knew she’d made the right choice when she modeled it for her sister and saw the sour look on Karen’s face.
    “You’re not wearing that, are you?”
    “Why? Don’t you like it?”
    “It’s just a little … flashy, isn’t it? People might think—”
    “I don’t care,” Nora said. “Let them think whatever they want.”
    A jittery, mostly pleasant sense of anticipation—Saturday-night butterflies—took hold of her in Karen’s car, a feeling she remembered from college, back when every party seemed like it had the potential to change her life. It stuck with her through the entire drive and the short walk through the middle school parking lot, only to abandon her at the front entrance of the building when she saw the flyer advertising the dance:
    MAPLETON MEANS FUN PRESENTS:
    NOVEMBER ADULT MIXER
    DJ, DANCING, REFRESHMENTS, PRIZES
    8 P.M.–MIDNIGHT
    HAWTHORNE SCHOOL CAFETERIA
    Mapleton means fun? she thought, catching a sudden mortifying glimpse of herself in the glass door. Is that a joke? If it was, then the joke was on her, a no-longer young woman in a party dress about to enter a school her children would never get a chance to attend. I’m sorry, she told them, as if they were hiding in her mind, judging everything she did. I didn’t think this through.
    “What’s the matter?” Karen asked, peering over her shoulder. “Is it locked?”
    “Of course it’s not locked. ” Nora pushed open the door to show her sister what a stupid question it was.
    “I didn’t think it was,” Karen said testily.
    “Then why’d you ask?”
    “Because you were just standing there, that’s why.”
    Shut up, Nora thought as they stepped into the main hallway, a bright tunnel with a waxed brown floor and a multitude of institutional green lockers stretching into the distance on either side. Just please shut up. A collection of student self-portraits hung on the wall across from the main office, above a banner that read: WE ARE THE MUSTANGS! It hurt her to look at all those fresh, hopeful, clumsily rendered faces, to think of all the lucky mothers sending them off in the morning with their backpacks and lunch boxes, and then picking them up at the curb in the afternoon.
    Hey, sweetie, how was your day?
    “They have an excellent art program,” Karen said, as if she were giving a tour to a prospective parent. “They’re strong on music, too.”
    “Great,” Nora muttered. “Maybe I should enroll.”
    “I’m just making conversation. You don’t have to get all huffy about it.”
    “Sorry.”
    Nora knew she was being a bitch. It was especially unfair given that Karen was the only date she could scrounge up on such short notice. That was the thing about her sister—Nora didn’t always like her and hardly ever agreed with her, but she could always count on her. Everyone else she’d called—her allegedly close friends from the mommy group in which she could no longer claim membership—had begged off, citing family obligations or whatever, but only after trying to talk her out of coming here at all.
    Are you sure it’s a good idea, honey?