Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Fifteen

"We don't have enough layers," she says. "Go ahead and get started. I'll go search for more."

I start with the cute skirt. But Mom is back, knocking on the slatted door, before I've managed to get into the "classic white" blouse. "Hold on," I say, speed-buttoning.

"Ally, it's me."

Lindsay slides her sandaled foot under the dressing room door and wiggles her turquoise toenails. Mine are the same color. We painted them together last night, while Mom—an uninvited, unwelcome guest—painted her fingernails burnt tangerine. I open the door and Lindsay appraises my outfit. There's only the slightest hitch in her eyebrows, because she's trying, and doing a pretty good job of keeping her face neutral. But I know she hates it.

"What were you trying to tell me this morning before Mom interrupted?" she asks.

"Where is she now?"

"Preoccupied. She ran into some lady who hired her to cater an event last fall."

"Why is she acting this way?" I ask. "Is she trying to keep you from telling me about their marriage problems—does she know you know?"

Lindsay shrugs, but she's wedging that telltale finger under her stack of bracelets. Meaning the shrug is a lie. But we'll have that conversation another time. 

"Noah told me the reason he and I stopped talking," I say. "It was my fault—not yours."

"Noah doesn't..." Lindsay pinches her lips closed, pressing so hard they turn a sickly shade of white. Then she grits her teeth and says, "You need. To talk. To Samantha."

"No, Lindsay. All I need is for you to be okay—and you can be. We need to forgive each other for all the stupid stuff we did after the move to Virginia and just... Can we start over?"

"No, we can't," she says, dragging out the "we" in a mocking, bitter tone. "And I told you, Ally, there's nothing for me to forgive. You didn't..." She cocks her head to the side and holds a finger to her lips.

It's Mom's voice. I don't know who she's talking to—me, I guess because she saying something about a blouse. I step out into the narrow hallway—impulsively wanting to protect Lindsay—but my sister ducks into the next stall.

"Oh, good," Mom chirps. "You're already wearing it. What do you think?" She holds up a hanger, draped with an extra-long chocolate brown...sweater...type of thing. "It's going to look perfect over that blouse."

My pulse thumps, panicky fast. Which is even more ridiculous than the idea of Lindsay being so afraid of Mom finding us alone together that she felt the need to run and hide.

What the heck is wrong with these people?

"You don't like it?" Mom asks.

"Uh, no. I mean, yes. It's...nice."

"Try it on," she says.

I fumble with the single oversized button, thread my arms through the sleeves and step in front of the mirror. I hate it. But that might have something to do with the fact that I'm kind of hating Mom right now—and Lindsay, too. Maybe it's not too late to ask Noah to meet me at the high school. I bet he'd drive me all the way back to Faircrest if I asked.

"The color brings out your eyes," Mom says. "But it's a little big, don't you think?"

She doesn't wait for my answer. She says, "I'll go see if there's a smaller size," as she's walking out of the changing area.

"Mom's gone," I say, knocking on the wall that separates me from my sister. The lock clicks but Lindsay doesn't surface. So I go to her door—because she obviously wants me to—and I find her sitting on a padded stool, hugging her knees. "Why did you hide?"