Perfect Girl - Weebly

Marty and I get in the pancake line, Mom buys juice.
“Gorgeous day, isn’t it, Peg?” Mom opens her purse and
pulls out three dollars.
Mrs. Latanza’s jaw drops. “Fay, what have you done to
yourself?”
“A little makeover,” Mom says.
Truthfully, I was stunned, too. A few days earlier, after
we sprinkled Mr. Arthur’s ashes at the base of Mom’s rosebushes,
my mother disappeared into her bathroom. I
thought she was crying. But she wasn’t. She was dyeing her
hair Auburn Sunset.
“Time for a change.” That’s all she said to us when she
finally came out.
That morning, Mom blew her curls dry into soft, flattering
waves. Her lips now glisten with ginger-colored gloss.
Soft brown shadow deepens her eyes. She tossed out her
velour pantsuits for good.
“Martha must be behind this,” says Mrs. Latanza.
Mom laughs. “Yeah, I guess she is.”
Scooping up all three cups of juice, Mom joins Aunt
Marty and me at the long dining table in the firehouse
kitchen. Our three stacks of cakes smell delicious.
The scene is achingly familiar. My mother, Mr. Arthur,
and I have eaten pancakes at this same firehouse table every
year, for as long as I can remember. It’s always been the same
scene. But not this year.
Celeste and her parents walk in as I’m soaking up the
184