The Someday Daughter by Ellen O’Clover EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Ellen O’Clover
- Language: English
- Genre: YA
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.2 MB
- Price: Free
LOS ANGELES
There’s a zipper pull pressed directly into my spine. It’s matte white,
sharp-cornered, a spiteful metal rectangle. I know because I spent eight
sweaty minutes wrestling with it backstage, trying bitterly to tug it over the
waistline seam of the flouncy, floral dress Magnolia set out for me. I got it
settled between my shoulder blades seconds before Mags burst into my
room and now it’s back to haunt me, piercing my vertebra like a
punishment. Or a warning.
“That sounds like a good question for Audrey,” my mother says. She
looks over at me, and in the hot stage lights dust motes float like pollen
between us. “Honey?”
I lean forward in my blush velvet chair, the perfect aesthetic
accompaniment to my mother’s mint-green one. Try to swipe at the zipper.
Miss.
“Hmm?” I haven’t been paying attention, which is off-brand for me. But
there’s something impersonal about this, personal as it’s meant to be. With
two thousand people staring up at us, it nearly feels like no one is. Ten
people, sure. Five, even more pressure. But two thousand? They may as
well be fake—a soundless sea shifting in the dark beyond the glaring lights.
My mother laughs, the rehearsed titter that’s as familiar to me as the
sound of my own name. “Laz asked what we’re proudest to share on the
tour this summer.”
I look at him. Lazarus Leblanc: media darling, beach-chic tastemaker,
he of the laminated eyebrows. My mother’s Malibu neighbor, and the exact
kind of Los Angeles Ken doll to moderate an event like this. I’m 90 percent
sure his legal name is Scott.
“Proudest,” I repeat. Laz cocks an eyebrow, tilts one ankle so his
snakeskin boots catch their polish in the light. We’ve known each other for
a lifetime, and not at all. “Hard to say.” It’s the easiest truth within reach.
Because really, I left everything I’m proud of back at school. I boxed it up
and hoisted it into a windowless container that’ll ship directly to my dorm
in Baltimore mid-August, first day of freshman orientation, the minute my
life picks back up. This is an interlude—this tour, this summer, this
conversation on this stage—an exercise for my mother’s pride that has
absolutely nothing to do with my own.
“Understandably so,” Laz says smoothly, “when there’s so much to be
proud of. What about you, Camilla?”
My mother preens. I brace myself, watching every shift of her body like
the adjustment of so many jewel-colored feathers. The level setting of her
freckled collarbones. The blonde hair she tips over one shoulder, so lustrous
it could be liquid. The calculated angle of her smile: the warm one, the one
that invites you right in.
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