Pasadena by Sherri L. Smith Page B

sense. But her boyfriend will still be a pretty-boy jackhole. Like I said, poser.”
    Maggie clucked her tongue and struck another pose. “Dane’s not so bad, really. They’re kind of like Beauty and the Beast.”
    â€œBut who’s who?” I snarked. “Mags, seriously, ditch the hat.”
    Maggie adjusted the pillbox on her head, humor fading. “Are you kidding? I’d rather go naked, like Godiva,
avec chapeau
.”
    I step outside my house. Joey is waiting for me on the curb, an extra-large latte in each hand. I could kiss him. But I have my pride.
    Maggie once told me Joey tamed a wild squirrel with bits of food and a safe place to rest in his backyard. Eventually, it was eating out of his hand. But wild is as wild does. One day, it bit him, and that was that. I hope I don’t do the same thing.
    I leave my unopened soda on the front steps.
    â€œYou didn’t say hello last night,” Joey says.
    â€œI thought you weren’t speaking to me.”
    â€œMaybe I would’ve. If you’d said hello.”
    We look at each other for a moment. In the light of day, he’s got shadows under his eyes. Just like me. I almostlaugh. That’s the thing about parties—everybody looks happy.
    Everybody’s lying.
    I step closer and say, “Hello.”
    He hands me one of the drinks wordlessly and we climb into the car.
    â€œMaggie’s,” I say. “Then Luke’s.”
    â€œYour wish is my . . .” He lets the sentence hang.
    I reach out and squeeze his hand. We don’t let go until we get to Maggie’s.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The hat is there but the dress is gone. Who says you can’t take it with you?
    â€œWe gave it to the funeral director to . . .” Mrs. Kim’s hands flutter around her face like pale butterflies. “Oh, I wish I had known you wanted it.”
    â€œNo, it’s perfect,” I tell her, and ask to keep the hat.
    â€œCertainly, certainly,” Mrs. Kim says, already looking around for something else to do or say. “There was one thing, though. A strand of pearls. They were my mother’s. She gave them to Maggie before she died.”
    The words hit hard and Mrs. Kim sits down suddenly on the couch. Burying her daughter with her dead mother’s pearls. Sometimes the circle of life is more of a noose.
    â€œEdina has them,” I say, sitting beside her.
    Joey stands in the living room doorway like a bodyguard.
    â€œEdina? Who’s Edina?” Mrs. Kim asks.
    Joey and I exchange a glance. I shrug. “Another friend. Maybe Maggie gave them to her?”
    â€œHa.” Mrs. Kim laughs derisively. As if Maggie might have done it against her express wishes, to hurt her. Maybe she had.
    â€œI could be wrong,” I say. “If they turn up, I’ll let you know.”
    For a moment, Mrs. Kim looks paler than usual. “The . . . the coroner called today.”
    Joey leans forward. I stiffen. “Oh?” The strain in my voice is obvious.
    Mrs. Kim shakes her head, staring at the pattern in the carpet at her feet. “I don’t understand it. They say they found drugs in her. Did she do drugs?”
    The look she gives me is so raw with grief that my voice catches in my throat.
    When I clear it, she’s still waiting, begging me for an answer. “No, Mrs. Kim,” I say. “No, she didn’t do drugs. She never touched them.” It’s the sort of lie you tell a mother. Aside from pot, it’s also the truth.
    â€œThen how did this happen?” she asks. “Valium, theysay, Vicodin, Rohypnol. Where would that come from? Where would she—” She breaks off suddenly, remembering something, or overwhelmed with grief, and in an instant, Mrs. Kim the starlet is back. Placid, poised, impossible to read.
    â€œMrs. Kim?”
    She looks at me for a moment, her emotions brushed off like so many flies. She pats