The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

11. Absinthe vs. Wheatgrass

Dancing turned into a dinner date. My father cooked a bland feast of plain red beans 'n' rice, all the while loudly playing Hunky Dory to further my Bowie indoctrination, and I took on the gag-inducing task of cleaning out the fridge. It was funny experiencing such a domestic scene in our home. Usually we just sort of coexisted, sharing the occasional cup of coffee and discussion about art when our schedules overlapped.

After dinner, he hurried off to Le Chat Noir, and I was left alone, trying to change the overhead lightbulb in the attic. Even standing on my toes on top of the piano bench with my arms fully extended, I wasn't close to reaching it.

"You're way taller in your mind than in actuality, Adele." I sighed to myself.

Fetching the ladder wasn't an appealing task after hauling all of my clothing, books, sewing paraphernalia, and sixteen years' worth of God only knows what else up the stairs, but, unless a bottle of potion labeled "Drink Me" suddenly appeared and made me grow, there were no other options. Then, as I had one foot out the door, a ridiculous idea entered my mind. I stepped back onto the bench, looked up at the old bulb, and imagined it turning.

Nothing happened.

"This is insane," I said, before realizing that talking to myself only confirmed the statement. But then it happened:

The bulb shook a little.

My heart skipped.

I had this feeling that it wanted to move.

Focus. Who knows when the lightbulb was last touched? Maybe it's stuck. I concentrated explicitly on the metal ridges of the bulb's base, picturing them moving in a slow, counterclockwise motion.

"Come on, you can do it!"

It budged a millimeter. This time, instead of fearful, I felt exhilarated.

"That's it. Slow and steady."

I watched in amazement as the bulb slowly unscrewed itself and then plopped into my cupped palms.

My hand shook as I pulled the new bulb from its box and extended it upward. When my arm reached its full length, the bulb left my hand, gracefully floated up to the fixture, and turned itself into place. My shoulders tingled with excitement as the base of the bulb was swallowed and the bright light popped on.

"And then there was light," I whispered, looking around, almost fearful someone had witnessed me bend the laws of nature.

My pocket vibrated before I could further freak out.

"Please, please, please tell me you are moving to L.A.!" Brooke screamed into the phone before I could even say hello.

"Oh my God, it's so weird here without you! How's Los Angeles? How are your parents?"

"Oh no, girlfriend. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook that easily. Are you moving to L.A. or what?"

"Well . . ."

"What? Nooooo! I already cleared out half of my closet for you. I mean, it's not like I really have any stuff, so it wasn't that hard, but still. Adele, this school is uh-mazing. Last year they worked with Rodarte, Chanel, and Project Runway."

I tried to pay attention as she rattled on about the fashion program, but I was stuck on how casually she'd mentioned having no stuff. In New Orleans, Brooke Jones cleaning out half her closet would've been a major feat.

"The program sounds cool."

"Cool? Adele, it's Chanel, as in the empire built by Coco Chanel, your idol—"