Read Sixteen for Free Online Page B

suggestion of his being entirely to blame. They all avoided looking at each other for several uncomfortable minutes. Nikki examined the red and white checker pattern on the plastic tablecloth. The silence seemed almost noisy until the air conditioner jumped back on. Finally, Nikki's father spoke.
    "You're sure?"
    She nodded, her eyes never leaving the tablecloth.
    He sighed. "You know it was wrong, what you did."
    She nodded again.
    "You also know that your mother and I really do love you, and we want the best for you. We always have."
    Her mother hastily joined the awkward, somewhat one-sided conversation. "Naturally. Now, Nikki, I know we've had our differences, but I'm sure-"
    "Nancy, I'd like to finish." His tone did not lack love, but his words were firm.
    Mrs. Johnson looked slightly hurt, but she stopped talking.
    "Nicole, you and your mother and I haven't been on the best of terms lately. I feel this might have played a large part in your behavior lately -- your behavior for the past few years, actually. Am I right?"
    The air conditioner continued to rattle; the clock in the kitchen chimed once to signify the half-hour. Nikki finally nodded.
    Her dad leaned forward and took her hand. For the first time that night, they locked eyes. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry." On the surface, he could mean about Matt or the pregnancy or her parents' not understanding or -- Nikki knew he meant all of that, and so much more. In those few seconds their eyes never moved, and the past several years of anger and bitterness and insecurity crumbled with the walls around her heart. How was it possible to miss someone so much who had always lived a hallway away? Images of park swings and baking cookies and raking leaves and a red party dress filled her eyes and spilled out as hot, salty raindrops.

 
     
     
    I twirl around in front of the dressing room mirror. "Look at it, Mom!" I gaze in the mirror's reflection before grinning down at the green silky skirt draped over my hips. "It's so soft and... and twirly!" I laugh and spin around again.
    Mom catches my shoulder and gently pushes me down onto the tiny bench in the fitting room. "Slow down, Nicole! You'll make yourself sick, spinning like that."
    I shake my head to clear the dizziness and smile at my mom, in her red and green Christmas sweatshirt and new blond perm that matches my natural curls - her idea. "We have to get this one, Mom. Please, please, please?"
    She frowns. This skirt is perfect for the party! Why is she frowning? "Hm. We'll see. Here, I want you to try this dress on." In her hand, she carries a red velvet dress with puffy sleeves and a Christmas tree pattern on the skirt.
    I groan. "Not another one! I told you, everybody's wearing green skirts, Mom. I won't look right in a red dress."
    She shakes her head and drops the dress in my lap. "Nicole, three of your friends hardly constitutes everyone at the party. Red is just as festive as green. Besides, it will look lovely with your golden curls." She smiles down at me and runs her fingers softly over a strand of my hair.
    I jerk my head away and sigh noisily. "Okay."
    I shimmy out of the perfect skirt and tug the dress on over my head. The fabric is thicker and heavier than the skirt, and the top itches.
    Mom is beaming at me when I glance over at her. I stick my lower lip out. "I don't like it."
    "Oh, Nicole, but look at yourself! It's darling!" With her hands on my shoulders, she turns me toward the mirror. I stare at the glaringly bright red cloth while she drapes my hair around my sleeves. "See, this it the perfect dress! You'll be the most stunning girl at the party. I told you it would match your hair."
    I step away from her and my hip collides with the sharp corner of the wooden bench. I gasp in pain and press one hand on my side. "Stop it, Mom! I don't like the dress. I don't want to wear red, I don't want a dress, and I want to pick my own clothes! I don't want to match you. I don't like our hair! And why can’t you call