Page 9 - My FlipBook

with a separate entrance off Minnesota Avenue, a wide-open
event space, chic and lofty, where today someone’s obviously
hosting a wedding reception.
I pull the beanie off my hair, which would fit right in with
the wedding party’s color scheme. The box was labeled Rose
Gold, but it’s basically pastel pink tinting my not-so-natural
blonde hair. Although it’s subtle, Sister Mary Angela hates it.
When she first saw it earlier this month, she remanded me to
lunch in the dean’s office, which I think is bogus, but I can deal.
It’s not like I want to eat with my contemporaries anyway.
Last week, my sentence was suddenly lifted. Although
I didn’t know until Hayley told Mom and me, Dad offered a
donation to make the “problem” go away.
Out of principle, and out of respect for my mother, I
decided to continue with the dean’s office routine.
See, despite what the almighty Sister Mary Angela thinks,
I didn’t dip my head in pink tint as some act of rebellion. Gen-
erally, I like rules. I just also like a little variety. And this color
has an underlying purpose: My mom’s a breast cancer survivor,
and next week is the two-year anniversary of her kicking its ass.
I’m not sure even Mom made the connection, but that’s
all right. Like I said, I didn’t do it to get attention. It’s a private
tribute to my mother’s strength and perseverance.
The barista calls from the counter, “Order for Madelaine.”
Only she says it more like Madelynn, ignoring the long A, so I
don’t get up right away. There could be two of us waiting out
the rain here. It’s awfully crowded.
“Mocha roast? Two pumps of peppermint?” she says. “With
a butter croissant?”
Yeah, she means me.
I don’t bother correcting her when I collect my second cup

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