Kindle(ing a Flame)

Today at rehearsal, a very good singer and actress named S was just walking into the wing for the top of the number when our music director caught her by surprise from the orchestra pit. "S!" she called. "How is your mom?" What is it with middle-aged women and fatal illness this week? I can count three on my hand, and it's only Thursday. Two can be cured. One can't. My ears perked up.

"I don't know," replied S nonchalantly, subtly pushing her tight crop top up.

The director was amazed. "You don't know?"

"She took my Kindle, so I stopped responding to her emails."

Tears sprung up in my eyes like they were jumping off a trampoline and being rocketed up onto my face. I couldn't believe that in front of me, in the body I so respected, was a  - dun dun dun - stereotypical teenager. She was taking it for granted, all of it, losing track of the consequences in a storm of angst. She had what I didn't. I wanted to be her, and change the mood. I hated her.

"S!" exclaimed the director. "You need to be a better daughter!" She turned to me. "Would you act like that, Chloe?"

I couldn't tell S I hated her, because I didn't. It would be a lie. I couldn't disagree with the director, because I didn't. It would be a lie. "I've been thinking about this a lot, actually," is what I said. I had been. It was not a lie.