“Oh, that's just what I need. To wait on all of my friends at Macy's."
"So what? You guys need the money, right?"
"There are jobs, and then there are jobs."
"You're talking to a girl who is working at a farm stand so that she can chase her dream job."
"That's different."
"Oh, yeah? How? Last I checked, Libby wanted you to spend two thousand bucks on chairs. Where's that money coming from?"
She sighs. "You and your father are all burned up about those chairs. Poor Libby."
"Poor Libby?" Classic. My mom always takes Libby's side. When Libby got a bad grade on an exam or paper, my mom would claim the teacher was incompetent, even when I'd had the same teachers and had aced their classes. When Libby's field hockey tournament was the same weekend as my clarinet recital, my mom chose Libby's tournament because, she said, Libby needed her support more than I did. And when Libby and her girlfriends ate the chocolate mousse I made as part of a project for French class senior year, my mom said it was my fault for leaving it in our refrigerator without a note. How was Libby to know?
"Mom, Libby lives in fantasyland. And anyway, if you cared so much about getting her damn chairs, you'd take a job at the gas station if you needed to." I catch myself. "I take that back. If Libby cares so much about the damn chairs, she should get a job at the gas station."
She clicks her tongue. "Sydney."
"What? Maybe it's time for Libby to grow up and realize she needs to take responsibility for things.”