At one point while ClaireLee read a Laura Wilder book to Belinda, Belinda slumped. “Lucky girl, Laura.” ClaireLee frowned. “What’s wrong?” “Ma meant it when she wrote the letter to Grandma about raising me.” Belinda gazed at the carpeted floor. “In Hollywood, she was busy auditing, audish…oh, shucks. I can’t even say it.” ClaireLee bit off the tips of a few fingernails, listening. “Ma got all fancy in her high heels, and a different color nail polish to match her dresses each morning. She’d say, ‘I’m off to see some people about my reading for a movie part.’” Belinda rolled her eyes. “Each day, I saw her for a whole ten pea-pickin’ minutes.” A film of tears blurred ClaireLee’s vision. “I’m sad for you, Belinda.” “No surprise.” She shrugged. “I knew my ma didn’t want me, or she wouldn’t have left me with Grandma Neecy in the first place.”
