There she is: the redheaded cheerleader. Hanging on to Matt’s arm like she owns him, whispering in his ear.
I feel sick. I haven’t had a single drink, and already I want to throw up.
I turn around to grab Liv, but she’s not on the dance floor. She’s not even in the room.
How does a person just disappear at a party? That’s my question. I’ve searched everywhere, even the bedrooms, which of course are full of random, punch-infused hookups, and, which, come to think of it, I don’t know why I bothered checking. A) Liv never has more than one drink, and B) not in a million years would she deign to hook up with a high-school guy.
But I need to find her, and that means looking everywhere.
I head outside. On the back lawn a bunch of guys are playing soccer in the dark, and they’re killing themselves laughing because they keep falling down.
“Hey,” I call out. “Have you guys seen Liv?”
“Who?” someone calls back.
“Olivia! Weiss-Longo!”
“She’s hot!” another guy yells.
Someone wolf whistles, and I’m about to yell something else, but a hand has just grabbed mine.
I know, even before I turn around. Matt Rigby has the warmest hands.
“Hey,” he says low.
Every hair on my neck stands at attention.
“Did you check your cell?” he asks.
“What?”
“Check your cell. Maybe she texted you.”
“Why would she? . . . Fine.” I try to yank my hand back, but he just holds on tighter. I have to reach into my pocket from the opposite side, which is annoying, but then I flip open my phone and there it is:
J, wnt 4 ride. Wll xplain L8r. B bck 11:29. Hv fn 2nite!!! xo, L
I stand there, staring at the message.
“Everything OK?”
I don’t know if it is, but I nod and slip the phone back in my pocket.
“Hey.” Matt Rigby steers my elbow to turn me around, and I let him.
“Hey what?” I say.
We’re facing each other now, and he’s holding both my hands in his, and they are so warm. Then there’s the smell of him—part beer, part deodorant, part I don’t know what . . . leaves? For a moment, all I want to do is breathe.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asks.
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Every time I see you, you run the other way.”
“No I don’t.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and I can see him smile. “Come on. Admit it.”
“Every time I see you, you’ve got your own personal cheering section.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Wait—Tessa?”
“I don’t know, Matt. Is that her name? I can’t seem to keep track of your girlfriends.”
He laughs, as though I’ve just told the cleverest of jokes.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” I say.
“Tessa’s not my girlfriend,” he says. “She’s just a friend. For the record.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “You guys must have one of those ‘agreements’ you’re so fond of.” I can hear the snottiness of my tone, and I hate it, but I can’t help myself.
Riggs is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I knew it.”
“What?”
He takes a breath. “I knew you thought I was lying that night, about Missy. That I was just saying what I said to hook up with you. But I wasn’t.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m focused on his eyes. I once read that you can tell if someone’s lying by how much they blink, or if they glance to the side, but he’s not doing either. His eyes are locked on mine.
“The thing with Missy and me was . . . complicated.”
“Complicated how?” I say.
“It was like this arranged marriage thing. We’ve known each other forever. Our parents are best friends, and they always wanted us to, you know, get together, and Missy was really into it, but I was never exactly . . .” He hesitates. “Before she left for college I finally told her I was into . . . you know . . . someone else.”
He’s squeezing both my hands, and it takes me a second to realize—he means me! Then I remember where we are, and I have to ask: “How drunk are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You smell like beer.”
“Half a beer. Just to get my courage up.”
“For what?”
“This,” he says. He leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, and it’s as if our mouths were made just to come together, and now his hands are on my back, pressing me closer, and I can’t believe everything that’s flying through my head in this one moment. New Year’s and porch swings and dreams and mud and fire-works and St. Elmo’s and prom and cheesy song lyrics and . . . and I’m pushing him away . . . why am I pushing him away?
Matt reaches for my arm to pull me back. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just . . . I can’t do this if you’re going to mess with my head.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s searching for the right words. Then he says them: “I’m not. I won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“How?”
“I’ve wanted this since tenth grade. Ever since I saw you do that peer-ed skit in assembly. The one about cigarettes.”
“Yeah, right.” I’m rolling my eyes like I don’t believe him. But I’m kind of tingling, too.
“You were wearing a fuzzy blue sweater. And your hair was all twisty. Kind of like . . .” He reaches out and gathers my hair into a pile on top of my head. “With a pencil sticking out of it.”
“You remember that?”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up three fingers. “Your skit was very convincing. I haven’t smoked since.”
I try to suppress the urge to call him a big dork, but as usual my mouth has other plans. “You’re such a dork,” I say. Then I touch my hand to his arm, to show him I mean it in the best possible way.
“I’m a dork?” he says, smiling. “Me?” He takes a step back, and then, out of nowhere, he starts singing. “Come on, Vogue! Let your body groove to the music! Hey, hey, hey!”
It takes about two seconds for all the guys who were playing soccer to gather around us on the deck, clapping and cheering as Matt Rigby’s hands form geometric shapes in the air around his head. And despite the fact that he’s mocking my dance moves, I have to laugh. Because he looks so ridiculous, and because his eyes haven’t left mine, and because now he’s reaching out his hand for me to join him, and I am actually doing it.
Here we are: voguing side by side in the cool September air, sober, to absolutely no music. I can just see the word “dork-out” hanging in the air above us.
Also the word “us.”
“Get a room!” someone from the peanut gallery yells, and instead of being embarrassed, Matt Rigby pulls me in and kisses me. Right there, in front of everyone. How this is happening is beyond me. I only wish Liv were here to see it.
Eleven thirty-two p.m., the backseat of Dodd’s car. Two things are going on: the parental inquisition and stealth texting.
Pops: “How was the party?”
Us: “Great.”
Me:Whr wr u?
Liv:Lng stry. GR8 guy.
Me:Wht??? Who???
Dodd: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Us: “Three.”
Dodd: “Good.”
Liv:Finn. He gos 2 UMass. We mt on MyPg.
Me:W8. Whn did ths hppn???
Liv: IDK. 2 wks ago?
Pops: “Any bodily harm?”
Us: “No.”
Dodd:“Any heartbreak?”
Us: “No.”
Liv:Enuf me. U. How ws ur nite?
Me: OMG. Whr 2 bgin? . . .
All the way back to my house, we text so furiously, it’s amazing our phones don’t explode. After we say our good-byes I sprint up my front steps,
fully amped, prepared to tell my mom everything. I’m ready for the couch, the popcorn, the whole heart-to-heart, mother-daughter, let-it-all-hang-out thing that happens every time I come home from a party.
Except for this time.
This time is something else entirely.
Try walking into your living room to find your mother tangled up on the couch with some guy she just met, her shirt bunched up around her neck. Try clearing your throat and watching them pop up, grinning like a couple of bobblehead dolls and frantically adjusting their clothes. Try reminding yourself of who is the teenager in this scenario and who is the parent, without actually saying, Oh my GOD, Mother, did you WANT me to see this?!
I know. I was the one who encouraged her. I was the one who said, Put yourself out there, who told her how cute Jonathan was, that I was happy he asked her out. But now, watching the whole thing unfold in my living room, I feel like—OK, this is going to sound completely juvenile, but it’s true—I feel like the cheese in “The Farmer in the Dell.” The cheese stands alone.When Jonathan stands up to introduce himself, what I really want to say is, “I’m not the cheese. You’re the cheese.”
Instead, I make my head nod. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Nice to meet you, too, while my mom stands between us, smiling. She gestures to the couch and says, “Josie, sit. Tell us about the party.”
“Nothing to tell.” It almost hurts to say this, but I do. “My night was totally uneventful.”
Normally my mom would know I’m lying and call me on it.
Not this time.
“Well,” I say. “I’m beat . . . I guess I’ll go up.”
She hugs me when I say this, relieved that I read her mind. When she says to me, “Good night, sweetheart,” it’s actually code: Thanks, sweetheart. For beating it.
Six
JONATHAN IS A jazz aficionado.
This is what my mother tells me over breakfast. Latin jazz, soul jazz, jazz fusion—you name it, he knows it. Jazz is the reason he became a music teacher. My mom recounts a story he told her last night, about the first time he heard Eddie “Lockjaw” Davis (whoever that is) play the saxophone.
“He cried,” she tells me, one hand patting her chest. “He was twelve years old and he was so moved by the music, he actually wept.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Can you imagine?”
Yes, actually, I can. I can imagine him getting shoved into a locker by the junior-high football team.
“Syrup?” my mom says.
I nod, take the bottle.
It’s waffles this morning. Waffles that feature an assortment of dried fruit—apricots, raisins, dates—which give them an oddly diseased appearance.
Jonathan is a Samaritan.
This is the next thing she tells me. One weekend a month he volunteers at North Haven Hospital, doing art projects with terminally ill kids. Friendship bracelets, decoupage, quilts. . . .
My mother goes on and on, and I don’t want to burst her heart-shaped bubble, but it sounds to me like Jonathan is trying awfully hard to impress her. Ridiculously hard. Obscenely hard.
“What’s next?” I ask. “Leaping tall buildings in a single bound?”
“Well, he was a high-jumper in college.”
“I was kidding.”
“I know.” My mom laughs, delighted. “I know! He sounds too good to be true, right?”
I shoot her a look that says, Exaggeration of the century much?—which she either ignores or doesn’t catch.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” is what she says now, sounding every inch the enamored schoolgirl. She even looks the part: blue eyes shining, cheeks abloom.
OK. I should be happy to see my mother happy. And I am. I am. It’s just, one minute she’s busting out the old Paul Tucci yearbook, and the next—
“So, I invited him for dinner.”
“What?” I put down my fork. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“And?”
“And the Weiss-Longos are coming. It’s our turn to host.”
“I’m sure the Weiss-Longos won’t mind if Jonathan joins us,” she says.
“No, it’s just . . . you just met the guy, like three weeks ago. Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be—”
“What? Excited about someone?” My mom puts down her fork, frowns. “It’s not like this happens to me every day, Josie. It doesn’t. I’ve had—what—six dates in sixteen years?”
I can see the hurt in her face, and I feel horrible. I tell her that Jonathan seems like a good guy, and I want her to be happy.
“Thank you,” she says. “He is a good guy. A really decent, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of person.”
“Yes,” I say.
It doesn’t take a genius to read between my mother’s lines: Jonathan is the antithesis of Paul Tucci.Good. Decent. Not a heartbreaker.
“You deserve it,” I say.
She nods. Then she says, “I think I’ll make steak. What guy doesn’t like steak, right? And some kind of potato?”
“Sure,” I say.
“OK. Steak it is.”
Her face has smoothed out again. She’s back to normal. For a second I consider telling her about last night—about Matt Rigby and the kiss, and Liv—but she’s already whipping out the cookbooks. She’s starting a shopping list: Filet mignon. Flowers. Wine.
I go upstairs with a pit in my stomach, and I don’t even know why it’s there, but I’m actually glad the café opening is today, so I can focus my mind on that instead of on my mother’s new boyfriend.
Fiorello’s looks amazing. Funky art and plush couches, glass-topped tables, ferns. Some little elf has been working overtime, unloading FedEx boxes. And the smell. Bob doesn’t do anything half-assed; he hired two gourmet bakers for the opening. The air smells sugary and yeasty, and the display cases—the ones that used to hold ice cream—are now full of pastries.
“You need a taste tester,” I tell Bob. I reach for the sliding glass door. “You know, just to make sure . . .”
“No sampling!” He swats my hand away.
“Fine.” I shrug. “Poison the customers. See if I care.”
Bob’s brow crinkles.
“Kidding,” I say. “I’m kidding.”
“I’m sorry.” He grabs a towel and begins buffing the already-shiny countertops. “We open in forty-two minutes. I’m nervous.”
Nervous, obsessive, manic . . .
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Everything will be fine.”
By Elmherst standards, this place is rocking. Wherever Bob posted those flyers, they worked. There must be twenty customers in here.
“We need more of those little tube-y things,” I tell Meg, the college student who usually works the shifts I can’t. Bob scheduled everyone to work today, which is making the space behind the counter feel even tighter than normal.
“Cannoli.” Meg hands me a tray of tube-y things. “God. These people are like vultures with the free samples.”
Bob winds his way through the crowd with a platter of biscotti and mini coffees. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the fringe of hair around his bald spot is frizzing out from the humidity.
“These biscotti are to die for,” a woman says, reaching out for Bob’s arm with her long, manicured fingertips. Bob ducks his head to the side, loving the compliment—also, clearly, trying to avoid the transfer of germs.
“We need more steamed milk.” Drake, the kid with the zits who works Friday nights, shoves a pitcher in my face.
“Bob didn’t show you how to do it?”
Drake rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t like my foam. He says it’s too flat.”
“Here,” I say. “Take the register. I’ll steam.”
I sashay past Drake and past the baker who’s sliding a tray of cookies out of the oven. They’re the almond variety, rich and buttery, with little nut slivers on top. Breathing in, I feel a burst of spit fill my mouth, reminding me that I’m famished. I never did f
inish my waffle this morning. I was too distracted by the Jonathan discussion to eat.
Jazzy Jonathan.
Coming for dinner.
Tonight.
Ach.
OK, I’m not going to focus on that. I’m going to focus on milk-steaming. And bean-grinding. And assembling beautiful, fluffy, cinnamon-dappled cappuccinos for the masses—
“Excuse me, young lady?”
I turn. “Yes?”
The man is silver-haired, with square shoulders and a wide, ruddy face. He smiles at me and I suddenly realize who he is and give a little jump. Naturally, the pitcher of scalding milk in my hand jumps, too. And sloshes onto the front of my shirt. And soaks through to my bare skin.
“Oh, shit!” I announce, trying to pull the fabric of my shirt away from my scalding chest. “Hot! Hot shit!”
Paul Tucci’s father’s eyes widen, and he points to the sink behind me. “Water! Cold water!”
In moments like these, you don’t think about decorum. You don’t think at all. You just spring across the floor like a jungle cat and stick your entire torso under the faucet, letting the cold water run, and run, and run.
“Oh . . . my . . .” Liv is laughing so hard she’s gasping for breath. “God! . . . Hot! . . .” Tears are literally streaming down her face. “Hot shit!”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much for laughing at my humiliation. Really. I feel so much better now.”
“I’m . . . sorry. . . . It’s just . . . you burned . . . your . . .” A fresh fit of giggles erupts and Liv collapses face-first on the bed.
“That’s right, Olivia,” I say. “I burned my boobs. Hilarious! Keep it up.”
We are in my room. Everyone else is downstairs, mingling and drinking wine. Preparing to eat my mother’s steak. Already I can tell how this night will go: about as well as the rest of my day. It would be nice to have a best friend who appreciated the gravity of the situation.