For Keeps Page 10
But I don’t. What I do is mutter good-bye and toss the phone onto a chair beside the couch.
Liv raises her eyebrows. “What was that?”
“What?”
“I’ve never heard you talk to Kate like that.”
I shrug.
“You sounded like Mel.”
“Yeah, well. My mom is starting to sound a lot like Mrs. Jaffin.”
Liv doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head and starts playing with some fringe on the edge of a pillow.
“What,” I say.
“Nothing.”
“You obviously have something to say, so say it.”
Liv turns to me, and her eyes are serious. She tells me I don’t know how lucky I am to have Kate. She says that she wouldn’t trade Pops and Dodd for anything, but it’s not the same. It’s not like having a mom to talk to.
“Well . . . you have a mom, technically.”
Liv shoots me a look.
“What? You do.”
“An egg donor surrogate is not a mom. She’s an incubator.”
“Not just an incubator,” I say. “She sends Christmas cards.”
It’s true. Every year, Liv and Wyatt’s egg-donor surrogate sends a Christmas card from Minnesota, wishing the Weiss-Longos a warm and wonderful new year. I am tempted to point out that Paul Tucci has never sent me a Christmas card, but I decide to keep this to myself. Because Liv is frowning.
“You’re right, Josie. Those Christmas cards are just like a real mom! Just chock-full of maternal wisdom and comfort. . . . I feel such a kindred connection to the annual Hallmark greeting that represents the random womanPops and Dodd paid to lug me around in her womb for nine months—”
“OK, OK,” I say.
But Liv isn’t finished. “We’re so close, me and my egg-donor surrogate, we communicate telepathically!”
I wince and tell her I’m sorry. Because I am. I never should have brought it up.
She sighs. “Whatever. You’re completely missing my point. Do you want to hear it, or not?”
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
“You shouldn’t take Kate for granted, Josie. She’s a great mom. The more you fight with her—”
“We’re not fighting.”
“OK, the worse you treat her—”
“Me?” I say. “There were two sides to that conversation, Liv. You only heard one.”
She shakes her head. “Regardless, you still have a choice about how you act.”
I stare at her, feeling my face heat up. “And this is your business because . . .”
“I’m your best friend.”
“You could have fooled me,” I say, surprised at the hardness in my voice. “You always take my mom’s side, you know that? . . . You think she can do no wrong. Well, let me tell you something: She can.”
“It’s not about taking sides, Josie. I love you both.” Liv reaches over, touching my arm with her hand.
I shake it off. “Whatever.” Then, sounding like a ten-year-old girl on the playground, I say, “I thought best friends meant total loyalty.”
“It does,” Liv says. “I am.”
I don’t respond. We sit in silence for a while. Then, she says, “Are you still pissed?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Would you feel better if you smacked me upside the head?”
“Yes,” I say again. I can feel myself start to smile but fight it. “Smack upside the head” is one of Liv’s and my favorite expressions. Ever since second grade, when Timmy O’Keefe threatened to smack our gym teacher, Mr. Lyons, upside the head, for telling him he threw like a girl.
“Go on, then,” Liv says, leaning in closer. “Smack me. Right upside the head. And after that, I’ll smack you upside the head.”
I smirk, bite my lip, smirk again.
And then, of course, I crack up.
Ten
IN THE MORNING, when I get out of the shower, Liv is sitting at her desk in her pajamas, staring at the computer.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She shrugs.
I lean in to look.
“Pregnant Teen Help dot org?”
She nods.
I swallow. “Please tell me you’re researching something for school . . . some health project, or . . .”
Silence.
“Liv.”
More silence.
“Oh my God, are you serious?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“You think you’re . . .”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just yakked.” She points to the trash can. “I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom.”
“Well,” I say briskly, “you probably just have that stomach bug. The one Schuyler had. She was out all last week.”
“Did Schuyler’s boobs hurt?”
“Your boobs hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do they or don’t they?”
She shakes her head again. “Maybe. A little. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But my period’s late. I know that.”
“How late?”
“Three days.”
I breathe out. “Well,” I say. I grab the other desk chair, sit down next to her. “Three days is nothing.”
“You think?” she says, looking at me with eyes that are suddenly too big for her face.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I’ve been three days late before. I’ve been a whole week late. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Well, not if you’re a virgin.”
“Well, yeah. Obviously. But even if you’re not a virgin. . . . Wait. You and Finn have been using protection, right?”
“Of course.”
“Every time?”
Liv gives me a look. “Josie, do you think I’m an idiot?”
“No. No, of course I don’t. Just . . . Liv, you cannot freak out over three days. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“I know. I am.”
“It could be stress, hormones, diet. . . . All sorts of things can affect your cycle.”
“I know.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Do you want to take a . . . you know . . . test?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I don’t want to know yet. I just want to . . . not know for a few more days.”
“OK, so we’ll wait, then. And stay calm.”
“Right.” Liv nods. “OK. You do the calm part, though, because I don’t know if I can.”
“I will,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
We hug. I hold on tight, too, because something just dawned on me. This is where Liv was coming from last night. This is why she went off on me. Her whole “you’re so lucky to have Kate, you shouldn’t take Kate for granted” spiel now makes perfect sense. Liv really needs a real mom to talk to. Not just an egg-donor surrogate from Minnesota who doesn’t know squat.
All day, I try to make her laugh. “Hey, Liv,” I say as we’re changing for gym, “I have a joke for you. Knock-knock.”
“Josie. I’m really not in the mood.”
“Come on,” I say. “Knock-knock.”
She heaves a sigh. “Who’s there?”
“Norma Lee.”
“Norma Lee who?”
“Normalee I don’t go around knocking on doors, but would you like to buy a set of encyclopedias?”
Liv doesn’t exactly laugh, but her lips twitch a little, which is good enough for me.
When we’re on the bus to our game against Palmer Regional, I try again. “So there are these two muffins in the oven, right?”
“If you say so,” Liv says.
“They’re both sitting there, just chilling and getting baked. After a while, one muffin yells, ‘God damn, it’s hot in here!’ and the other muffin replies, ‘Holy crap, a talking muffin!’”
“I’m surprised at you, Josephine,” Liv says dryly. “Druggie humor.”
“Baking humor,” I say. “And anyway, don’t blame me. Blame Big Nick. He’s the one who told i
t to me.”
“Ah.” She nods. “You’ve been bonding.”
“We have not been bonding.”
“It sounds like you’ve been bonding.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, OK? Big Nick is a customer. And I’m just serving up pastries and laughing at his jokes like I would with anyone else. That is all. But if you feel the need to read something Dr. Steveian into every little interaction, you go right ahead. . . .”
“Wow, are you defensive.”
“I am not defensive! I’m just trying to act normal around the guy! OK? Can you let me do that?”
“OK,” Liv says. “I won’t bring it up again.”
“Yes, you will.”
Now Kara and Lindsey are leaning over the back of our seat, wanting to talk about the game. We discuss strategy. We tell each other how awesome we’ve been playing lately. We agree there’s no way we’re losing today.
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling into the Palmer Regional parking lot.
“Ready to kick some ass?” I ask Liv.
She nods.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you. . . . I said, Are you ready to—”
“Josie?” Her voice is barely audible.
“What?” I notice how pale her face is. Pale and pinched. “Liv . . .”
She closes her eyes.
“Are you going to—”
She nods, grabs her duffel bag, and barfs into it.
“It’s OK,” I tell her. “You’re OK.”
I rub her back and say a silent prayer, to whatever celestial being might be listening right now. Please. Pleaselet this be a stomach bug.
Eleven
THE NEXT MORNING, in front of my locker, Matt Rigby kisses me sweet and slow. Then he pulls back and grins.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Your hat trick.” He means the three goals I scored yesterday while Liv was on the bench, turning various shades of green. “Congrats.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though we already had this conversation last night on the phone. It’s way better having it in person.
“My parents want to meet you,” he says.
“Because of the hat trick?”
“Because I won’t shut up about you. . . . Next Saturday, after our games. Can you come for dinner? Becky’s making lasagna.”
Becky, the stepmother. Matt’s real mom, Darlene, split from his dad when Matt was a baby and moved to some hippie colony in Vermont. Matt only sees her a few times a year. Becky pretty much raised him.
“Lasagna,” I say. “Yum.”
“Yeah. Becky’s a great cook. . . . My dad, he’s kind of old-school about . . . you know . . . meeting the people I hang out with.”
“The people you hang out with. . . . And just how many people are you hanging out with, currently?”
He leans in, kisses the tip of my nose. “Just one.”
“You sure about that?”
Another kiss. This time on the lips. “Absolutely.”
“Good.”
“So you’ll come?” he says, kissing me again, softly, on the side of my neck, just below my left ear.
“Yes.” I have goose bumps now, running all the way down the left side of my body. “I will.”
I was planning to tell my mom about dinner at the Rigbys’. I was also planning to tell her about Liv, to ask her advice. But both of those plans just got derailed.
“Jonathan has tickets for the B.B. King Jazz Festival,” she tells me as we’re driving home from work. “This weekend, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He asked me to go with him.”
“Wow,” I say. “You’ve really embraced the jazz.”
She ignores my sarcasm. “I told him I needed to check with you, before I said yes. It would only be the one night. We’d leave Saturday morning.”
“You don’t need to check with me. You’re the adult.”
“I’m trying to be respectful of your feelings, Josie. OK? I’m trying to do this right.”
“Right,” I say. “You and Jonathan want my blessing to go away for the weekend? Fine. Consider yourselves blessed.”
“I really appreciate the smart-ass routine, Josie. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Kate. Anytime.”
Later, I hear her on the phone with Jonathan. Her voice is muffled, but I know she’s talking about me. And I hate it. Because she never would have talked behind my back before. She would have done it to my face.
We’ve forgotten how to talk to each other. And it hurts. More than I would have thought.
Liv stays home from school on Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
On Thursday, she’s back on the bus, but she still hasn’t gotten her period. And no, she hasn’t taken a test. And no, she doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t even want to think about it. My job, therefore, is to distract.
“I’m staying at your house this weekend,” I say. “My mom’s going to New Hampshire. With Jonathan.”
“I know,” she says.
“How?”
“Kate called. She talked to Dodd.”
Right.
“So,” Liv says. “This Jonathan thing is serious.”
I make a noise, like a grunt.
“Are you OK?”
I shrug.
“Well?” Liv says. Her brown eyes are wide and lined with green pencil. “Are you, or aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “No.”
“Have you talked to Kate about it?”
“No.”
“Josie. Come on. You have to talk to her.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Have you talked to Pops and Dodd about your ‘situation’?”
“No, but that’s—”
“See?”
“But—”
“No buts,” I say. “I’m not talking to her.”
“Fine,” Liv says. “Tell me, then. I’m curious. What’s wrong with Jonathan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bad breath?”
“No.”
“Verbal abuse?”
“No.”
“Does he pick his nose and wipe it on his pants?”
“No. It’s . . . OK. Here’s what it is. I look at the two of them together and . . . I don’t see it. You know? I don’t get it. I don’t feel the love connection. I’ve tried. But it’s just not there.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see it,” Liv says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe, deep down, you don’t actually want Kate to have someone. No matter how great he is.”
“Of course I want her to have someone! I just want him to be . . .”
“What,” Liv says.
“I don’t know.”
“Paul Tucci?”
“What?” I stare at her.
“You heard me.”
“Are you high?”
“No.”
“You think I want my mom and Paul Tucci to get back together.”
“Maybe. Yeah.”
“Well. That’s ridiculous.”
Liv shakes her head. “I don’t mean consciously.”
“Oh,” I say. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s your subconscious desire.”
“Right.”
“It is. You just can’t see it because it’s buried.”
“Whatever, Dr. Steve,” I say. And I say “whatever” a bunch more times too as we’re getting off the bus.
Twelve
“DO YOU WANT a ride?” my mother asks.
It’s Saturday morning and we’re standing in the driveway, watching Jonathan unload and reload the trunk of his car. Because the two of them are off on their New Hampshire adventure—their jazzy little jaunt. In a way, I’m glad they’re going. Now I won’t have to think about them for thirty-six hours.
“Do you want us to drop you off ?” my mom asks again.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Fiorello’s is on our way. We’d be ha
ppy to.”
“That’s OK.”
“I’m sure Jonathan would let you drive, if you want. You could get in a little practice. . . .”
Since I got my permit, my mom has barely taken me driving at all. She gets too nervous. It kills me to say no right now, but I do. I tell her I’ll take the bus.
“Why would you take the bus when you come with us?”
“Mom! God! Why are you pushing me to go with you?”
She sighs, exasperated. Then her face softens slightly and she says, “Why do we keep fighting?”
“I don’t know,” I say, which is half true. When she looks at me, I shrug. “What do you want me to say?”
She shakes her head. “I just . . . hate this.”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Me too.”
After they leave, I am upstairs packing because I have to go to my game from work, and Riggs’s house from my game. There’s a shirt of my mom’s I want to borrow, this black scoop neck, so I go in her room to look for it.
The place is a mess. Clothes everywhere. It looks like a cyclone hit, but after a lot of digging I find the shirt. I sit on the edge of my mom’s bed to put it on, and my butt hits something hard. I look under the covers, and what do I find? The yearbook.
The yearbook.
I pick it up, of course. I pick it up and I flip to page 102, which is dog-eared for instant access. I stare at Paul Tucci’s senior portrait, shake my head. Think: My mother is still sleeping with my father.
Five thirty-five p.m. I am riding shotgun in the Riggsmobile, which smells like cleats and French fries. We are on our way to Casa Rigby, to eat Becky’s lasagna.
There’s no reason to be nervous, is what my head is saying. It’s just dinner. They’re just people.
But no. I am not convincing myself.
Riggs is steering with one hand, twining my fingers with the other. When he asks for the play-by-play of my game, I tell him that we won four to three. I scored one goal (corner kick), Schuyler scored one goal (penalty), and Liv scored two (both headers). I leave out the fact that thirteen minutes into the second half, Liv called a time-out to use the Porta-John. And that once she got inside, the whole team could hear her yelling for a tampon. And that after I ran over to give her one, we hugged, jumping up and down behind the Porta-John, whooping quietly for joy.