The Other F-Word Read online

  “What are you hoping to hear?” JJ had asked when they were talking on the phone last night. “If he did write back, what would you actually want him to say?”

  Hollis didn’t know.

  She didn’t know how to feel about Will Bardo, and she didn’t know how to feel about her mother going on a date.

  A date, Hollis thought as she sat in Algebra II, pretending to care about logarithmic functions. My mother is going on a date.

  It had happened Sunday afternoon. Tania Kosiewicz, Alumni Relations, called, allegedly for news about William Bardo, but then, as soon as she discovered that there was no news to speak of, she asked Leigh out. Dinner and a movie. Maybe some live music. Hollis’s mother had been giddy when she got off the phone. She was talking so fast, Hollis had to tell her to take a breath. Breeeeeeeathe. Leigh had promised herself, when Pam died, that she wouldn’t go on a single date until she felt “the spark.” She felt it right away, she admitted to Hollis, that day in the alumni office, the moment Tania Kosiewicz smiled. It was instantaneous.

  “The spark?” Hollis said.

  “The spark.”

  Hollis didn’t know how she felt about the spark. Or about Will Bardo. Or about JJ being so sweet. Or about Gunnar blowing her off in the hall this morning. All Hollis knew was that she couldn’t sit through one more second of logarithmic functions.

  She raised her hand and asked for a bathroom pass.

  * * *

  Wandering the empty halls gave Hollis even more time to think. How was this helpful? She considered walking down to the language lab, where Gunnar had Español, and trying to flag him down through Señora Lopez’s window. But no. God, no. What was wrong with her? Hollis reversed direction.

  As she ambled past the computer lab, a thought ambled into her brain. If Jonah Jedediah Rabinowitz went to school here, would she be trolling the halls looking for him? But before she could contemplate an answer, Hollis saw the vice principal turn the corner and start walking toward her. The last thing she needed was detention. Hollis veered left into the girls’ room. There, standing at the sink, applying mascara with a vengeance, was Malory Keener.

  Well. Hollis hadn’t expected this. Neither, apparently, had Malory, whose mouth made a little “oh” of surprise in the mirror.

  Hollis glanced around. She waited for a toilet to flush, for one of Malory’s Size Zeros to slink out of a stall. Nothing happened.

  “Well,” Hollis said, “go ahead.”

  Malory stared at her in the mirror. “What?”

  “Call me a slut. Or a ho. Or a ho-bag bitchslut. Whatever you’ve got.”

  Malory’s mascara wand hovered in the air, and her face morphed. She looked … how did she look? Uneasy. In all the time Hollis had known her, which was basically since kindergarten, she couldn’t remember a time when Malory Keener had looked unsure of herself. She was always surrounded by friends. She always had a buffer. This unfamiliar expression, Hollis realized, was her cue. “What—?” she said, taking a step forward. “You can’t say it to my face? You need a phone to help you?”

  Malory’s phone, in its aggressively pink, bejeweled case, was perched on the edge of the sink. Instinctively, Malory reached out and clutched it to her heart, as though Hollis might steal her lifeline. She glanced over Hollis’s shoulder, presumably contemplating her escape.

  “Tell me something,” Hollis said, widening her stance. “Is it fun, calling me names?”

  “Is it fun, hooking up with my boyfriend?”

  “Actually, yeah. He’s a really good kisser.”

  Malory’s pretty face twisted. “God, you’re awful.”

  “I’m awful?”

  “Yes.”

  Now that they were facing each other, Hollis noticed something. Malory’s annoyingly blue eyes were bloodshot. Puffy.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Hollis asked.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “No, I mean … you look like you’ve been crying.”

  “What do you care?”

  I don’t, Hollis thought. I don’t care about you, Malory Keener, because you are a careless person. And yet … goddamn it, look at those baby blues welling up.

  “Let me guess.” Hollis yanked a paper towel out of the dispenser and handed it to Malory. “Boyfriend troubles?”

  “Shut up,” Malory said, setting down her mascara and dabbing at her eyes with a tiny corner of the towel. “I had a fight with my mom.”

  “Does she find your lifestyle abominable?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Hollis shook her head. “Go on.”

  “She thinks I’m getting fat. I came downstairs this morning wearing these jeans and she said they looked like sausage casings.”

  Hollis stared at Malory. Tall, yes. Curvy, yes. Fat? Not even close. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ve gained ten pounds in the past year.”

  “Yeah,” Hollis said. “It’s called puberty.”

  Malory shook her head. “She doesn’t see it that way. My mom’s, like … super judgmental.”

  “No shit,” Hollis said.

  Malory raised her eyebrows.

  “I recall.”

  “You recall what?”

  “Second grade? The monkey bars?”

  Malory gave her a blank look.

  “My mom had just died,” Hollis said. “We were up on the monkey bars and I was crying, and you turned to me in your little plaid dress, and you said, ‘My mom says your mom’s lifestyle is an abomination.’”

  Malory’s pretty brow crinkled. “I did?”

  “Direct quote.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Right,” Hollis said, like she didn’t believe Malory. But she did, a little. It was a long time ago.

  “I swear,” Malory said.

  “Well, I do. You said it with such conviction. Like being gay was a crime against humanity.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Well … you thought it in second grade.”

  “I was seven.”

  “So?”

  “I was quoting my mother!”

  Hollis knew this was true, but she wasn’t ready to concede the point. “You can’t blame your mother for everything.”

  “I’m not—”

  “I was grieving! You made me feel like shit! You still do!”

  “Wait—” Malory blinked at Hollis. “That’s why you’ve been hooking up with Gunnar? Because of something I said to you in second grade?”

  Hollis shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

  Malory opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘bitchslut’?”

  Malory’s lips twitched. “For the record, I have never called you any of those things.”

  “Right. You just set your dogs on me.”

  “They’re not dogs. They’re my friends.”

  “Well, would you mind calling them off?”

  “Would you mind not hooking up with my boyfriend?”

  Hollis shook her head in amazement. “How are you still going out with a guy who cheats on you?”

  Malory stared at Hollis. “I love him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. But yes.”

  Hollis had to grit her teeth to avoid saying something snarky. What did Malory Keener know about love? Then Malory blew her nose into the paper towel, a big, wet honk, and suddenly, against all her better judgment, Hollis didn’t hate her anymore. “Just for the record…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not fat.”

  Malory looked surprised. “Thanks.”

  Hollis turned around. It was the perfect word to leave on.

  * * *

  A date. My mother is going on a date.

  Leigh was trying to decide what to wear. It was a Tuesday, not a Saturday. Casual, right? She didn’t want to overdo it.

  Hollis felt both elated and devastated. Her mother was go
ing on a date! But there was Pam, hanging over the fireplace, watching Leigh iron her palazzo pants and her jean skirt with the funky border. Pants or skirt? Pants or skirt? She couldn’t decide.

  Hollis stared into Pam’s wide, hazel eyes and said, “Mom.”

  “I know,” her mother said.

  And Hollis thought, Do you?

  “Pam and I talked about it. After her diagnosis, when we knew it wasn’t good. She told me she wanted me to fall in love again.”

  Hollis swallowed. “She did?”

  “Well, first she wanted me to grieve for a while. Cry, drink a lot of wine, eat a lot of cheese. But eventually, yeah. She wanted me to fall in love and get married. Because we never could. Because she believed that someday the law would change.”

  Hollis remembered when it happened. It was the summer before sixth grade. She had been riding her bike around the house and she’d just wiped out on the driveway. She ran into the house to get a Band-Aid for her scraped knee, and there was her mother on the couch, crying.

  “What’s wrong?” Hollis said. And Leigh had pointed to the TV—where a video montage was playing. Couples kissing; couples laughing; couples throwing their linked hands in the air. Then the newscaster came on. A guy with helmet hair and Day-Glo teeth, standing on the steps of the capitol building to announce that today was an historic day for the state of Minnesota. Same-sex marriage was now fully legal and recognized, not just in the Twin Cities, but in every city and town from Owatonna to Roseau.

  Her mother had gone from crying to laughing. From laughing to whooping. From whooping to busting out the champagne flutes and pouring the sparkling cider. She toasted Pam’s picture hanging over the fireplace. We did it, Pammy. Those were her words. We did it.

  And now … now her mother was looking up from the ironing board, not at Pam, but at Hollis. “Pants or skirt? Be honest.”

  “Are you going to marry her?” Hollis blurted.

  “What?”

  “Tania Kosiewicz. Are you going to marry her?”

  Her mother laughed, a single “Ha!”

  “What’s so funny?” It was all well and good for her mother to go on a date tonight, but if things got serious, Leigh’s life wouldn’t be the only one to change. Hollis’s life would change, too. What if Tania Kosiewicz moved in? What if she wanted kids? What if she already had kids?

  “Hol,” her mother said. “We just met.”

  “I know, but—”

  Leigh held up a hand to stop her. “One step at a time. Please. It’s taken me seven years to get to the point where I would even consider dating. Anyway, we may not hit it off.”

  “You’ll hit it off.”

  “You think so?”

  Hollis looked at her mother—the mixture of doubt and hope on her face. Her mother was going on a date and she was nervous. This was so weird.

  “Pants,” Hollis said. “You’ll be more comfortable in pants.”

  “You’re right,” her mother said. She looked relieved. She held up the palazzos and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Her mother went upstairs to get dressed, leaving Hollis alone in the living room with Pam. She could feel Pam watching her. Wherever she went in the room, Pam’s eyes followed. Hollis wasn’t a nut job. She had never been so crazy as to talk to a picture on the wall. To do so now would be stupid and unnatural. But here she was, looking at Pam. And here was Pam, looking at her.

  Hollis cleared her throat.

  “Mom’s going on a date,” she said softly.

  Pam didn’t respond.

  Hollis tried again, louder. “I found my father. He lives in Eden Prairie. His name is Will.”

  Finally, “I don’t hate Malory anymore.”

  Nothing.

  Of course nothing; Pam was a freaking picture on the wall. Hollis held her gaze anyway. Just for a second. Even though she knew it was dumb.

  MILO

  Milo and JJ were in Milo’s bedroom working on their Science Palooza project. Frankie brought snacks. First, rice chips and bean dip. About twenty minutes later, sliced pears and black cherry seltzer. Maybe she was doing this out of the goodness of her heart. Or maybe—despite Milo’s assurances that JJ had quit smoking, and despite Frankie deeming JJ’s parents “perfectly respectable”—she still half expected to open the door and find JJ rolling a joint. Milo didn’t know what Frankie was thinking. All he knew was that JJ was crunching rice chips all over their poster board.

  “Dude,” Milo said, brushing off the crumbs.

  “Sorry,” JJ said, spraying out a few more. “How many pictures do we have?”

  Milo counted. They had photos of him, Suzanne, and Frankie. The three Hollis had emailed of herself, Leigh, and Pam. They had the four Fenns: Abby, her mom, dad, and sister Becca. They had the four Resnicks: Noah, his mom, dad, and twin brother Josh, who looked surprisingly blue-eyed and fair-haired. And they had two pictures of Will Bardo: the Macalester yearbook portrait, circa 2000, and the photo from his bio page on the Eden Prairie Cooperative Learning Center website. Last night Milo had resized them all on Suzanne’s computer and printed each one on her color printer. They now lay on the floor next to the poster board, dealt out in rows like playing cards. Sixteen.

  “You think that’s enough?” JJ said.

  “I don’t know.”

  JJ picked up the photo of Will Bardo in his backyard. “I wish we had a close-up.”

  “We do.” Milo pointed to the yearbook portrait.

  “A recent close-up. To compare to the other parents.”

  Milo shrugged. “Not for lack of trying.”

  Two weeks and two days. Two weeks and two days since he sent the letter to Will Bardo, and still nothing. The only new development was Noah finding Will’s name on a website for the Twin Cities Ultimate League. Every Saturday, apparently, Will Bardo tossed around a Frisbee with a bunch of other guys who called themselves the Floppy Discs. Interesting fact, but so what?

  He is never writing back, Milo thought. He is never writing back, and I will never know why. Then he thought, Screw it. He guzzled some black cherry seltzer and shoved a chip loaded with bean dip into his mouth. At least after he glue-sticked these photos onto the poster board he could call Hayley Christenson and tell her he was ready for her help. He could invite her over and—

  “Dude,” JJ said, pointing to the rug, onto which Milo had just plopped some bean dip.

  Milo scooped the beans up with a napkin. Hayley Christenson. Just thinking about her made his stomach flip.

  “Maybe we should throw in a few decoys,” JJ suggested. “Someone who’s not related to anyone. Like me. Or Will’s wife.”

  “Sure,” Milo said. He didn’t care what photos they used. He grabbed his glass, took another slug of seltzer.

  There was a knock on the door. “Mi?”

  Milo twisted around. Frankie. Again. Obviously she didn’t trust them in here. He was about to call her on it, but then she said, “Your phone is blowing up.”

  “What?”

  She held up his cell, which had been charging on the kitchen counter. “You’re very popular today.” She walked over, handed it to Milo. “Ping, ping, ping.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Milo waited until Frankie left. Then he looked at his phone, and his stomach flipped again. Hard. There were Hayley Christenson flips, and there were half-sibling group-texting flips.

  Did u c the email???

  One word: lame.

  What family stuff?

  R we not family stuff?

  Not opposed to future contact. WTF.

  Marinate???

  Excuse me, r we steak tips?

  Srsly.

  Milo r u out there?

  Milo check your email!!!

  Milo felt his insides churn.

  “Hey.” A rice chip hit him in the elbow. JJ. “Are you okay?”

  Milo nodded, barely. “I have to check my email.”

  “Okay…”

  “I think he w
rote back.”

  * * *

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]; HollisDarbs @MNPSmail.org; AbsofSteel3 @sheboygancountryday.edu; NoahZark.Rez @techHSmail.com

  Date: Monday, February 1, at 3:13 PM

  Subject: Sorry for the delay

  Hi, Milo, Hollis, Abby, and Noah.

  I apologize for not responding sooner. My wife, Gwen, and I had some family stuff going on and were out of town. But we’re back now, and I wanted to let you know that A) I received your letter, and B) I am indeed Donor #9677.

  Wow. I knew this would happen one day, but still. This is a real head trip. I’m glad you guys reached out, and I’m not opposed to future contact, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to let this marinate for a bit. I’ll be in touch.

  All best,

  Will

  Without a word, Milo handed his phone to JJ. He waited for JJ to finish reading.

  “‘Not opposed to future contact,’” JJ said. “That’s promising.”

  Milo said nothing.

  “He’ll be in touch, he says. After … you know … he puts his thoughts in a ziplock bag with some Thousand Island dressing.”

  Marinate for a bit, Milo thought. How long was a “bit”? A week? A month? A year? A “bit” wasn’t good enough.

  “Hey,” JJ said. “I was kidding—”

  Milo held up his hand. An idea was unfurling inside his head. A crazy idea.

  HOLLIS

  “Let me get this straight,” Hollis said, squeezing the phone to her ear. “You want Abby and Noah to come for Presidents’ Day weekend, too.”

  “Yes,” Milo said.

  “Under the guise of a half-sibling reunion.”

  “Not under the guise of a half-sibling reunion. It will actually be a half-sibling reunion.”

  “The purpose of which will be to stalk our sperm donor.”

  “‘Stalk’ is a strong word.”

  “Okay…”

  “We will not be stalking him. We will be observing him in his natural habitat.”