For Keeps

by Natasha Friend

  “You know,” I say, “for someone who dates college guys, you’re awfully immature.”

  Suddenly, amazingly, Liv rolls over and sits up. “Guy. Singular. And I wouldn’t call it ‘dating.’ More like . . .”

  “What?”

  “Hanging out. Hooking up. You know.”

  I do know. You can’t be friends with Liv and not know exactly where she stands on the subject of sex: i.e., it’s a magnificent thing. One time last year, she got into a half-hour-long morality debate with Wendy Geruntino in the middle of the cafeteria. Wendy’s logic consisted of, God wants us to stay pure for marriage, and Liv’s argument was, Hey, God made us sexual creatures. If he wanted teenagers to wait that long, he would have made puberty start at twenty-five.

  And don’t even get Liv started on the double standard. She’ll give you an earful: If a guy wants to have sex, he’s a stud, right? If a girl wants to have sex, she’s a slut, a ho, a trollop. How warped is that?

  “Well,” I say now. “I hope you’re using protection.”

  “Of course,” she says firmly. “I’m a safety girl. . . . But we weren’t talking about me.”

  “Actually, we were.”

  “No, we weren’t.”

  “Well, I’d rather talk about you.”

  “We can talk about me after you tell me the rest of the story.”

  “There is no rest of the story.”

  “So, what—you just stayed there, cooling off your boobs in the sink, and that’s it? You didn’t talk to him at all?”

  “Nope.”

  Liv shakes her head.

  “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Josie. Offer him a pastry? Crack a joke? Something to get the ball rolling?”

  “And what ball might that be?”

  Liv heaves a sigh.

  “What?” I say.

  “Josie, they live fifteen miles away from you. We have the address to prove it. And I don’t care what you call them, they are your grandparents. Don’t you even want to try to get to know them?”

  No, I think. I already had grandparents. Maybe they never lived in a mansion or went to some Ivy League college, but at least they were there for me.

  “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that this is happening?” Liv says. “There are people who try for years to find family members. Decades, even. Dr. Steve had this show once, and this girl—”

  “Please,” I say. “Not Dr. Steve.”

  “I’m just saying, if I were you—”

  “But you’re not.”

  “But if I were—”

  “But you’re not, Liv, OK? You’re not me!” I realize I’m yelling and lower my voice. “Just . . . you don’t know how I feel about this. . . . I don’t know how I feel about this. OK?”

  Liv grimaces. “OK. Sorry.”

  “It’s OK.” I sit down on the bed next to her. “My mom would wig, if she knew.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Liv raises her eyebrows, but I don’t elaborate.

  Because there is my mother’s voice, calling from downstairs.

  The steak is ready.

  Here’s what a fly on the wall would think: Gosh, what a lovely dinner party. Lovely food, lovely conversation, lovely people, everyone getting along, no painful or awkward moments. Overall, a solid B-plus evening.

  Here’s what I am thinking: Is it bedtime yet? I’m sitting at the table, watching my mom and Jonathan make goo-goo eyes at each other, and all I want to do is evaporate from the dining room.

  Which makes me feel like a jerk. A horrible daughter. Because the fact of the matter is, Jonathan is a nice guy. Perfectly nice! Nice-looking, nice manners. When Wyatt mentions he’s a Red Sox fan, Jonathan says the nicest possible thing: “I’ve got season tickets. Name your game, and they’re yours.” But seeing Jonathan reach out and take my mother’s hand between bites of apple pie makes me want to poke him with a fork.

  I’m sorry, but it’s true.

  It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to yell across the table, You just met!

  Later, lying in bed, I feel like crap. I tell myself that tomorrow I will try harder: give Jonathan a chance, for my mom’s sake.

  And while I’m at it, I should probably tell her about seeing Paul Tucci’s dad and the whole moved-back thing. Maybe she’ll say, “Ah, well, how nice for them.” Better yet, “The Tuccis are ancient history, Josie. I’ve moved on. I’ve got Jonathan now.”

  I don’t think that’s what she’ll say, but who knows? I should at least give her the information. Then she can do what she wants with it.

  Seven

  SIX THIRTY A.M. and my mother is MIA. All I see is a yellow Post-it, stuck next to a carton of juice on the counter.

  J-Bear,

  Jonathan and I went for a run.

  He made granola!

  Help yourself!

  Love, Mom

  Which means one of two things: either he woke up at the crack of dawn to get here, or he slept over.

  Well.

  OK, this is none of my business. They’re consenting adults. And anyway, it’s kind of a relief not to be having the Big Debriefing about last night’s dinner and how great it was. In fact, I don’t have to talk at all. Not like every other morning when my mom is firing questions at me about school or soccer or “the boy” or Liv or my deepest, most intimate feelings or any of that other crap that mothers love to bond over with their daughters right when they wake up.

  For the first time in my life, I can eat breakfast in peace. Which is actually kind of nice. Yes, it is.

  “Who makes granola, anyway?” I ask Liv on the bus.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Nature lovers?”

  I snort.

  “Why does it bother you?”

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “I thought you liked Jonathan.”

  “I do. Jonathan is . . . fine.”

  “OK,” she says slowly. “So, what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know! It’s just . . . happening too fast.”

  “In what way? Wait—” She pushes my arm. “Did he stay over last night?”

  I shake my head. Then I nod. “I think so.”

  “Go, Kate!”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “Why? He’s hot.”

  “This is my mother we’re talking about.”

  “So? Your mother doesn’t deserve a sex life?”

  I take a quick breath in, then say, “We are not talking about this.”

  Liv shrugs, rustles around in her bag for her cell phone, and starts punching buttons.

  “I mean, just because you’re all gung-ho casual sex—”

  She stops. “I am not all gung-ho casual sex.”

  “No? So you’re not texting your boy toy right now?”

  “His name is Finn,” she says, a bit sharply.

  Finn. What kind of name is that, anyway? Whatever happened to normal names like Mike and Joe?

  We sit in silence while she turns away, pressing buttons like mad. Then, just as we’re pulling up to school, she clicks her phone shut and looks at me. “Do you want your mom to be happy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she seem happy with Jonathan?”

  “Well . . . so far.”

  “Then give the guy a chance, Josie!”

  “I’m trying!” I say.

  I walk off the bus with a sick taste in my mouth. I think it’s the granola, trying to get out.

  There’s a lot of whispering in homeroom. Some snickering. Also, high fives and thumps on the back for Peter Hersh, who, according to the Saturday night rumor mill, spent some quality time in the shower with a freshman field hockey player named Amber.

  “Oh my God,” Kimmy Gustofson says, leaning forward and breathing hot bubble-gum breath in my face. “Josie. How was it?”

  I unzip my backpack, pull out my binder. “What?”
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  “The party,” Lorelei Hill says, pulling her chair in close. “On Saturday. We heard it was out of control.”

  Kimmy lowers her voice an octave. “Did Jamie Mann really give Kyle Longbreak a . . . you know . . . in the hot tub?”

  “What?” I say.

  “A blow—”

  “No!”

  Truthfully, I have no idea what Jamie did or didn’t do this weekend, but I’m not about to add heat to the hot tub. And anyway, Wendy Geruntino, who sits in front of Kimmy, has turned around and is giving us the most distressed look. “I’m sad, listening to you.”

  “Then don’t,” Lorelei says.

  “I’m sorry,” Wendy says. “It’s just, hearing about all these casual, meaningless physical encounters—it makes me think, where’s the respect? Where’s the honor? The—”

  “This is homeroom,” Kimmy says with a snort, “not Bible study.”

  “Ladies! Earth to the ladies in the back. . . .”

  I turn my attention to Mr. Catenzaro, glad that the conversation is over. It would only be a matter of time before the subject turned from Jamie Mann and Kyle Longbreak to me and—

  Oh. Kimmy has passed me a note.

  You and Matt Rigby???

  Suddenly, my tongue feels like sandpaper. Suddenly, my Saturday night feels just as casual and meaningless as all the other grist for the rumor mill.

  I shake my head, write back: False. And wait for the bell to ring, so I can be three minutes closer to the end of this day.

  First period is no better. I have chemistry, and for me chemistry is already a nightmare. Those formulas that Ms. Monty writes on the board might as well be Japanese for all the sense they make. Then there are the labs. Today it’s something with hydrogen sulfide, which would be nauseating enough because it smells like rotten eggs, but then add this: My lab partner is Ron Mullaney, one of the guys who was playing soccer at the party.

  I am waiting—just waiting—for a comment.

  “We need safety goggles for this one,” Ron says, reading from the lab manual. “And gloves. H2S is, like, extremely toxic. . . . Josie?”

  He’s looking at me. Great. Well, let him say whatever he needs to say about Saturday night. I can take it.

  “Josie.”

  “What?”

  He points to the box in front of me. “Goggles.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.”

  I put on my safety gear, and we start the experiment. Ron mutters to himself the whole time, making little notes on our lab card as he goes. The smell is horrendous. I have to cover my face with my sweatshirt just to breathe.

  At one point, Ron turns to me. “You don’t like chemistry, do you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just a sense.”

  “Sorry,” I say. Then, “Do you want me to write the lab report?”

  He shrugs. “I’m basically done.”

  “Sorry,” I say again. I meant sorry for slacking, but now something else flies out of my mouth—the kind of thing you wish you could hold back, but you can’t: “I know I made an ass of myself at the party.”

  Ron blinks, confused.

  “On the deck,” I say. “Dancing? And . . . you know . . .”

  “Right.” Something flashes across Ron’s face, like a grimace. “Well, don’t worry about it. We all do stupid stuff at parties.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, closing my binder and shoving it in my backpack. “It was stupid.”

  “Seriously,” Ron says firmly. “Don’t even think about it. A lot of girls do a lot crazier things at parties. . . . Anyway, you know Riggs. . . .”

  I wait for some elaboration. Any elaboration.

  But it doesn’t come.

  I know Riggs what? I know Riggs: He’s always making out on decks? I know Riggs: He likes crazy girls? I know Riggs . . . I don’t know Riggs. That much is perfectly clear. I don’t know Riggs at all.

  Between fourth and fifth periods, I’m winding my way through the junior corridor. As usual, it’s mayhem, full of shouts and banging metal. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but today it seems louder than ever. Also oppressively hot. In gym class, Mrs. Blackburn made us jump rope for half an hour, and I am still sweating. I stop and lean my cheek against the tile wall for a moment. Because it’s cool, soothing. Ahhhh. I could stay here for the rest of the day.

  But then Bob’s voice pops into my head. Mr. Germ-a-phobe: Do you know how many billions of bacteria infest the average surface of a public building? Do you know how many billions of microorganisms enter the pores of your skin through contact alone?

  No, Bob, I don’t. But, hey, thanks for the paranoia.

  The crowd is thinning out. Luckily my next class is only two doors down from my locker. My locker, which is right—

  Oh.

  Blue polo shirt.

  Blond hair curling over the collar.

  Jeans.

  Matt Rigby is standing in front of my locker, looking straight at me. For a moment I’m not sure what to do, but I need my French binder because I’m on my way to French. I have no choice but to stop.

  “Hey, Josie.”

  “Hey.”

  I don’t trust myself to say anything else, so I leave it at that.

  “What do you have now?”

  “French.”

  We stand there. Just looking at each other, not moving.

  “I’ll walk you. I have Spanish, so we’re heading the same way. . . .”

  “OK.”

  He steps aside to let me open my locker, and I have to will my hand not to shake as I turn the lock.

  I’m racking my brains for something clever to say. He’s standing so close, I can smell his gum. Juicy Fruit.

  “You don’t have to walk me,” I tell him, shoving my French binder into my backpack.

  “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  He pretends to think for a moment. Then, a little smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t ignore me if I’m walking next to you.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know . . . people are saying stuff. I thought you might be regretting our little . . . dance-off.”

  I shrug. “Everyone says stuff after parties.”

  I can’t believe how calm I sound.

  As we walk down the hall, a million tiny lightning bugs flicker around my stomach. When we make it to the French room, we stop. Matt Rigby turns to me, and his face is serious, and I know he’s about to say something devastating. He’s going to say that Saturday night was fun, but he doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to lead me on.

  We are directly in front of the door, blocking it, and we have to move for Peter Hersh to get through.

  “ ’ Sup, Riggs.”

  “ ’ Sup, Hershy.”

  It’s weird how guys do that—call each other by their last names. But I kind of like the fact that Riggs is Riggs, and not just Matt like all the other Matts in this school. Matt Dineen. Matt Leone. Matt—

  “Josie.”

  “Yeah.” I focus on his chin, not his eyes.

  “I had a great time on Saturday.”

  I look up. “What?”

  “I had a great time. With you. At the party.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He’s smiling, and I can feel a ridiculous grin spreading across my face too. We must look like a couple of idiots.

  The final bell rings, and I don’t know why, but we’re not moving.

  “And just so you know,” Matt Rigby says, “I’ve been practicing my dance moves.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “That’s funny,” I say, “because I have too. In fact, I’ve been getting really good. I’ve been reading Dancing for Dummies , you know, for technique. . . .”

  He laughs. I can see the Juicy Fruit on his tongue, a tiny gray wad, and I have the strange desire to reach out and touch it.

  “So, maybe we’ll have a rematch sometime,
” he says.

  “Maybe we will.”

  Before we can say anything else, there’s a sound at the door. It’s Madame Plouchette, tapping the glass with her pointer and frowning.

  Matt reaches out, squeezes my hand. “You are so busted.”

  I squeeze back. “Yup.”

  Madame will probably humiliate me in front of everyone. She’ll make me conjugate some embarrassing verb.

  But right now, I don’t even care. All I can do is smile.

  I’m in the cafeteria, eating mac and cheese with the girls, when Riggs walks by on his way to the guys’ soccer table. He doesn’t stop so much as brush his fingers against my neck as he goes.

  Now I have goose bumps.

  Liv yanks me up and pulls me over to the water fountain, away from Jamie and Kara and Schuyler, who are too busy gossiping to notice. “What was that?” Liv asks.

  And I tell her about my morning.

  “So, it’s happening,” she says. “You and Riggs.”

  “I guess,” I say quietly. “I don’t know.”

  “I know,” Liv says. Not quietly.

  I shrug.

  Liv heaves a sigh. “Finally.”

  “OK. What about you? And Finn?”

  “We’re having a good time. It’s, like, somewhat casual, but it’s only been a few weeks, you know? And college guys operate differently. So, we’ll see. . . . I’m taking it day by day.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  Liv smiles. I smile. For a second I feel hope for us. Her and Finn; me and Riggs. The details of how we will all live happily ever after I’m not too clear about, but the hope part is there.

  Right before soccer I check my cell and there’s a message from my mom. She wants me to call her. I go into one of the bathroom stalls and dial Twilight Books.

  “Mom,” I say low. “I have to tell you something. . . . I kissed Matt Rigby.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes! At the party. It was really weird, how it happened. At first, I thought he was with this girl Tessa, this cheerleader, but it turns out—”